Dawn slaps me awake with the subtlety of a falling brick. First thought: at least something’s warmer than the Arctic. Second: if Elen snores one more time, I’m tossing her off this ledge. We’re perched on the narrowest strip of rock I’ve ever called “home”—one wrong move and it’s a fast trip down to “splat.”

  I try to stretch, but my shoulder seizes up, fire lancing down my arm. That wolf bite from the last trial? Still living rent-free in my nervous system. My thigh’s scab pulls with every shift, and for a second, I see stars—actual hallucination-level stars, not the poetic kind. Elen elbows me back to reality.

  “Rise and shine, boss,” she mutters, voice dry as desert sand. “You look like something the vultures dragged in.”

  “Thanks,” I rasp, “I was going for ‘cryptid chic.’” We’re both wrapped in the same wolf pelts we used to survive the Arctic, now sun-bleached and reeking of sweat, desperation, and, for some reason, boiled lizard.

  We pack up—if you can call shoving scraps of bone, wire, and one (1) highly questionable water pouch into a sled “packing.” Everything we own, we’ve made or stolen from the dead. The only thing that’s not falling apart is my stubbornness.

  We’re almost at the summit when my gut twists. Something’s wrong. The air’s too… green? I give Elen the silent “hold up” sign—two fingers, down, like Dad taught me. We crouch, pelts pulled tight, trying to blend in with the rust-red rock. (Pro tip: wolf pelt camouflage doesn’t work if you limp.)

  When we crest the ridge, I expect barren death. Instead? It’s a garden—Atreu-style, so dialed to eleven I almost laugh. There are translucent flowers pulsing like jellyfish, silvery succulents oozing dew, vines that breathe in and out like they’re waiting to sigh my name.

  “This is… not in the brochure,” I whisper.

  Elen flicks her thumbnail against her canine, her nervous tic. “If one of these things tries to pollinate me, I’m jumping.”

  Before I can conjure a comeback, movement catches my eye. A candidate—kid from House Mira, I think—stands at the edge, swaying like he’s drunk on sunlight. His voice cracks as he begs, “Come back. Please. I can’t—”

  He steps forward. The garden’s edge isn’t ground. It’s air.

  The sound when he lands is—well, let’s just say it’s a noise I’ll never unhear.

  I mutter, “Not all those bones were from the climb.” The chill in my voice is real, even in this greenhouse sauna.

  Elen lets out a brittle laugh. “I was really hoping we were done with death traps for a minute there.”

  We tie ourselves together with a rope made from braided wolf sinew and scavenged cord—my idea of a team-building exercise. Our wolf pelts go over our mouths and up our arms like DIY hazmat suits. Elen checks her knife, the one she made from a broken candidate’s blade.

  Elen gives the rope a skeptical tug, eyeing the garden. “You really think this is necessary? We look like idiots.”

  I shrug, looping the cord around my waist. “Two words, Elen: human leash. If one of us starts tripping balls on plant fumes, the other gets to yank them back before they end up on the menu. Or, you know, step off a cliff like gravity’s a suggestion.”

  She snorts, tying the knot with quick, sure hands. “If you try to drag me into a Venus flytrap’s mouth, I’m cutting this thing myself.” Her voice is dry, but her eyes keep flicking over the shifting foliage.

  “Deal. Just promise you’ll pull me out if I start hugging the shrubbery and calling it Mom.” I flash half a grin.

  Elen flicks her thumbnail against her tooth, grinning back. “No promises, Crimson. You get weird, you’re bait.”

  I tighten the knot, deadpan. “Teamwork makes the dream work. Or at least gives us a fighting chance of not dying alone.”

  She rolls her eyes and checks her knife again. “Let’s go, Captain Safety.” Elen scans the garden, then glances at me, her posture tense. “You think it’s the air, or is this what happens when you stare at pretty plants too long?”

  I don’t move—not yet. My heart’s jackhammering, my ankle throbs, and I can taste the metallic tang of adrenaline. The colors are so intense it hurts to look—violet blossoms, acid-green vines, petals that seem to pulse with my own panic. Some instinct says: pick wrong, and we’re fertilizer.

