UNAFFECTED BY THE MAGIC GLUING THE OTHERS TO PLACE, the announcer pivoted his gaze to the man beside him, whose wide eyes shimmered with the fear of a coward. Celvene understood his fear all too well; her heart beat rapidly, and her breathing felt heavy and clogged. With every shaky exhale that slipped past her lips, she was certain that if the strange magic didn’t tether her to place, she would fall to the ground.

She needed to leave. But every time she tried to rip her feet from their frozen daze, her body remained still.

The announcer smiled as he let go of the sword, which floated in the air, and gestured to the frozen man. “Folks, we’ve found our first contestant participating in the ceremony! Will he wield the Blightbearer sword or fail?”

A fine layer of sweat glazed the contestant’s dark, quivering jowls, and there was a hungry gleam glimmering in his black eyes. He stepped forward, and though his movements were cautious, the thirst for power never quite left his features, only growing stronger as he outstretched his exposed wrist. The sword moved through the air as if wielded by a phantom force, and with one swift strike, sliced into the man’s skin. Even from afar, Celvene saw blood coating the blade of the sword, but after a few seconds, the liquid glowed black and disappeared from the metal. Collapsing to one knee, the man gripped his heart.

When he’d caught his breath, it was clear the man’s hunger dissolved, and he ran off the stage like a dog with its tail between its legs. Whispers spread throughout the crowd, both curious and fearful, but Celvene couldn’t bring herself to share their intrigue.

But the myth of Virion’s sword choosing his successor was true.

… That being odd would be an understatement.

“Would anyone else like to give it a try?” the announcer asked, raising a hand in the air. “Let’s see… How about you, sir? And you!”

The announcer pointed to different men in rapid succession. It was like their chains unlocked, and they were free to move, although the red tether from their hearts hadn’t vanished. Each man the announcer pointed to merrily accepted and bounded to the stage. Celvene wished she could share their enthusiasm. But the dangers of her going up there aside, the ceremony looked painful, and she’d already run out of means to heal herself.

She watched as, one by one, a line of men gathered off the stage. Their whispers were faint but audible—most murmured about how the crown would benefit them, or what crooked laws they’d enact on their first day as king. Perhaps Celvene would have been surprised if the average moral compass of a person in the Slums wasn’t stuck facing downwards.

“Screw this!” one of them yelled, once unsuccessful. He kicked at the stage before rearing his head back. When he angled his head towards the announcer, his nostrils flared like an aggrieved animal. Celvene had to give him credit—unlike the other men, who’d all fallen to the ground, he’d stayed upright. “It’s rigged. Said it for years. You put on this whole show when you already know who it’s supposed to be.”

How would you say this ceremony was rigged when it has never happened? Virion founded Aizasea and ruled for centuries. He was a god!

“Oh, we don’t rig the contest, my friend,” the announcer said with a grin. “Seems like you aren’t our lucky contestant!”

The contestant’s jaw hardened as he curled his hand into a fist, facing the announcer. The guards near the announcer jumped, ready to protect as the man growled, “You mocking me?”

The announcer’s poised demeanor crumbled, and his emerald eyes widened. “Oh, no. I’m putting on a show for the crowning of our next king!” Celvene could hear his unspoken words: which seems to not be you. And with that, he turned his back on the contestant, facing the audience once again. The guards moved closer to the contestant, brandishing their weapons, and the man’s lip curled.

The announcer took a deep breath, and a smile grew on his face again. “Many have failed. Will anyone be successful?”

The contestant’s unrelenting scowl lingered on the announcer before he shook his head and jumped off the stage, his movements sloppy. The guards behind the announcer shifted, returning to more comfortable positions.

Celvene wondered how the announcer controlled the sword. She’d believed the theories about Virion’s sword choosing his successor to be hogwash, but she knew the sword did exist. And Virion had been the only one able to wield it when he was alive. It was clearly crafted with powerful magic, but the announcer looked like any man you’d pluck off the streets of the elite districts of Aizasea. Was anyone able to use the sword, and by extent, its magic when it had no owner to use it?

