SERAPHINA’S POV
All the Arenas were clever illusions and simulations. But it was hard to remember that when we stepped into the Misty Woods.
It breathed like a living thing, and every step forward pulled us deeper into its lungs. The fog swirled thicker until the world dulled into muted grays and greens.
The air clung to my skin with a dampness that seeped beneath my jacket, the bitter tang of herbs stinging the back of my throat.
Somewhere above, I sensed the outline of the sun trying and failing to burn through the haze. Its light was scattered like shards of glass.
We’d been carefully and explicitly given the rules at the gate, but I’d simplified it in my head, reciting those, too, like incantations: three Moonstone Shards, twelve hours, finish line.
The first nine teams would pass. The rest would be out of the competition.
The fog was supposed to be crucial to the trial—a concoction brewed from a blend of ground herbs that tampered with the mind and senses.