  Pulling my pelt tighter, I eye a flower that looks way too smug for something with petals. “If the air’s spiked, I want a refund. I’ve breathed enough toxins for one trial. But honestly? My money’s on these botanical supermodels.”

  Elen shakes her head, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Don’t get distracted by the aesthetics, Crimson. That’s how they get you.”

  “Hey, at least a cactus has boundaries,” I mutter, watching a vine inching closer.

  She smirks, blade ready in her hand. “Just don’t start naming the flowers.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  “No promises,” I shoot back, nudging her forward.

  We move, picking the least terrifying path. I limp into the foliage, Elen shadowing me, her grip on her knife white-knuckled. “Fine. But if I die, you’re stuck with all my emotional baggage.”

  Elen laughs quietly, eyes scanning, but her hand never leaves the rope.

  “So, tactical genius,” I mutter, “what do you think is on the other side of this botanical acid trip?”

  Elen flicks her thumbnail, smirking. “My money’s on sentient ferns that want to debate philosophy before they eat us.”

  “God, I hope she’s cute,” I mumble, and force a smirk. But my grip on the knife is white-knuckled.

  The first attack’s almost polite. A vine twitches—no breeze, no accident. It’s aiming.

  Elen’s voice snaps out, sharp as steel. “Aeliana. Don’t move.”

  I freeze, sweat prickling down my neck. The vine lashes out, wrapping my upper thigh with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for perverts and tax collectors.

  “Shit!” I snarl, trying to yank free, but it’s strong, tendrils worming for bare skin.

  Elen lunges in, teeth bared, hacking at the vine with her blade. “Motherfucker!” She slashes as more vines writhe up from the ground.

  “Get your ass moving!” she barks, yanking the rope hard enough to nearly pop my shoulder.

  I stumble, nearly face-planting into a patch of flowers. Vines snap at my legs, one catching my thigh and drawing blood.

  “Move, move, move!” Elen shouts, slashing another vine. “If these things eat me, I’m haunting your ass.”

  I limp faster, dragging Elen behind. “Get in line! My whole family’s already waiting!”

  My left leg buckles. Elen grabs me, yanking so hard the rope bites into my hip. Behind us, vines whip and snarl. One catches Elen’s arm; she spits a curse, slicing it away with a grunt.

  A vine yanks me down, face-first into the dirt. Pain explodes. “Fuck!” I groan.

  “Hold still!” Elen barks, slashing at the vines, her voice ragged. Sweat streaks her face as she fights to keep us both upright.

  The pain’s got me seeing stars and—oh, perfect—now I’m hallucinating. I see Lia. No, I feel her, right at the edge of the garden, half-hidden by those smug, carnivorous flowers. Not a memory, not a dream—Lia, as real as the agony in my leg, looking at me with those eyes that always made me do stupid shit.

  Elen’s voice cuts through, urgent. “Don’t quit on me, Crimson!” She slices another vine off my ankle, hands shaking.

  “Don’t!” I growl, to the hallucination, the vine, this whole godforsaken garden. “Not here. Not now.” My voice shakes, caught between rage and terror.

  The vine digs deeper. More vines stir, aiming for my wrists, my neck. Elen’s knife flashes, slicing the vine at my ankle, but it’s too late—my head is swimming. Elen grabs the rope and yanks, nearly dislocating my shoulder. “Run!” she shouts, boots skidding on the mossy stone.

  We sprint, or try to. My ankle’s on fire, my leg’s buckling, and every step is a gamble. Vines snap at us. Elen hacks at them, swearing under her breath, her blade flashing in the green light.

  The hallucination intensifies. Lia is running beside me, her hand brushing mine, her eyes full of hope and fear. “I’m here!” she calls. “I knew you’d find me!”

  For a moment, I believe. I reach out, my heart doing somersaults—because if this is real, I’d trade the world for it.

