Chapter 5 Trials Of The Heath
CHLOE’S POV:
He didn’t look happy that I was here.
There was that exact same cold, calculating look in his eyes—the same look he had given me when he was holding me by the throat in the woods. Standing under the glittering lights of the chandelier, he looked entirely different, yet horrifyingly the same.
A wave of pure dread washed over me. “I’m doomed,” I muttered under my breath, momentarily forgetting I even had company.
Aria caught the whispered words over the pulsing bass. “Girl, what? Come on, let’s just go get some drinks and dance!”
Before I could protest, Ari grabbed my wrist and dragged me straight toward the packed dance floor. I didn’t feel like dancing, my limbs felt heavy and my joints entirely stiff, but Aria was a persistent pest when she wanted to be.
Desperate for anything to numb the rising panic, I grabbed a glass of tequila from a passing waiter's tray, downed the entire burning liquid in one throat-searing gulp, and slammed the empty glass back onto the moving tray.
I forced myself to step into the crowd where Ari was already jumping up and down, completely lost in the music. But the tequila did absolutely nothing to calm my frantic nerves. I could still feel his burning, heavy gaze cutting through the moving bodies, locked onto me.
So he’s part of the Elites? The questions flooded my mind, making my chest tighten. He goes to this school? We have a literal serial killer student walking the halls of Halden? I wanted to run. I needed to get out of this house immediately. My mind spun into darker territory. What if this party is just a twisted excuse where they hand-pick a dozen of us from the crowd and skin us alive? I stopped moving, my body locking up as I cut a glance back toward the VIP pillar.
Sure enough, he hadn’t moved an inch. He was still staring right at me. When our eyes met this time, he slowly raised a single eyebrow—a silent, mocking dare.
I glanced at Ari, who was still dancing wildly, completely oblivious to the world. Then I looked back at him. My survival instinct screamed.
I took one step back off the dance floor. Then another. Within seconds, I turned on my heel and made a straight line for the massive main doors.
But I didn't even make it to the handle. The masked guards stationed at the exit caught movement, they exchanged a quick, knowing nod and stepped into my path, their massive bodies completely blocking the entrance.
Trapped completely trapped inside.
I spun around, looking for any other way out. Everyone around me seemed to be in a complete daze, either aggressively dancing or getting entirely touchy-feely in the shadows. I sprinted toward the kitchen, but it was even worse. Couples were shoved against the counters, smooching and kissing.
I spotted a heavy service door at the back. Ignoring the people around me, I lunged for it and grabbed the handle, throwing my weight against it.
Locked.
A hot sting pricked the back of my eyes. I wanted to cry. Why did it feel like the walls of this mansion were physically closing in on me?
Then, without warning, the music cut. The entire mansion plunged into pitch-black darkness.
The crowd’s chatter died instantly, replaced by a tense, heavy silence. Suddenly, a blast of static echoed through the overhead speakers. When a voice finally spoke, it wasn’t human but instead, ir was deeply distorted, run through one of those heavy voice-editing modulators that dragged the pitch down into something artificially deep, hollow, and demonic.
“Welcome, everyone, to the King's House,” the robotic, echoing voice boomed through the dark room.
“To those who belong, and to the unsuspecting outsiders who were lucky enough to receive an invitation... we hope you have enjoyed your final hours of peace.”
The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The absolute blackness was suffocating. Panic flared in my throat, and I began to hyperventilate, stepping blindly backward to find a wall—any solid surface—to hold onto. I kept bumping into warm bodies, whispering apologies that went ignored.
“We have now reached a very special time of the evening,” the voice continued, its distorted tone dripping with a sick kind of amusement. “It is time for the Trials of the Hearth. You have all been assigned to specific groups. There is no escaping. You will play, and you will try to survive.”
Suddenly, the lights flashed back on, but they were dim and ominous. The masked guards moved into the crowd like prison wardens, aggressively grabbing students and shoving us into lines. Resistance was met with brutal shoves. We were marched down a long corridor and escorted out to a massive, industrial-sized garage.
