Clyde acted like nothing had happened.
As if yesterday's outburst had never existed.
I didn't bring it up either.
There were more important things.
The next trial.
From the tension in his shoulders, from the way his face had gone deliberately blank—it was obvious.
He was worried.
So was I.
The first thing that felt wrong—
was the time.
The trials usually started after noon.
Today, we were expected at nine in the morning, at a small grassy clearing behind the main building.
"I wonder what they've got planned today," Robert muttered as the place came into view.
"I'd like to know too," I said, unable to hide the tension in my voice.
Kristina and Torent met us at the hotel entrance.
The elites walked ahead, speaking quietly.
Both tense.
Kristina kept glancing back at us—at me and Robert—
like she was afraid she was seeing us for the last time.
At least alive.
The clearing was small.
More like a stage than an arena.
Simple benches.
No booths.
No spectators—just aristocrats.
Just judges.
Just the ones whose candidates were still alive.
Twelve of us stood in a line, dressed in our academy colors.
Across from us—eighteen aristocrats.
Marta at one end.
Samir at the other.
I glanced down the line—
and went cold.
How did I forget?
How did I get so caught up in everything else that I pushed him out completely?
"Hey… Matthew," I muttered under my breath. "Where's Nick?"
Wauzer stood to my right.
"He's out. Medical," Matthew replied quietly. "Didn't you hear?"
"No. What happened?"
Matthew exhaled shortly.
"Lucky. That's what happened. Otherwise he'd be dead."
I wanted details.
Needed them.
But not here.
Not now.
At least he was alive.
Away from this.
"Welcome to the third trial!" Samir's voice cut through my thoughts. "This stage will last exactly twenty-four hours. Our audience will follow everything live—on every available screen."
"This is a first," Marta added brightly. "Which makes it even more exciting. And this time—not only our candidates will participate… but our honored judges as well."
A ripple went through the line.
"You want the rules," Samir continued. "But first—we need five judges who will not participate. Volunteers?"
Bortsov raised his hand immediately.
"I'll sit this one out. Let the younger ones entertain themselves."
Next—
my mother.
Something in me eased.
I didn't think the trial would be safe—
but I still didn't want her involved.
Marcus Holivan didn't move.
His gaze found mine.
Cold.
Sharp.
Full of something that made my stomach tighten.
That worried me more.
Much more.
Gordinstrit declined.
Then another man—around my father's age—raised his hand. Detached. Disinterested. Watching Marcus more than anything else.
The woman beside him followed.
"One more," Marta said.
A pause.
Then—
"Well," a calm voice spoke up, almost amused, "if everyone is so eager to participate… I suppose I'll step aside. Let the younger ones have their fun."
I hadn't even noticed him before.
Gray suit.
Worn.
Unremarkable.
Thin. Slight. Forgettable.
More like someone's grandfather than a man of influence.
"Mr. Sokrati," Bortsov added dryly. "Highest in status—if not in age."
"Oh, come on, Gleb," the man chuckled. "You've got me by four months."
"Well then," Samir said, clapping his hands, "twelve judges remain!"
"And now—the rules," Marta continued. "I hope everyone is already connected to the broadcast?"
She glanced upward.
I followed her gaze.
Something hovered above us.
Like a mechanical eye.
Watching.
Recording.
Focused.
"Let's begin," Samir prompted.
"Yes," Marta smiled. "This time, the twelve remaining candidates will act as true protectors."
She gestured toward the judges.
"And the ones they will protect—are you."
A pause.
"Each judge will select one candidate. For the next twenty-four hours, you will leave this complex together. Do as you wish."
Her smile widened slightly.
"But by eleven tomorrow—you return here."
Silence.
"The objective is simple."
Another beat.
"For twenty-four hours—you are a personal bodyguard."
A girl stepped forward with a cup filled with wooden sticks.
Each judge drew one.
Checked the number.
"Who goes first?" Marta asked.
I looked up—
and met my father's eyes.
He raised his stick.
Black.
Number one.
Everything inside me dropped.
No.
No—
This was it.
There was no way out of this.
"Mr. Holivan," Marta said carefully, "please choose your candidate."
For some reason—
I looked at Clyde.
He was already watching me.
He knew.
He understood.
"I choose Alan Holivan."
Silence.
Heavy.
Wrong.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
Even Marta froze.
An aristocrat choosing his own son's servant—
that alone was enough.
But this—
this was something else entirely.
"Special… step forward," Samir said at last, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.
I moved.
Or tried to.
My leg lifted—
—and stopped.
"Excuse me," a calm voice cut in.
Blocking.
Of course.
"Don't you think that would be… inappropriate?" he said smoothly.
A faint smile.
Too controlled.
"A father choosing his own son."
His gaze slid toward me.
"Personal ties tend to compromise objectivity."
A pause.
"This hardly qualifies as a fair trial—for anyone involved."