overseen by the audience who’ll then choose my future headliner.”
Daron stiffened. “Mentor round?”
“We can’t have the judges sitting behind a table the whole time, can we?” chortled Erasmus. “The mayor and myself aside, you four will pair up with the final four competitors to craft their grand finale. Imagine how fun it will be, to see you take the stage once more!”
Fun. Just imagining the last time he’d been on stage almost sent him fleeing. The other three judges, retired much longer than he, appeared just as displeased. No one hung up their top hats for good only to don them again.
“We’ll discuss it more later.” The mayor eyed them all in reassurance. “Since it’s still a ways off, we’re open to change. Right, Rayne?”
A long pause stretched in the air before Erasmus straightened his gaudy orange bow tie, tight-lipped. “Of course,” he said. “Though, before we move forward, I do have one simple request that I’m afraid cannot be negotiated.”
The proprietor slid from his coat pocket a narrow scroll of purple-tinted paper that unrolled all the way to the floor. “The Conquerors Contract.”
The length made Daron’s stomach drop. From where he sat, the lighting only bore glimmers of the fine print and text blocks spanning the scroll. At the bottom, by his feet, he found a row of blank lines. One for each participant.
“Excuse me?” Mayor Eilin snatched the paper from Erasmus’s hand, squinting hard at the text. “Y-you said nothing of a contract.”
“Really, have you fallen that out of touch with the world that you’ve forgotten the basic principles of business? Contracts exist for a reason. For records and protection. Reassurance,” Erasmus listed, nonchalant. “I never start a venture without one. All my performers had to sign as soon as they entered my troupe. It’s standard procedure.”
“Yes, but what’s the catch?” The mayor frantically skimmed. “I’ll have to take time going over this—”
“Honestly, Eilin, it only says our party here agrees to play and will stay for the duration of the game. Forgive me if I’d rather not take your word for it.”
“Then why is the contract so bloody long?”
“After much experience, I am very thorough with every scenario. Cheaters I can stand, because they make things interesting. But nothing ruins a good show more than deserters who think running is a better fate than losing.” Erasmus scoffed. “That, I think, we can all agree on.”
Every muscle in Daron tensed. He hadn’t planned on staying in Glorian longer than he needed to. “And if we don’t sign?”
Silence hardened the air, before a long, expectant sigh.
“I’m sparing no expense for this. The least you can do is spare a signature.” Erasmus, a businessman to the core, tilted his shrewd gaze at the mayor. “Or the show won’t go on. And you’ll have to explain to your people why they’ll no longer have a city when it’s reduced to nothing but a block of ice in a cursed forest.”
Mayor Eilin appeared more stricken than before. Face pale, frozen in thought. Daron almost felt bad for the man carrying the deadweight of Glorian on his shoulders, trying in vain to revive it.
The candles flickered, as if moved by the sweeping chill, when the mayor finally exhaled and thrust an open palm toward Erasmus. “I assume you brought a pen?”
11
Kallia had only ever signed her name in journals. She’d filled every line, every space and corner, until the strokes and loops of her name drowned all the pages within stacks of diaries. All practice for the hurried autographs for her crowded audiences one day.
She’d perfected her signature so many times that the moment she needed to sign for her place in the game, it didn’t feel real.
“I’m all about doing whatever’s necessary, boss,” Aaros whispered. “But even you have to admit this seems horribly—”
“I know.” Her fingertip traced the the scrawls of contestants and judges already lining the bottom of the contract. “But if I don’t sign, there is no show.”
And no show meant no home, no money, no future.
Nothing.
Jaw tight, she penned her name on the next empty line. The finality of it pricked at her with a heavy, sinking weight. Still, the sight of her looped letters gave way to an odd surge of glee that pierced through it all.
No turning back now.
“Now that the boring business part is taken care of…” Erasmus rolled up the scroll once all names were signed. He slid it back into his pocket with a clap. “No one enjoys a silent meal. Eilin, you’re