In Celvene’s humble opinion, Virion, despite his ageless wisdom, was an idiot, but he did have a contingency plan for what his citizens thought was impossible, seemingly relinquishing his sword’s power to serve anyone worthy in the event of his demise.

Or perhaps he’d inflated his own immortality to soothe citizens’ worries about the war ravaging Aizasea.

She didn’t have much time to ponder the question. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a lithe figure step onto the stage. Directing her attention to them, she had to stifle a gasp, her burning throat still aching.

Oriel Veylor. The advisor—or former advisor—to Virion, and one of the most esteemed scholars in Aizasea.

Gripping their cane, they paused on the stage, as if allowing the men in front of them to bask in their glory. They’d tied part of their blond hair—so light it was almost white—into a bun resting at the top of their head, allowing the rest of their hair to cascade around their shoulders in a bright halo. They pushed their golden spectacles further up the bridge of their tanned, freckled nose. Their brown jacket was covering a tied white shirt, which they brushed off with a hand. Perhaps the most unique thing about them, though, was the fact that their left leg ended at the knee. In place of a leg was a prosthetic crafted of wood that Celvene had heard was bound to Oriel’s leg so it would never fall off.

She’d heard a lot about Oriel, both good and bad. She wasn’t sure what was true. All she knew was that they were a demigod—a child of the queen of death and the kingdom of Khezzintis, if whispers in taverns held any truth to them. Their blood was reflected in the dark pools of their eyes—though it melded with gold, perhaps because of their immortality. But despite their beginnings in another kingdom, they were smart enough to come to a new kingdom with nothing but their wit and ended up becoming one of Virion’s most trusted advisors.

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The announcer’s eyes widened once again as Oriel joined him, the rhythmic thump of their cane drowning out the hushed whispers of the crowd. When Oriel came to a halt again, the crowd had all but fallen silent; even when the other contestants had been trying to remove the sword, there had been a steady but low stream of voices.

“S-Scholar Veylor! To… to what do I owe the pleasure?” The announcer swallowed hard.

“I’d like to try my hand at the ceremony,” they said. A thick accent wove through their silvery voice.

“Of course! Be my guest.”

The announcer scurried back, and Oriel bent down. They leaned their serpent-carved cane against the wooden planks, facing it towards the audience. The beady black eyes of the silver snake stared at Celvene. Both she and the cane knew she wouldn’t be a contestant on that stage.

A stick was getting closer to the sword than she was. Pathetic. Not that she wanted to try her hand at the ceremony, but it would’ve been nice to have the choice. Maybe if she was in a nicer area, she would’ve had the shot. But in a nicer area, there was a chance she’d look too “unrefined” for whoever directed the ceremony.

Celvene had no way of winning.

Oriel rolled their sleeves up, features impassive. The sword floated closer to their arm, and again, drew blood with one hefty swing of the blade. Oriel’s blood lingered on the sword for what felt like an eternity, and for a moment, Celvene expected the sword to fall into their hands and brand them the new ruler. But after a few more beats of tense silence, the blood caking the blade shifted to black before vanishing. Celvene waited for a reaction from Oriel, but…

All they did was wince. They didn't hesitate to retrieve their cane from the ground and limp back to the edge of the stage, lingering by the announcer. Their eyes met Celvene’s, and she furrowed her eyebrows.

“Folks, we’ll go through everyone here, and any newcomers who want to join in on the fun are welcome to,” the announcer said. Two more men rushed to the front. Another wave of magic flowed from the sword over the crowd, and the muted pain in Celvene’s chest renewed with newfound strength. “We’ll be here all night. Well, up until our forecasted storm hits.”

Oriel ripped their gaze away from Celvene and limped up to the announcer. When they whispered something into the man’s ear, their eyes met Celvene’s once again. They held her gaze for a moment before the announcer directed his attention towards her as well. She could do nothing but stare at the two, a frown twitching on her lips. Perhaps they’d let her leave early if the announcer realized she was the only woman here—she was trying to be mindful of the time, and the clock was dwindling down. She needed to get to the castle soon. Watching the ceremony for a bit had been fun, but she had a life to return to and a boss to please.

