“Aja saraeta,” we all repeated.

“There will be five trials, each designed to pay tribute to the story of our goddess’s escape from the clutches of the White Pantheon and rise to power. The Full Moon trial. The Waning trial. The Halfmoon trial. The Crescent trial. The New Moon trial. Each trial will take place three weeks after the prior. The details of each test shall be revealed as it begins and not before. For the entire length of the Kejari, you shall reside here, in the Moon Palace. You may leave its walls between sundown and sunrise, if it pleases Nyaxia, but you must always be within its doors come dawn. Countless worshippers have lived here before you. Countless others will come long after your blood has dried from the floors. Through the Moon Palace, Nyaxia shall provide for you as she sees fit.”

As she sees fit. That sounded appropriately ominous. The Moon Palace provided shelter, food, water—until it didn’t. It provided safety—until it didn’t. The Moon Palace was not a place of rest. It was a trial all its own.

“Regarding the spilling of blood within the Moon Palace…”

I didn’t know it was possible for the room to get even more breathlessly silent. We had all, it seemed, been waiting for this. Sometimes, Kejari contestants were forbidden from killing each other outside of trials. Other years, no such restriction existed.

That was the thing about the Kejari. It had its rules and conventions, yes, but it was a little different every year, subject, like so many things, to Nyaxia’s whims.

“You may defend yourself against aggressors,” the Ministaer said. “However, the Goddess appreciates the gift of blood within her trials.”

What the hell did that mean?

I wasn’t the only one wondering. Bodies shifted uncomfortably—eyes scanned the room in confusion. This wording was… unhelpful.

The Goddess appreciates the gift of blood within her trials.

Did that mean, Try to wait to kill each other until there’s an audience, if you can? If not, oh well!

Or did that mean, Save it for the trials and face Nyaxia’s wrath if you don’t?

I couldn’t decide which I preferred. If killing was outlawed this year, it might allow me at least a little bit of peace within the Moon Palace’s walls—maybe, given the lure of my human blood. Then again, it might be easier for me to pick off my opponents when they weren’t expecting it than it would be in the ring.

“You bind yourself to these rules when you offer your soul to Nyaxia in service of the Kejari,” the Ministaer said. “And you shall abide by them until the moment the tournament concludes, or until the moment she releases you from your oath. Aja saraeta.”

“Aja saraeta,” we murmured.

“You will be summoned at sundown tomorrow for the Full Moon trial. May the Mother guide you.”

The Ministaer lifted his hand, as if casting some great invisible blessing over us all, and turned away without another word. There was no final speech, no inspiring goodbye, no wrought-out prayer.

With eerie silence, the double doors beneath the balcony swung open, revealing what appeared to be a dining room. Above us, the priests and priestesses filed away. Vincent caught my gaze just before he went with them. An unspoken agreement passed between us. He inclined his chin, and I nodded in response before following the others through the double doors.

The feast in the dining hall put the one at Vincent’s party to shame. I’d spent many of the daylight hours combing through the greenhouse trying to identify edible plants, just in case—I wasn’t sure whether we would be given food at all, and if so, whether any of it would be safe for humans. But despite my shaky nerves and exhaustion, my mouth watered at the sight of the spread before me. Two long tables had been laid out with platters, each seating perhaps twenty-five or thirty chairs. We all filed into the room and lingered near the walls, as if we all feared that the feast might explode if we got too close to it.

Finally, a tall Hiaj man muttered, “Fuck it,” sat down, and seized a goblet of blood. That was enough to break the tension. The crowd descended upon the feast. I grabbed a plate, hastily piled it with food that at least appeared to be human-edible, and backed away, instead choosing to sit at one of the small end tables scattered around the outskirts of the room. A better spot for watching.

Some contestants gulped down blood like they thought they might never eat again—a fair concern. Others, though, seemed uninterested, instead stuffing provisions into their pockets or packs.

My lips thinned. My fingers curled tight enough to leave nail marks in my palm.

Of course they weren’t hungry. They had gorged themselves last night.

Only one ignored the feast completely. A dark-haired man moved about the room frenetically, circling the tables. I recognized him—I’d see him looking around, a bit panicked, before the Ministaer’s speech. Now, my suspicion from earlier became a certainty. He was clearly looking for someone, and growing increasingly frantic when he couldn’t find them. After three quickening laps around the table, he ran out the door, pushing roughly through two Shadowborn who scowled after him.

A few minutes later, a feral, animalistic roar sliced through the air like shattering glass.

Every head snapped up. Hands went to weapons. My own gripped the hilts of my blades.

My first thought was that it was some sort of monster. That they’d lulled us into a false sense of security with this meal and figured they’d pick off a few more of us before the trial tomorrow.

But no, it wasn’t a monster that came barreling back into the dining hall—it was the dark-haired man, howling, face mottled with sheer rage. I realized that his screeching actually formed words: “My brother! They killed my fucking brother!”

His wings were out now, outstretched, the feathers many different shades of brown-black.

…Just like the wings of the Rishan man who’d been covered in Ilana’s blood.

And when this man spun around, his eyes wild, I realized they looked just like the ones that had stared into mine last night as I slowly sank my knife into his heart.

I stiffened.

“Who fucking did it?” the man howled. “You think you can kill an Ajmai and get away with it? Which one of you bastards did it? I’ll fucking kill you!”

No, you certainly will not.

I almost—almost—wanted to confess to it.

To my surprise, Ibrihim was the first to move, rising from his chair with his palms up. “Easy, brother. We don’t need any more death before—”

“Brother?” the man snarled. “You’re not my fucking brother. My brother is dead.”

The group of Bloodborn sniggered amongst themselves, and I thought surely that would be the thing to send this man on a murderous rampage. His mouth contorted into a sharp-toothed snarl, his fists quaking. But just as he was about to lunge—at whom, or what, even he didn’t seem to know—a deep, smooth voice came from the far corner of the room.

“Oh, please. It isn’t any of our fault that your brother was such a fucking idiot he got himself killed before the tournament even started, Klyn.”

The voice was oddly familiar.

The man—Klyn, apparently—whirled. Heads swiveled. The source of the voice took a long, long drink of blood. It was difficult to see him—we were seated at opposite corners of the room, with four rows of people between us—but I glimpsed a broad form and wavy, dark hair with a red sheen, which rustled slightly as he threw back his head to drink, unperturbed by the fuss.

When Klyn’s gaze fell to the man, he seemed to forget the rest of the room existed.

“You,” he breathed. “Raihn fucking Ashraj. You hadn’t gotten over that thing in the outer city. I should have known we shouldn’t have trusted—”