THE EXILED PRINCESS OF THE BLOOD GAMES

The first time my sister tried to kill me, twenty thousand people were chanting my name. “Sabine! Sabine! Sabine!” Each cry struck the arena like thunder. I stood at the center of the final course with blood running into my left eye, one knee threatening to buckle, and the last obstacle rising between me and victory. The Widow’s Spire. One hundred feet of polished black stone, almost vertical, its surface shifting beneath the competitors who attempted to climb it. There were no ropes. No footholds that remained in place for more than a few seconds. Only a crimson banner waiting at the summit—and the long fall awaiting anyone too slow to reach it. Far above me, the banner snapped in the night wind. Behind me came the scrape of claws against stone. Kardek of the Ironfang wolves had recovered. I did not look back. Looking back wasted time, and in the Blood Games, time was only another name for weakness. I pushed myself upright. Pain flared through my ribs. Kardek had broken at least one when he hurled me into the bone wall during the previous trial. My right shoulder had partially dislocated in the river course. The sole of my left boot had been sliced open by the glass field, leaving blood in every footprint. None of that mattered. Pain was movement waiting to become fire. I drew one breath deep into my lungs and ran. The crowd roared. The first slab shifted as my foot struck it. I jumped before it could throw me off, caught the edge of the second, and pulled myself upward. My injured shoulder screamed. I ignored it. Ten feet. Fifteen. Twenty. The stone tilted away from the tower. My fingers slipped. A clawed hand closed around my ankle. Kardek snarled below me, his golden eyes bright with the certainty that he had won. “You should have stayed in your father’s palace, princess.” I looked down at him. Blood coated his teeth. One of his arms hung uselessly at his side, but he still smiled as though strength alone had already given him the banner. That was the mistake men like Kardek always made. They believed strength belonged only to the person with the larger body, the sharper weapon, the louder voice. They never understood what could live inside a woman who had spent her entire life being told that every victory had been handed to her. “Perhaps,” I said, “you should have learned to climb.” Crimson Flame erupted around my boot. Kardek released me with a howl. The fire did not burn like ordinary flame. It lived beneath my skin, born from exertion and sharpened by pain. Every heartbeat fed it. Every movement gave it shape. It coiled around my legs and surged upward as I climbed, leaving burning prints across the black stone. Thirty feet. Forty. The Widow’s Spire twisted. The arena turned sideways beneath me. For one breathless moment, I hung above open air with nothing between me and the ground except the grip of four blood-slick fingers. The spectators fell silent. I heard my father’s voice in my memory. A crown is not inherited, Sabine. It is survived. My fingers began to slide. Kardek was climbing again. I closed my eyes. Not because I was frightened. Because fire listened best when the rest of the world became quiet. The Crimson Flame pulsed inside my chest. It travelled along my spine, through my injured shoulder, and into my hands. Heat sealed itself around my fingers like a second grip. I opened my eyes and pulled. The fire launched me upward. I caught a narrow ledge, swung my body across the rotating face of the tower, and landed hard enough to send another spear of pain through my ribs. The summit waited twenty feet above me. Kardek lunged. His claws caught the back of my armour and ripped through leather. I drove my elbow behind me. Bone cracked beneath the strike, but his other hand closed around my throat. We fell against the side of the Spire together. “Yield,” he growled. My vision darkened at the edges. Beneath us, the stone began to separate into moving sections. If either of us lost our grip, the fall would kill us before the healers could reach the field. Kardek tightened his hand. “Yield!” I smiled. His expression changed. Too late, he noticed the crimson glow spreading from my throat to his fingers. “You first.” I released the Flame. Kardek screamed. His grip broke, and he fell. I caught his wrist. The crowd gasped as one. Kardek hung beneath me, his boots scraping helplessly against the shifting stone. The man who had tried to strangle me stared at my hand around his wrist. “Why?” he choked. Because I knew what everyone was waiting to see. The pampered vampire princess allowing a rival to die. The king’s monstrous daughter revealing what she truly was. Another reason to fear the blood-drinking family that had ruled Sorell Court for six centuries. I was tired of winning battles only to lose the story told afterward. “Because I don’t need your death to prove I defeated you.” I swung him toward the nearest platform. Kardek struck it hard and rolled to safety. Then I climbed. The last section of the Spire folded upward. I ran across it as it rose, using its momentum to throw myself toward the summit. My hand closed around the crimson banner. The arena exploded. Fireworks burst above the battlements. Bells rang from the nine towers. The royal