The klaxon screamed and a heartbeat later all the doors swung open, revealing nothing but darkness within. Without looking at anyone, I stepped in. I was going to win these Games and I wanted all those Sidhe who’d spat on my father’s grave to see me do it.

I ran forward – but not into an arena. The narrow corridor lined with more of the dark glass showed that this was some kind of maze. Heart pounding with anticipation, I took the first turning to the left. The key to successfully negotiating mazes was to be consistent. Left, left and left again. When I hit the first dead end, I spun back round, almost colliding with a wide-eyed Blair Sidhe who backed away from me. I ignored him and pushed past.

After about five minutes I started to realise what an immense structure this maze was. The consistent turning and reaching dead ends then spinning back around again was more tiring than I thought it could be. Rather than continue at a pace I couldn’t maintain, I slowed slightly. I’d need some energy for whatever was yet to come. I’d all but blocked out the crowd. I just concentrated on going forward, left, back, left, forward once more.

Then I came to a stop. At the far end of the latest turn, there wasn’t just an empty corridor. A body lay prone on the floor and, next to it, a table with two flagons and a set of identical glasses. When I got closer and saw that the body belonged to Angus, my stomach tightened in fear. I bent down to check his pulse, nausea rising in my stomach. If he’d died for the sake of this stupid challenge… I let out a sigh of relief; he was still breathing. He was out for the count and out of the running, but he was okay. There was a glass not far from his hand. I grabbed it and sniffed but whatever was inside was odourless.

I stood up. I didn’t have time to worry about him, I had to concentrate on myself.

I examined the table. Both flagons contained clear, identical-looking liquid. I sniffed each one but neither of them smelled of anything. Behind the table was another door. Apparently I had to drink from a flagon: choose the right one and the door would open; choose wrongly and I’d end up fast asleep like Angus.

Written on parchment next to the flagons was a riddle.

My left is in dress and trousers and suit

No key however will unlock my loot.

My right is in feline, bold and proud

Only a fop would wear this shroud.

I read through it several times. Shroud had obvious implications – was that choice of words a red herring? I frowned, trying to work out what it meant.