“Wait!” I call into the cold silence. My body tenses, my mouth drying even as my hands open and shut with a sudden influx of blood. Even without seeing, I can feel the Gloom’s gray oppression saturating the air.

No answer.

I rip off the blindfold. To hell with counting. I am in what looks like a basement, one narrow streak of light illuminating the dim space. The room around me is square, the stone walls covered with bits of glowing blue moss. A pile of loose metal and wood scraps makes a mess in one corner of the room, though the large empty worktable beside them is clear. I wonder what’s missing, what would be here in the Light—how some objects exist here and others do not.

Regardless, I need to get aboveground. Connect with the others. Shade has promised to find me by scent, but it will be faster if I’m in the open air. And even if it weren’t, the notion of staying here, in this underground tomb, sends a cold sweat along my sides.

Stopping by the pile of junk, I quickly flip through it in search of anything weapon-worthy, since “bring no weapons” is one of the brilliant third-trial rules. Coming up with a rusty old sword, I tuck it into the back of my sash. Better than nothing.

Seeing no staircase up, I walk the perimeter of the room in search of a door. Nothing. I curse. The door and stairs, which no doubt exist, never made it into the Gloom. If I could maneuver between the Gloom and Light, I might step out and try to use the resources that way. Although, in the Light, there might be fae occupying the house. Ones who might or might not welcome a stranger. Just now, I’m rather grateful that most of Lunos’s residents either can’t or won’t step into the Gloom.

Following that small stream of sunlight, I find a narrow, horizontal window near the ceiling. Metal bars cover the opening, but I’m likely small enough to fit between them. Thank the stars. Now, to get there. Tye could no doubt simply jump, grab the ledge, and pull himself up without wasting a breath. For me, however, it would be a climb. I run my hands over the rough walls in search of holds, finding few nooks worth the title. Wiping my moist palms on my pants, I grasp the tiny seams, the toes of my boots turning stone nubs into footholds, and pull myself up.

My hands slide off at once, the momentum I used to propel myself up pulling me back instead. Losing all balance, I fall backward. The ground rushes up to slam into me, the thud of my fall dulled by the Gloom’s oddness. The sword tucked into my sash leaves a deep ache along my lower back.

Damn. Taking a moment to force moldy air back into my empty lungs, I rise to try again, the lack of grips and holds laughing at me as I approach the wall. I glance at the worktable, too heavy for me to move, and briefly wonder whether I might jump from it to the window ledge. I could—if my goal were to break a leg instead of escape.

The wall it is. Gritting my teeth, I reach for the pitifully small holds, this time making it two steps up before falling back to the packed-dirt floor.

A whimper escapes my throat, the walls closing in around me, the basement now a crypt marooning me alive. My heart quickens, my breaths growing shallow with panic. Dark and cold and stone. A trap with no escape. No air.

Coal. I make my breaths slow. The fear of the small space is Coal’s, not mine. Or was Coal’s. Apparently he shared. I force myself to stand, my legs shaking. Coal escaped a much worse cell than this pitiful little basement, didn’t he?

Walking up to the wall for the third time, I plan my route before heading up. Find every crevice before stepping up again, my fingers straining with the effort of holding me to the stone. Legs. I need to use my legs—push up, not pull up. That’s what Tye told me during training. I press my hips close to the stone, feeling my balance shift. Better.

My right toe finds a sad excuse for a hold and I dig into it, pushing my weight onto my leg while only my fingers keep me anchored to the wall. Left foot. Right again. I realize I’ve been holding my breath only when my hands clasp the window ledge. My leg slips. Catches against the opposite wall, stretching me painfully. I push up with a final heave that sets my knee on the ledge, and I grip one of the metal bars.

I stay still for a moment, relief flooding my body, and then I kneel. Taking the sword from the back of my sash, I go to break the window but discover that the glass hasn’t made it into the Gloom. Small fortune. Tossing the sword through the opening first, I slide after it, the slit between the window bars barely large enough for my small frame.

One long scrape along my spine later, I am outside on all fours, gasping for air. A thin streak of pain burns my back, but I little care. If I never see another cellar again for the rest of my life, it will be too soon. Shaking myself free of that thought, I survey my new world. A ghost of a town main street, if the road’s generous width and the three-story stone buildings lining its sides are any indication. My jaw tightens.

The understanding was for us to be dropped in the same locations as Kora’s quint, though the elders could not reveal exactly where each of us would land without negating trial rules. Yet this little looks like the neutral territory that Kora’s quint is believed to have wandered away from. It looks like a well-built town. A mining town. Either the elders lied about where they dropped Kora, or they lied about where they would drop us. And what did you expect exactly?

I return my attention to what can only be Karnish.

A shiver runs through me at the emptiness, the dull echo of what I imagine is a vibrant place in the Light. Or perhaps not. Most fae might lack the ability and interest to step into the Gloom, but if what Klarissa said about the attacks is true, then Karnish’s inhabitants might not be here in the Light either.

I start down the street, looking for a good place to settle. The sun should be setting here within the next couple hours, but in the eerie twilit grayness, I’m not sure I’ll even notice the difference. The Gloom muffles my steps, washing the world of colors and smells. Green grass is a muddy brown; the trunks of stout, neatly manicured trees that line the street are a tarnished black; the wooden signs are shades of listless gray. One sign that looks to be advertising a mercantile swings in its frame with a dull, eerie creak, though I can’t feel the breeze that moves it. Spotting stacks of firewood beside what must be an inn, I decide to set my nest there. Crossing the street as if moving through a fog, I’ve just reached the wood piles when a familiar stench of rotten meat hits my nose.

Sclices. My heart stutters and pounds against my ribs, memories of salivating fangs and hog-like snouts racing through me. Ducking quickly behind the wood, I pull my shirt over my mouth and nose to muffle the stench of Mors’s rodents. Bloody stars, first the tomb of a room I woke in and now this. Will the sclices’ smell throw Shade off my scent? Or worse, will my own attract the beasts right to me? My hand closes stupidly around my rusty sword. I don’t think I can hold my own against a single sclice, and the rodents usually travel in packs.

Upwind. Yes, I should move upwind. If nothing else, it will give me something to work toward instead of sitting here, stewing in terror.

Peeking out from between the stacks, I survey the street, looking for movement. Nothing. Even the tattered Blaze flag hangs limply from its pole. I’ve just located a new hiding place in a lean-to structure twenty paces away when a shadow falls over the road. I hunch back down, holding my breath as I peer between the chucks of firewood.

The shadow moves, still too rough to hint at who—or what—is casting it. A sclice beast? One of the mercenaries patrolling the Gloom? Surely my males would be more careful than this. The shadow hesitates then quickens, its owner finally stepping into my line of sight.

Blood drains from my face. My heart gallops, my breath caught in painfully stretched lungs. No. Impossible. It can’t be. And yet . . . yet there it is. Webbed hind legs. Leathery gray skin. Standing upright. An expressionless cave of a face with a round maw of needle-sharp teeth pointing in all directions. The beast from Coal’s nightmares—a qoru. Here in Lunos, despite everything River and the council and all the males said.

The qoru disappears into a large stone building with a bubbling ale stein on its sign, what I presume to be a saloon.

Something scratches behind me. I jump, a scream forming in the back of my throat just as a large, calloused hand clamps over my face. I sink my teeth into it, bucking against the muscular body suddenly pressed against my back.