After a stretch of silence, the announcer raised the microphone to his mouth. “Well, folks, we have a change of plans tonight. We’ll be welcoming our first female contestant of the night!”

Celvene snapped her head back to the stage, eyes widening. The magic freezing her halted, and it was like she could breathe again—yet all that she was able to do was wheeze like a confused chicken. The announcer lowered the microphone from his mouth and gestured towards Celvene. Amused murmurs rippled through the crowd as she stepped forward. She could almost hear their thoughts: a woman?

Thoughts of fleeing crossed her mind. All she’d be doing if she got up on the stage was embarrassing herself, and perhaps falling through a broken floorboard while she was at it. She was a nobody, and the man from earlier was probably right—the contest was rigged. Virion had chosen a successor before he died. He’d made sure they’d attend the ceremony. And then they’d be crowned in public, showering them in attention and letting the kingdom know their name before the day they took the throne. That person wouldn’t be her. She was a nobody. It had to be someone of status. Power. Yet Oriel wanted to endanger her life… for what reason? To laugh at her?

And if she somehow completed the ceremony and the men of the Slums caught wind it was a woman who’d completed Virion’s ceremony—not even counting the men watching the ceremony—she wouldn’t make it out of there alive.

But a part of her deep, deep down, wanted to stand on that stage. Even if she was going to fail, it would show she was stronger than the people of the Slums believed women to be.

Mind made up, she shimmied through the crowd, weaving in and out of the snickering men, some of whom bumped their shoulders into Celvene or let their fingers glide across her arms.

Two men trailed behind her after being picked by the announcer, their fingers drumming against the railing of the stairs. Ascending the steps, she averted her gaze from the crowd. She could feel the judgemental stares of men barring into every fiber of her being, and she wanted to challenge them by looking at them, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not after she’d been attacked mere minutes before. Sibilant, hushed voices mocked her as she rubbed a hand against her dagger’s hilt.

“Ladies… lady,” the announcer said with an apologetic smile, “and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for history in the making. Our first female contestant! No other has volunteered…”

The announcer’s voice was drowned out by the rushing of blood in Celvene’s ears. She hadn’t volunteered—the announcer had chosen her, and she was stupid enough to not turn tail and flee before she was forced to stay.

Oriel leaned against their cane, scrutinizing Celvene’s every move. Every step taken, every unsteady and hushed prayer that slipped past her lips to the god who had never answered her prayers. Every. Single. Move.

She wanted to hide every inch of her body from the gazes of the men in the crowd. They knew this wouldn’t end well, and she knew they’d be preying on her after the ceremony had dispersed when she failed and looked even weaker than she did now. She prepared herself to hide from the world in embarrassment in about two minutes—maybe five, if she was lucky.

She lifted her sleeves, squaring her shoulders and exhaling a deep breath. Her instincts screamed at her to close her eyes, but she refused, keeping her focus on the silver edge.

It was over before she realized what happened. A searing pain cut at her wrist, and the warm trickle of blood alerted her to her skin being split. She didn’t dare look down yet, though. The blood now coating the sword was almost mesmerizing, and even if she wanted to, Celvene suspected she couldn’t look away.

An eternity passed before something happened. But instead of the blood turning black, it melted into an array of golden hues. The sword floated through the air, and the red tethers faded. The pressure was released. And the sword landed directly in Celvene’s hands, its blade weightless.

Heart sinking, a shaky breath hitched in Celvene’s throat. Her eyes, glued to the sword, were as wide as a full moon. She swallowed, inhaling, but no matter how hard she tried to quell her nerves, nothing helped, and no air entered her panicking lungs.

Perhaps under different circumstances, Celvene would have felt a tidal wave of excitement. A euphoric feeling that rushed through her blood and tingled the tips of her fingers. But no—as she stood before a sea of glowering men, each contorted face boring into her…

All she felt was fear.