SERAPHINA’S POV
Facing off against Brynjar and his Shadow Claw thugs in a hotel lobby surrounded by spectators—aka: witnesses—was one thing. Facing them in the lawless, cold walls of the Trials was fucking terrifying.
As they stormed into the chamber, the atmosphere thickened like smoke choking a fire. Dust billowed in from the shattered entryway, carrying the acrid stench of scorched stone and the metallic tang of blood.
And, oh gods, they looked like hell.
Cuts striped their arms and faces and torsos, visible through their torn shirts. One guy’s sleeve was slick with crimson from a wound that hadn’t even clotted yet.
I could practically smell the charred singe of burned fabric where one of them must’ve triggered a fire trap.
It was obvious that this band of meat-for-brains wolves had strong-armed their way through the maze, triggering gods knew how many traps to get here.
Yet despite the evidence of their struggle, Brynjar’s grin spread wide.
