There was no time awarded for recovery. He was permitted to remain in the infirmary as his body dealt with the aftershocks of his desperate struggle for survival for a day. His mother stayed at his side the entire time, holding his hand in hers. She didn’t seem comfortable in the tense silence inside the room, so his day was mostly filled with her chattering about whatever she could come up with to distract him — or, really, the both of them — from everything that was going on. 

His father, on the other hand, had stayed for a while, watching over him, but he had not said a word. When Esen had finally managed to bring himself to look at him, his brows were furrowed, deep lines etched into the skin of his face. There was a storm behind his eyes, and Esen didn’t know whether it was directed at him or the situation. Eventually, though, one of his attendants had slipped soundlessly into the room and after a hushed exchange, both left. No doubt to deal with the implications of this tournament.

Once the sun had come up the following day, though, Esen had no choice but to force himself out of the infirmary, his body still aching and mostly unresponsive. He’d managed to survive the previous day’s trials by the skin of his teeth, but the cost of that small victory — if it could even be called a victory at all — was just as likely to kill him today. His throat began closing up at the thought of his new reality. 

None of them knew what the day would hold. 

The excitement and anticipation that had buzzed across the group the previous day had been extinguished, swallowed up by the chasm that had spelled the death of one of them. That excitement had withered away into a silent dread that settled over them like a mountain on their shoulders. Slowly crushing them.

Or maybe that was just Esen. He couldn’t seem to get his heartrate to slow, or stop his mind from thinking up an infinite number of possibilities for what sort of wicked trial they’d be forced into today. Each conjured thought was worse than the last. His hands trembled, and he wasn’t sure whether or not that was from the press of anxiety that was amalgamating into his bloodstream or the continued side effects of his failure to control his magic.

He was forced out of his thoughts when a familiar figure came into view, stopping in front of him. Zaire’s face was pale, his brows drawn in worry. Wordlessly, he pulled him into a hug — one that lacked the typical strength and vigor he usually possessed. It was unsettling to see Zaire’s face drawn with anxiety. That was usually Esen’s job, and Zaire would laugh and pat him on the back and tell him he was being ridiculous. It made the situation seem that much more dire.

No words were exchanged between them, and they settled into the tense silence that leeched into their bones, keeping them taut and on high alert. Minutes passed, and still nothing had happened. Esen felt as though he might faint from apprehension if he didn’t find out what was going on soon. Had they called them early just to let them stew in fear?

“What’s taking so long?” The silence was abruptly shattered. Twenty-four pairs of eyes turned towards the source of the voice. It was a man Esen was all too familiar with. Aiolos of the Sky House. Subconsciously, Esen’s shoulders curled inward. 

While the two of them looked similar — from the length of their noses to the greyish colour of their eyes and the shape of their jaws — the two of them could not be any more different than they were. His cousin on his father’s side, Aiolos had been his first childhood tormentor. And unfortunately, he hadn’t grown out of his vicious and malicious habits. It was best if Esen kept his head down and stayed far, far below his notice.

Nothing good ever came from drawing Aiolos’s notice.

Despite his best efforts, though, the stress of their situation seemed to amplify his cousin’s desire for confrontation and cruelty. His eyes settled on him from across the room. The corners of his lips inched upward, curling into a malicious grin that set every muscle in Esen’s body on edge. 

“Are you feeling any better, milord?” Esen swallowed thickly as every pair of eyes that had been focused on his cousin mere moments before swivelled towards him. He didn’t know where to look, or what to say. He broke out into a cold sweat, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, palms clammy.

“Um… yeah…”

Aiolos sneered, shaking his head. “That was a pitiful display yesterday. I’m surprised you didn’t come in last.” Esen decided that the best place to look was the floor. He could feel the emotions he’d been trying — and mostly failing — to surpress rise up in his throat, making it difficult to breathe. While the words on their own didn’t seem to be as malicious as the venom coating his tone, his meaning was clear to everyone in the room: he was the one who should have died.

Someone shuffled awkwardly. Esen chewed on the inside of his lip, trying to find an answer — or figure out if he should even answer at all. Zaire took a step forward, shielding him partially from view, his lips set into a deep frown, his eyes narrowed into a glare. It was the most support his friend could offer. The Rain House and the Sky House were positioned very close to one another, and they shared a lot of important business ventures and trades. As much as he may have wanted to, jeapordizing the relationship between the two would likely result in catastrophic losses — or at the very least a tense relationship that could lead to it. 

Esen reached out and grabbed his friend’s wrist. He knew how it was — he knew that, as the sons of the House Heads, they had certain responsibilities that prevented them from behaving the way that they wanted to. It was part of the reason why Esen never fought back — as the future Head of the main House of the Wind Clan, he needed to maintain good relationships with each of the secondary Houses. The other reason, though, was that he was afraid. He’d never been one to fight back; maybe that was why it made it easier for him to bite his tongue and avert his eyes. 

There was only one reason why Aiolos hated him. It felt petty and minute, but it was in truth very simple. Aiolos hated him because he was the heir to the Wind Clan’s main House. He would be the one in charge of the entire Wind Clan. He would be Aiolos’s leader. And, someone like Aiolos, who had been raised believing he was the most powerful — because in the Sky House, it was most certainly almost true — did not take kindly to being someone’s subordinate. Especially when that someone was as weak-willed and unworthy as Esen was. Especially when Aiolos’s father had been born mere seconds after his brother, Esen’s father. 

Those few seconds had cemented that Esen’s father would become the Head of the clan, while Aiolos’s father was relegated to being married off to the eldest daughter of a secondary House since they had produced no male heirs. He had power only because he had married into it, it was not his by birthright. Aiolos seemed to take issue with that. Though, if Esen was being honest, it was likely because Aiolos’s father held a deep-seeded resentment for his brother and the few seconds that had separated their births.

So Esen said nothing and hoped that his fear-fuelled tirade would come to an end quickly enough.

“Quit it.” Esen tensed as a second voice echoed throughout the room. The expression on Aiolos’s face flickered, his eyes narrowing somewhat. Esen chanced a look around to find the source of the voice. 

“Picking on someone is just making you look pathetic.”

As his eyes landed on the one who’d spoken, his heart skipped a beat. It was the man from the Lightning Clan — the one he hadn’t recognized. Now that the other heirs of the Lightning Houses were assembled here, he was able to scan through his memories, associating each name to a face except for the one. 

That meant that the man who’d spoken, the one standing at the far back of the room, secluded from everyone with his arms crossed over his chest and a frown on his lips, was Raiden of the Thunder House. His heart leapt into his throat, and he couldn’t help but stare. 

Aiolos did not like to be contradicted. His nasty sneer turned onto him. “Who do you think you are, calling me pathetic—” Before he could finish his sentiment, though, the Empress’s attendant, the one who had led them into the arena that day prior, appeared.

“My deepest apologies for the delay, my Lords. Please, follow me.” 

Esen tore his eyes away from Raiden, shaking some focus into himself. He’d gotten distracted, and that made the resurgeance of his anxiety even worse. He felt as though he’d faint again. 

He exchanged a look with Zaire, and as the group of them began to follow the attendant, they moved forward together. He resisted the urge to grab onto his sleeve. 

It was entirely possible that one of them would die today.