Page 76 of Godbound
“Each of you has been granted a Sanctum, blessed by Thul’Barak, God of Change and Beasts,” they proclaim. “This safe space will shield you and those you deem worthy. No Fleshleech may enter so long as the sanctity of its barrier remains whole.”
My eyes sweep the arena until I spot five shimmering outlines glowing faintly in the sands behind us.
“But understand this, Champions,” the Sibyls warn. “Each Sanctum is limited, meant for you, your Godbeast, and five other souls only. Invite more, and the divine barrier will falter. For every soul beyond thefifth, the walls will fall for a single heartbeat, granting the Fleshleeches a moment to breach and feed.”
A tremor ripples through the crowd as the meaning of the Challenge sinks in. Save a few, and let the rest die.
Nobles, consuls, and commoners alike stare at us with pleading, fearful eyes. Whispers rise like rustling leaves, disbelief and desperation as they realize what this test demands.
“It is not merely the beasts who test you this day,” the Sibyls say, “but the weight of your choices. Who you save, and who you let perish, will echo in the prayers of your realm. Prove your worth to them, for it is they who will strengthen your magic. Their faith will feed your gods.”
Sibyls’ tone deepens. “Know this: your Godbeasts are forbidden from harming the Fleshleeches. Should one even touch a leech, its larval form will root within their belly, inflicting ceaseless agony until the third Challenge begins. Only then will the Sphere extract it. But if your Godbeast kills or wounds the creature, the Sphere will erase them entirely.”
A pause.
“The merit of this contest,” they say, “is yours alone. Only your hand may unshackle the chosen ones. Touch them, and they will be free. But remember, the more you protect, the more peril you bring to yourself and the others. ”
Silence grips the arena.
Fifty people stand in front of us, trembling. Some cling to one another, others stand frozen. A gust stirs the sand, the only sound in the emptiness.
I force myself to inhale, but even the air tastes like dust. My throat tightens. So many faces waiting for someone to decide which ones of them will live and which ones will die.
Who do I save? Who do I condemn?
“Let the Challenge begin,” the Sibyls announce loudly. Nothing moves.
The pause stretches, long enough for doubt to take hold. Would other Champions try to go for each other instead, given that hurtingone another without repercussions would only be allowed during the challenge? My fingers curl into fists as I look to my side, at Zyrel and the rest of them. Neither one of them moves yet.
Then, with a sickening rattle, the Fleshleeches’ chains snap taut. The silence fractures. Metal grinds against metal as the restraints unspool, the sound dragging like claws across my nerves.
The creatures lurch forward, inch by inch, hauling themselves closer to the terrified crowd.
And the clock turns over.
The grains of sand begin their descent, tiny particles slipping through the narrow waist of the hourglass, cascading in a thin, ceaseless stream. A faint hiss fills the air, a whisper of how little time remains.
Already, a thin layer has settled at the base.
The crowd erupts into frantic cries. I brace myself, expecting them to rush toward our Sanctums, desperate to seize control of their own survival.
But they don’t. They stand frozen, terror locking them in place.
Something’s wrong.
Their bodies twitch and jerk as they struggle.Only the hand of a Champion may unshackle the chosen ones. Touch them, and they will be free.The Sibyls’ words flash through my memory, and realization slams into me—they can’t move. Their feet are bound to the ground.
Seraphina is the first to act, clad in a sleek battle suit as if she had expected this very moment. Half running, half space-stepping across the sand, she moves with deadly precision.
Her dragon follows close behind, releasing a low warning growl aimed at Alaric’s dragon who leaps effortlessly from one invisible perch of air to the next, movements eerily graceful despite its ruined wings. The magic of the Goddess of Air and Knowledge allows Alaric's dragon to fly- an ability it should have possessed by nature.
Then the Red Hunter moves. His black dragon surges forward, snorting and huffing, nearly plowing into the cowering figures.
I stay where I am. Something deep within me whispers that it’s not my time yet. I watch as the last Champion, Liona and her dragon, finally reach the crowd.
The Champions leave their Godbeasts outside the perimeter and descend upon the people like predators, sorting through the writhing mass of bodies. Desperate hands clawing, pleading voices rising in frantic cries.
Many have already fallen to their knees, faces twisted in terror.