musicians began the victory anthem, though I could barely hear it beneath the crowd. “Sabine! Sabine! Sabine!” I tore the banner free and held it above my head. Crimson Flame raced along the fabric without consuming it. For the first time in the history of the Blood Games, a woman had won the Widow’s Spire three years in succession. For the first time in my life, my father rose from the Obsidian Throne and applauded me before the entire kingdom. King Odran Sorell did nothing without purpose. His approval was never simply approval. Tonight, it was an announcement. The rumours were true. Tomorrow, on my twenty-first birthday, he intended to name me his heir. The knowledge should have made victory sweeter. Instead, my gaze moved to the woman seated beside him. My younger sister was already standing. Iona clapped with both hands, smiling more brightly than anyone else in the royal gallery. Silver flowers glittered in her black hair. Her pale blue gown made her look delicate among the soldiers and stone-faced councillors surrounding her. When our eyes met, she pressed her fingers to her lips and sent me a kiss. I smiled despite the pain. Iona had been the first person to believe I could win the junior trials when I was twelve. She had sat beside my bed after every injury, reading terrible love stories aloud until I begged the healers to make her stop. She had never awakened an athletic gift of her own, but she attended every match, every training session, every ceremony. She called herself my good-luck charm. I called her the only person in the palace who knew me before I became something the kingdom could use. The Spire lowered me toward the field. Healers rushed forward the instant my boots touched the ground, but I waved them away. Tradition required the champion to cross the arena without assistance. I managed twelve steps before the world tilted. A pair of arms caught me. Iona’s perfume—winter roses and orange peel—surrounded me. “You impossible creature,” she whispered. She had somehow reached the field before the healers. She held me tightly despite the blood soaking my armour and staining her gown. “You’re ruining your dress,” I said. “You almost fell to your death.” “But I didn’t.” “That does not make it less terrifying.” I eased back enough to see her face. Tears brightened her eyes. Guilt touched me. Iona hated the Games. She concealed it well before our father, but I knew what each competition cost her. She claimed she could feel every blow that landed on me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “No, you aren’t.” “No.” She laughed shakily and embraced me again. Over her shoulder, I saw my father descending from the royal gallery. Chancellor Beric Saye followed two steps behind him, thin and immaculate in his ceremonial white robes. The sight of Beric cooled my victory. He had served my father longer than I had been alive. He smiled often, spoke softly, and never seemed to blink when delivering bad news. I had once asked Iona whether she thought he slept standing up inside a coffin. She had laughed so hard that wine came out of her nose. Beric’s gaze settled on my sister’s arms around me. For the smallest instant, something passed between them. Not a smile. Not even recognition. Only a stillness that felt deliberate. Then Iona released me, and the moment vanished. King Odran stopped before us. The entire arena quieted. My father looked at the torn armour, the blood on my face, and the burning banner still clenched in my hand. Pride softened his severe expression, but only slightly. “Princess Sabine Sorell,” he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the field. “Champion of the Widow’s Spire. Defender of the Crimson Standard. First blood of my house.” I lowered myself onto one knee. Pain nearly stole my breath. My father drew the ceremonial blade from his belt and touched its flat edge to each of my shoulders. “You have brought honour to your kingdom.” The crowd waited. So did I. His next words could change the course of the realm. Instead, he returned the blade to its sheath. “Tomorrow,” he said, “all of Sorell Court will witness the future of this crown.” The arena erupted again. I looked toward Iona. For one fleeting second, she was not smiling. Her face was empty. Then she threw her arms around me with such force that I almost cried out. “I knew it,” she whispered against my cheek. “You’re finally going to have everything.” “We are,” I corrected her. “Nothing changes between us.” Her arms tightened. “You promise?” “I promise.” A sharp sting pierced the side of my neck. I flinched and touched the spot. “What happened?” Iona asked. “Something scratched me.” Her expression filled with concern. “It must be my ring. Let me see.” “It’s nothing.” A single drop of blood rested against the dark red stone on her finger. Iona stared at it. The ruby seemed to drink the blood into its centre. Its colour deepened from red to almost black. I looked toward the approaching healers and missed the moment my sister closed her hand. By morning, the ruby would contain enough of my blood to steal the power I had spent my entire life becoming worthy of. But that night, surrounded by thousands chanting my name, I kissed Iona’s forehead and believed her trembling came from happiness.