3: The Watcher

Kael

Another batch of desperate souls staggers through the veil, and I can already tell they’re going to die.  They always do.

They stumble into the courtyard wide-eyed, clutching bags and weapons, like those will make a difference. I lean against one of the obsidian pillars overlooking the grand steps and let out a low whistle. The castle hums under my skin.  It is alive, hungry for the souls of the contestants that won’t leave this place.

“Here we go again,” I mutter.

The air smells of fear and arrogance. Both have become familiar perfumes.  Half of them are terrified, and the other half are assholes. 

This is the part I hate most, the arrival. And the hope they bring with them. Every year they look the same: warriors, lovers, cowards, killers. And every year, I have to pretend that one of them might survive long enough to set me free.

They never do.

“Are you enjoying the show, little wolf?”

Her voice slides into my head like silk soaked in poison. Nyxara. The goddess who built this gilded cage and tossed me inside.

I rub the bridge of my nose. “You know, it’s rude to whisper in a man’s skull before breakfast.”

Breakfast? Her laugh slithers through me. “You don’t eat, Kael. You brood. You sulk. You count the years like beads on a string.”

“Everyone needs a hobby.”

“You could end it, you know. Pick a winner. Let them live.”

I snort. If only it were that easy. “Find me one who can last past the third sunrise, and maybe I’ll consider it.”

Her presence flickers in front of me, like a whisp of smoke. “You’ve gone soft. I can smell it on you.”

“Must be your imagination. The only thing soft here is the ground after the corpses hit it.”

She chuckles and fades, leaving the back of my skull blessedly empty.

I straighten, scanning the new arrivals. A witch crying into her hands. Two wolves are already posturing for dominance. A human, brave or stupid, probably both, trying to look like she belongs. Typical.

I stretch my arms, feeling the ache of too many centuries coil through my muscles. My glamour holds easily; they see what I want them to see, another competitor. Just another poor bastard chasing a wish. The trick never fails. They trust me. They always trust me.

And then they die.

The castle gate groans open again, and the veil ripples, a shimmer of light passing between realms. My instincts stir. Something shifts in the air.  A change in the monotony I have grown used to.

The next figure doesn’t stumble. She steps through.

Moonlight clings to her like it she commands it. Her clothes are travel-worn, her jaw set, eyes straight ahead, haunted but not hollow. I feel it immediately: that pulse of defiance. Most arrive drowning in desperation. She smells like judgment and loathing.

Interesting.

Her gaze sweeps the courtyard, cataloging exits, threats, and the distance between shadows. Smart. Wolves can usually sense me even through the glamour, but she doesn’t flinch my way. Either she’s too focused or too numb to notice.

I push off the pillar, curiosity prickling. The castle stirs again, recognizing a worthy meal. Or maybe, for once, a challenge.

“Who’s that?” one of the guards whispers.

I shrug, not wanting to draw attention to her. “Another dreamer.”

But my heart, what’s left of it, beats once, slow and deliberate. It hasn’t done that in a long time.

The wind shifts, carrying her scent across the courtyard: vanilla and stubborn pride. My wolf stirs under my skin, stretching like it’s been asleep for centuries. ‘Careful,’ I tell myself. ‘She’s just another contestant.’

The castle laughs in creaks and echoes, like it knows better.

I watch as she moves closer to the center of the courtyard where the other competitors cluster, all false bravado and whispered prayers. She doesn’t join them. She stands apart, arms crossed, every inch of her radiating “don’t touch me.”

My lips twitch. “Well, don’t worry, darling. No one here’s worthy of touching you anyway.”

A ripple of energy flows from the veil, snapping my attention back to it. The gate seals shut behind her with a hiss of starlight, trapping us all together for another round. The sky above folds into night even though the horizon still glows gold on the far edges; time obeys no rules here.

Another year. Another Game.

I should be numb to it by now, but something about this one unsettles me.

Nyxara’s voice purrs in my head again. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

“Feel what?”

“Hope.”

I scoff. “That’s indigestion.”

“Liar.”

Her laughter fades, leaving behind the echo of her curse: If no heart survives pure, you remain mine.

I clench my jaw, eyes still fixed on the girl, Aria Vale, if the parchment on my desk is to be believed. The one whose wish is freedom from love.

A cruel sort of poetry, considering what she’s walking into.

I turn away before she can sense me watching. The castle’s corridors stretch ahead, whispering secrets in languages that are older than Nyxara herself. I have a script to follow, meet the players, play the fool, let a warrior guide them to their doom. Pretend I’m one of them until they start dying.

But my wolf, Alister, keeps glancing back through the glamour.  He is restless.

The Game begins at sundown, which means I have a few hours left to remind myself what happens when I start to care. I’ve broken that rule before, and the price still stains these walls.

As I walk, the air hums louder, reacting to her presence. Threads of magic twist around the towers, drawn to her scent. The castle hasn’t liked anyone this much in decades. It might even test her differently.

“Wonderful,” I mutter to the walls. “Play favorites. That’ll end well.”

Still, I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from lifting. For the first time in a very long time, the Game doesn’t feel predictable.

At the end of the hall, I pause, hand on the cold iron of a window frame, watching the courtyard below. She’s talking to one of the guards now, waving her hand in sharp gestures. She’s impatient. She moves like a fighter, measured, deliberate. She’s not trembling. She’s calculating.

A new player in an old story.

I should turn away, let the machinery run its course. But instead, I whisper to the empty room, “Try not to die too quickly, Moonfire.”

She steps closer to the doorway, and the castle’s torches flare in response, flames bending toward the courtyard as if to greet her. She doesn’t flinch. She just lifts her chin and steps fully into the shadows of the courtyard, crossing the invisible threshold that seals the Game.

The veil closes behind her with a sigh, sealing us off from the mortal realm.  She is the last one.  The last player to enter the game.