Page 1 of Starside

1

This will kill me.

My sweaty palm curves around my dagger as I weave through the crowd of spectators. My blade is hidden up my sleeve, the sparkling metal cold against my pulse. One wrong move, and I’ll stab myself, but it’s better than having my weapon noticed this far from the front.

I lift to my toes to gauge my distance—and there it is.

The platform. A massive stone the size of a stage, black rock speckled with silver like a fallen slab of night. It’s beautiful, one of the last remaining shreds of magic on this side of a land halved.

Soon, it will be covered in blood.

Hundreds have traveled from every corner of Stormside, armed with the best metals and years of elite training, to fight for a place on that platform. Thousands have risked their lives traveling down barren roads, just to watch.

The Questral only happens every fifty years.

Fifty of us mortals will be allowed past the gates, into the land of the immortals, to undergo a deadly journey.

Only a handful ever return. Most are killed by legendary beasts or the ruthless immortals themselves.

But the prize at the end of the quest is worth the risk. A goblet full of something that can turn miles of ash to fertile plains, summon storms after years of drought, cure any disease, grant power or wealth or even immortality.

Magic.

There are just fifty coveted spots. Hundreds will fight to the death for them during the king’s mysterious Culling.

But to even qualify for the Culling, you must first reach the platform.

A ring of king’s guards surrounds the stone, their well-worn silver armor glinting beneath the blazing sun. I squint, trying to find the one guard I need to stay the hell away from, but he’s noticeably missing. Strange.

Relief slides down my spine. My chances are pretty much fucked as it is, but at least I won’t be going up against him.

The king’s eyes and ears, known only as the Watchman, stands just left of the stone, a gleaming silver hawk perched on his arm—one of the king’s coveted rarities. Silver is the color of the gods. As the most powerful figure on this side, the king believes he’s owed everything in that hue. Harboring creatures of the shade is a crime punishable by death.

Even so, I’ve seen the rare silver animal caged and sold in the illegal desert markets. They have to be caught young, when they can’t put up a fight. Because the older ones …

They themselves are weapons.

The hawk’s feathers shine like melted moonlight. Its long talons look like curved daggers. A chill sweeps down my arms, below the thick sleeves. I’ve seen guts spilled across streets, because of those talons. I’ve watched that hawk decapitate a thief, then fly off, head clutched in its claws like a damned trophy.

As if sensing my notice, the bird’s head turns sharply, dark eyes boring into mine, and I fall back onto my heels, heart in my throat.

Ten minutes. Once the hawk gives its first scream, I’ll have just ten minutes to make it onto that platform. Its cries will mark down each minute, until time is up. Any moment now, it’s going to open its beak, and all hell is going to break loose.

I’m still too far away.

I quicken my pace while trying not to attract attention, part of my strategy. It’s not just the king’s guard to worry about. Some spectators will take it upon themselves to cull potential volunteers before they even get close to the front, in a twisted way to ensure only the best make it on.

Today, murder is sanctioned. Celebrated.

So, unlike the circle of armed hopefuls at the front, already staring down the king’s guards, ready to fight, I’m trying to get as close as possible without being noticed. I shoulder through the crowd, head low. No one stops me, assuming I’m just a fellow onlooker. They must see the lack of muscle. Lack of sword. Lack of height. Pale skin without the healthy flush of nourishment. Hardly enough to go against heirs and warriors who have trained their entire lives for this day. Volunteering for the quest, in their eyes, would be a death sentence.

They’re fucking right.

Someone slams into my back, sending me stumbling forward. Shit. I barely manage to keep my dagger flat against my skin as I topple forward, right into the woman in front of me.

She throws a scathing look over her shoulder that only deepens when I angle past her, apologizing under my breath. Judging by the thick, tightly woven material of the coat she now clutches in her hand, she’s a traveler from far north.

Almost every village has sent volunteers or witnesses to our town of Nightfell, named after the black rock at the center of it. I slip past unfamiliar fabrics. All are faded, ripped, and covered in a layer of dirt, the tattered remains of something that once might have been beautiful, but is now only ruins. Just like everything else on this side.