Sydney taps her thigh nervously with one of her daggers. The shiny blade is as long as my forearm and razor-sharp. She’d come prepared tonight with two holsters already strapped to her thighs, so she hadn’t needed to collect a weapon from the pile Russ and Evan had deposited in front of the twelve Pages. As soon as they’d given us our options, they’d left to join the rest of the Legendborn observing the trial. We’d been given free rein to choose from swords, daggers, long quarterstaffs, flails, even a bullwhip—but no hints as to which item would serve us best. I’m no weakling—I’m decently strong and have good stamina from Bentonville High track and field, but I’d never handled a weapon in my life. I was half-scared of chopping my own arm off, so I’d chosen the short, heavy wooden staff—what Whitty called a “cudgel”—and strapped it to my back with its leather harness.

We weren’t given armor of any kind.

“There.”

I let the stuffed mannequin fall to the ground with a heavy thud and crawl to Sydney. “Where?”

“Still mesmered, Matthews? Use your eyes! The Kingsmage is right there.” She jabs a finger at one end of the arena. Selwyn, in all black, blends into the navy skyline, but I can just make him out by starlight, standing in the middle of the arena.

Without warning, Selwyn throws his arms out wide to either side of his body. His fingers curl up against the air, pulling aether out of the night sky in heavy, rhythmic waves. A small silver-blue mage flame tornado forms in one palm, then the other. They grow taller and taller until the open mouths of the funnels stretch ten feet over his head. We shield our eyes against the pulsing brightness. I look back just in time to watch him thrust both palms toward the other end of the arena, sending all that aether roaring straight down the middle. The sharp smell of charred cinnamon reaches my nose, enough to make me cough.

I knew Sel was strong, but nothing I’ve seen him do prepared me for this.

Flames snake through the air. Twist. Melt. Flow into six broad, snarling shapes. Shapes that grow short, stubby legs. Translucent fur rises up in a long ridge—spines. Aether solidifies into dark blue beady eyes. Extends into short snouts. Sharpens to crystalline points at the end of long, deadly tusks.

“Hellboars?” I whisper in horror.

“Hellboars the size of goddamn bison,” Sydney mutters, her eyes narrowing on the glowing creature across from us. It kicks at the dirt, but unlike Sel, its hooves make tearing sounds, ripping up grass in great chunks.

Two Pages per team. Three teams run at a time. One goal: make it to the other side with all bodies—living and fake—in one piece.

In ten minutes or less.

“But they’re not real.”