I began to shake. I recognized only basic words—useless ones like the and but and went. Everything else was a blur of letters I didn’t know, letters I’d have to slowly sound out or research to understand.
The spiked grate was still descending, now level with Amarantha’s head, and would soon shut off any chance I stood of getting out of this pit. The heat from the glowing iron already smothered me, sweat starting to bead at my temples. Who had told her I couldn’t read?
“Something wrong?” She raised an eyebrow. I snapped my attention to the inscription, keeping my breathing as steady as I could. She hadn’t mentioned reading as an issue—she would have mocked me more if she’d known about my illiteracy. Fate—a cruel, vicious twist of fate.
The chains rattled and strained, and Lucien cursed as he beheld what was before me. I turned to him, but when I saw his face, I knew he was too far to be able to read it aloud to me, even with his enhanced metal eye. If I could hear the question, I might stand a chance at solving it—but riddles weren’t my strong point.
I was going to be skewered by burning-hot spikes and then crushed on the ground like a grape.
The grate now passed over the lip of the pit, filling it entirely—no corner was safe. If I didn’t answer the question before the grate passed the levers—
My throat closed up, and I read and read and read, but no words came. The air became thick and stank of metal—not magic but burning, unforgiving steel creeping toward me, inch by inch.
“Answer it!” Lucien shouted, his voice hitched. My eyes stung. The world was just a blur of letters, mocking me with their turns and shapes.
The metal groaned as it scraped against the smooth stone of the chamber, and the faeries’ whispers grew more frenzied. Through the holes in the grate, I thought I saw Lucien’s eldest brother chuckle. Hot—so unbearably hot.
It would hurt—those spikes were large and blunt. It wouldn’t be quick. It would take some force to pierce through my body. Sweat slid down my neck, my back as I stared at the letters, at the I, II, and III that had somehow become my lifeline. Two choices would doom me—one choice would stop the grate.
I found numbers in the inscription—it must be a riddle, a logic problem, a maze of words worse than any worm’s labyrinth.
“Feyre!” Lucien cried, panting as he stared at the ever-lowering spikes. The gleeful faces of the High Fae and lesser faeries sneered at me above the grate.
Three … grass … grasshope … grasshoppers …
The gate wouldn’t stop, and there wasn’t a full body length between my head and the first of those spikes. I could have sworn the heat devoured the air in the pit.
… were … boo … bow … boon … king … sing … bouncing …
I should say my good-byes to Tamlin. Right now. This was what my life amounted to—these were my last moments, this was it, the final breaths of my body, the last beatings of my heart.
“Just pick one!” Lucien shouted, and some of those in the crowd laughed—his brothers no doubt the loudest.
I reached a hand toward the levers and stared at the three numbers beyond my trembling, tattooed fingers.
I, II, III.
They meant nothing to me beyond life and death. Chance might save me, but—
Two. Two was a lucky number, because that was like Tamlin and me—just two people. One had to be bad, because one was like Amarantha, or the Attor—solitary beings. One was a nasty number, and three was too much—it was three sisters crammed into a tiny cottage, hating each other until they choked on it, until it poisoned them.
Two. It was two. I could gladly, willingly, fanatically believe in a Cauldron and Fate if they would take care of me. I believed in two. Two.
I reached for the second lever, but a blinding pain racked my hand before I could touch the stone. I hissed, withdrawing. I opened my palm to reveal the slitted eye tattooed there. It narrowed. I had to be hallucinating.
The grate was about to cover the inscription, barely six feet above my head. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The heat was too much, and metal sizzled, so close to my ears.
I again reached for the middle lever, but the pain paralyzed my fingers.
The eye had returned to its usual state. I extended my hand toward the first lever. Again, pain.
I reached for the third lever. No pain. My fingers met with stone, and I looked up to find the grate not four feet from my head. Through it, I found a star-flecked violet gaze.
I reached for the first lever. Pain. But when I reached for the third lever …
Rhysand’s face remained a mask of boredom. Sweat slipped down my brow, stinging my eyes. I could only trust him; I could only give myself up again, forced to concede by my helplessness.
The spikes were so enormous up close. All I had to do was lift my arm above my head and I’d burn the flesh off my hands.
“Feyre, please!” Lucien moaned.
I shook so badly I could scarcely stand. The heat of the spikes bore down on me.
The stone lever was cool in my hand.
I shut my eyes, unable to look at Tamlin, bracing myself for the impact and the agony, and pulled the third lever.
Silence.
The pulsing heat didn’t grow closer. Then—a sigh. Lucien.
I opened my eyes to find my tattooed fingers white-knuckled beneath the ink as they gripped the lever. The spikes hovered not inches from my head.
Unmoving—stopped.
I had won—I had …
The grate groaned as it lifted toward the ceiling, cool air flooding the chamber. I gulped it down in uneven breaths.