My breath hitched. Waiting at the front of the garage were a few of the Elites who actually bothered to show their unmasked, arrogant faces. In front of them sat a long steel table lined with an array of lethal weapons—handguns, knives, and metallic torture devices.
The robotic voice boomed over the garage speakers once more, detailing the horrifying trials awaiting us.
“Five groups. Five zones,” the voice echoed flatly.
“Those assigned to the Woods will face a deadly crossfire, forced to outrun hidden tracking sensors through the dark trees while avoiding live ammunition being sprayed into the brush. One wrong turn, and you become permanent collateral damage. Those on the Perimeter will face a high-voltage boundary run, tasked with navigating a pitch-black obstacle field lined with motion-activated shock traps where slowing down means your heart stops entirely. In the Sports Yard, the rules are reduced to a sick twist of Russian Roulette. A single blade and a loaded gun will be placed in the dead center of the court, and only a set number of survivors will be permitted to walk out of those gates alive.”
The voice paused, a mechanical hiss filling the air before it resumed.
“For the Massive Pool, participants will be tied securely to heavy weights and sunk completely underneath the water. The pool has been chemically treated to induce a severe, agonizing itch across your entire body. You will have to find a way to untie yourselves and break to the surface before your lungs collapse, all while enduring a maddening irritation beneath the waves. And finally, for those remaining in the Mansion, you will be thrown into a psychological chamber of traps. It is close-quarters survival where the doors will lock you in, the rooms are rigged to turn against you, and you must avoid the specialized executioners patrolling the dark hallways. Survival of the fittest. May the odds be in your favor.”
Panic erupted in the garage the second the voice cut off. The guards began violently dividing the crowd, pulling people apart. I frantically looked around for a flash of blue glitter, my throat burning. “Aria!” I yelled, my voice cracking over the screaming students. But in the chaotic shoving match, she was nowhere to be found.
Before I could spiral, a heavy hand slammed onto my shoulder, and a guard aggressively thrust a heavy wooden baseball bat into my hands. I snatched it from his grip, my knuckles turning white.
"Wait! Have you seen a ginger girl? In a blue glittery dress?" I demanded, grabbing his sleeve.
The guard didn't even look at me. He just let out a low, animalistic grunt, ripped his arm from my grip, and shoved me backward into the line heading back toward the main house.
I had been assigned to the Mansion.
The second our group crossed the threshold back into the house, the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind us. The lights violently plunged into pitch-blackness once again.
It had officially started.
Chaos erupted instantly. Screams and the frantic, heavy pounding of footsteps echoed through the grand halls as students broke into a panicked run for cover, terrified of whatever traps or executioners were waiting in the rooms. I bolted blindly toward the grand staircase, my heels clicking dangerously against the marble as I fought my way upstairs, desperate to find an empty room to hide in.
I ended up trapped in a long, dark, completely empty corridor on the upper floor. The sound of my own thudding heart was deafening, and my knees felt so weak I could barely stand.
Suddenly, a massive hand materialized out of the shadows.
Before I could even process the movement, I was grabbed and yanked backward with terrifying, brutal force. My spine collided hard against a solid wall of muscle, and a large, heavy palm instantly clamped over my mouth, suffocating my scream before it could leave my lips.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a hot, bitter tear spilling over my cheek as the devastating realization slammed into me.
I’ve been caught. The Mansion game had begun, and I was the first prey. But the survival instinct drilled into me by my father didn't completely fail. Remembering the baseball bat still gripped in my right hand, I tried to violently swing it backward to strike my captor.
But whoever was holding me was three steps ahead.
With agonizing ease, his other hand clamped onto my wrist, twisting my arm brutally behind my back until the pain forced me to drop the bat. It hit the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.
Keeping me entirely pinned and breathless, he began dragging my resisting body backward into a dark, secluded room.
I heard the heavy oak door shut, followed by the definitive, terrifying click of the lock turning.
