The King Trials 2: Beyond.

~A Change of Plans~

Lancia harbour.

The brine scented winds blows its cold, salty breaths.

The sounds of numerous hooves clopping on hard wood wanes as the carousine slows to an eventual standstill, as if it too is reluctant. Solaris bends down and refastens the laces in his boots. I pick up my royal blue, long coat, sliding my arms into the sleeves. The laundress cleansed my clothes well, I can still smell the lingering fresh fragrance.

"So, this is truly happening," Brennon says whilst aggressively shoving on a fitted cinnamon-coloured jacket. Shrouding his leather jerkin, closeup with lapels. "We are leaving Urium. Deserting all we know, the people we know, and the safety we once knew." He frees a wry scoff. "Not that we were any safer inland either."

"Despite our dalliance with death—" Treyton runs a quick hand through his medium-length hair, strawberry wisps still cling to his temples, "—you are still unchanged. It takes a special kind of being."

Brennon's mouldy green eyes set on him the way I lock my anchoring point of my arrow on a target. "It takes a strong being. When I ascend the throne, I will not be tainted by the High King's death-defying tests."

The door of the carousine opens, Brennon stands promptly. "Unlike all of you," he begins and props up his collar, straightening the breast line. "I am not weak."

My eyes peruse the interior. Dario, Brennon, Markiveus, Solaris, Treyton, Vince and myself. The last of the purebloods. Despite Brennon's supercilious claim, all of us have changed, both in appearance and something deeper. All of the remaining Herems have grown out their hair between neck and shoulder-length, either with natural comb overs, side parting or central parting.

I merely had my hair trimmed back to its original length: waist-high.

During phase one of the King Trials, their intrinsic development was glacial. But they are commendable rivals in action, eager to appease the nobility of the chosen societies, willing to assimilate to their ways and livelihood. Steadfast to every challenge, no matter how unimportant it seemed, like trying to locate a 'golden' apple.

But nothing altered us more than the Blood Games.

The killing, the losses, the corpses. It was so much more than a dalliance with death; it was like something malevolent was summoned. Death was impartial, merely a collector of those slain, reaping lives and revelling in the blood sacrifice that we made to it, all in the name of macabre entertainment. Under the guise of a traditional symbolism of their history and the suffering, that all past Sorcians endured.

I went in whole and came out empty.

Something happened to me, like something was stolen from me and something dark and ugly took its place. Something I cannot explain but it feels harrowing, constant, like morsels of me are being chipped away gradually.

All I know is that I do not feel the same. I feel different. Altered. Scathed.

"Hera?"

I glance up at Vince standing over me, wavy sheets of his dark hair curtain his cheeks. He ploughs a hand through the centre, redirecting the flow of dark waves from his face.

Wordlessly, I rise and I follow him out as the last of us exit the carousine. The coachmen are still offloading our luggage from the trunk. In tribute of the victorious purebloods, we were allowed to keep any weapon of our choice whether it belonged to a Spartan, or the weapon we fought with during the matches. Along with select jewellery, each with intricately woven clothes, cloaks and supplies for our journey.