  Our fingers almost touch.

  Lia’s smile is pure sunlight. “I told you I’d always find you.” Her voice is music, and I’m drowning in it. “I love you,” I whisper. It feels like truth.

  “I love you too,” she says, tears in her eyes.

  A monstrous vine yanks Lia away, wrapping around her like a python. She screams, “No! They’re pulling me back!” She’s dragged into the garden’s core, vanishing in green shadows.

  I lose it. “NO! LET HER GO!” I howl, fighting Elen’s grip, clawing at the air. I’m not running anymore—I’m crawling back, desperate, hysterical. The rope digs into my waist, Elen’s anchor the only thing holding me here.

  Elen digs in, boots slipping, hands burning as she drags me bodily toward a shimmering pool at the garden’s edge. She’s yelling—my name, curses, maybe both—but I barely hear her through the roar in my ears.

  We lose our footing and tumble over a small precipice, plunging into the lake. The water is shockingly cold—actual water, a physical jolt that slams through me. The icy shock tears me back to reality—the hallucination is gone.

  I break down. Sobbing, gasping, clutching at my chest like I can hold the pain in. For a second, I almost wish the vines had finished me.

  The water’s magic—or poison—washes away the last of the illusion. Every stroke toward shore is a battle. My ankle is swelling, my shoulder’s useless, and my lungs ache from screaming.

  We drag ourselves onto the bank. The oasis is absurd—green, lush, a waterfall that shouldn’t exist. It’s the kind of place you’d expect in a hallucination, except I’m too tired to doubt it.

  I sob. It’s ugly and loud. Months of grief rip out of me, raw and wild. Elen’s hand lands on my shoulder—rough, scarred, real. She doesn’t hug me. She just anchors me, solid and steady.

  “She felt so real,” I choke out.

  Elen’s voice is gentler than usual. “Hey, it’s not your fault. These gardens—they’re built to cut deep.”

  I clutch Lia’s midnight stone, the only thing I have left. “They knew exactly how to hurt me. And I walked right into it.”

  “That’s the point,” Elen says. “The Trials aren’t just about surviving what’s outside. They want to see what you do when your own mind’s the enemy.”

  I force myself to stop crying. “If Lia’s alive, I’m going to find her. If she’s not…” My voice hardens. “Someone’s gonna pay.”

  Elen nods, no hesitation. “We’ll burn this place down together.”

  For a while, we just lie there, catching our breath, surrounded by impossible beauty and the ghosts that refuse to leave. My body aches—my ankle’s sprained, my shoulder’s wrecked, and my pride is somewhere at the bottom of that lake.

  Elen looks at me, hair wild, eyes blazing. “If you ever let a plant get the jump on you again, I’m going to personally kick your ass off this mountain.”

  I wheeze out a laugh, tasting blood. “Deal. Next time, I’m letting you go first.”

  She grins, shaking her head. “Good. I need a meat shield.”

  “Fuck off.”

  We patch ourselves up with moss, cactus pulp, and the last shreds of wolf pelt. Elen even manages to rig a splint for my ankle out of a sun-bleached root and some scavenged wire. It’s not pretty, but neither am I right now.

  We limp along, battered and half-laughing. “Think we get bonus points for style?” I manage, voice raw.

  Elen rolls her eyes, tugging at a cactus spine in her sleeve. “If style points count, we’re already dead, Team Unlikely.”

  I smirk. “Speak for yourself. I’m redefining disaster couture.”

  She shakes her head, giving me a little shove. “Let’s just not die before we get to the next round.”

  The oasis path beckons, a narrow trail winding through foliage that glows in the twilight. We gather our makeshift gear, check the rope between us, and limp forward—two disasters, held together by hope, spite, and a very questionable sense of humor.

  Tomorrow, we keep moving. Because quitting isn’t in my DNA, and I’ve got way too much left to prove. The Trials will try to break us again. But tonight, the only thing I fear is what I’ll see when I close my eyes.

  Bring on the next nightmare. I’m ready—sort of.