Read the first chapter of the brand-new sizzling romantasy and magical dark academia adventure, The Ordeals by Rachel Greenlaw. Publishing 7th October 2025.
Old Magic. New power. A contest to die for.
Sophia DeWinter has been bound to her cruel uncle, the Collector since he exacted a blood bond from her as a child.
When she learns of Killmarth, an elite academy for magic wielders outside of the Collector’s control, she grabs it as her only chance to break free.
But to attend Killmarth, she must pass their entrance test – the deadly challenge called the Crucible…
Don’t forget to enter our Crucible competition to be in with the chance of winning a limited edition proof here!
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Chapter 1
The Pickled Gargoyle
On a Thursday afternoon, around three o’clock, the Pickled Gargoyle is alive with scholars. I wander in as if on a whim, stepping towards the bar as I discreetly eye the room and the gathering of flushed faces. They’re clutching tankards of frothing, ruby rhyn, delivering opinions in drawling nasal tones and I realise, the brand of scholar I seek isn’t here yet. I signal to Pewter, the barman and he half turns, revealing an array of drinks at his back. Honey-gold toquay in glinting, chilled bottles, a blackcurrant variety steeped to taste like autumn, and my drink of choice, forest-green velvane, smoky and silky smooth, with a lingering taste of toffees.
Pewter raises an eyebrow, grabbing an octagonal glass, and pours two fingers of velvane before sliding it my way. ‘Not your usual haunt at this hour, Sophia.’
I pick up the glass and take my first sip, the feel of warmth and silk slipping deliciously down my throat. ‘Just came to see my favourite barman.’
‘Liar.’
I grin, sliding over a floren note and he tops up my glass. ‘Yours is the best velvane in the city?’
He chuckles. ‘Still a lie, but I’ll take it.’
‘Any wielders here today?’ I ask casually, taking another sip as I survey the bar.
Pewter slings a cloth from his shoulder, wiping away a puddle of spilled rhyn. ‘None yet. I heard though—’
‘Yes?’
He frowns. ‘That Killmarth entrance exam is soon. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a few hopefuls in here today. A round for courage, you know? It always happens towards the end of September.’
I pass him another floren note, and he adds a generous pour into my glass. His attention is snagged by a woman asking for toquay and I move away from the bar, threading my way through the scholars. Pewter told me exactly what I needed to hear. I’ve been tracking down information since I heard of the college, Killmarth, nine months ago. Perhaps today, at last, I’m in the right place to learn more. And if the entrance exam happens each year towards the end of September, they’re cutting it fine. It’s already the 28th.
Pewter puts an alchemist-made record on the music amplifier and the whole space fills with the soft crooning notes of a female singer from unseen speakers. It’s busier than even a few moments ago, but still none of the scholars are the kind I’m looking for. Too puffed up on poetry and self-importance and none of them, as far as I can tell, wield magic. I swirl the dark green drink in my glass, stepping carefully around their elbows, the frothing rhyn dripping from their tankards. There’s a young woman practically boxed in by two of them, men yapping about their interpretation of the Attestations of the gods, trying to impress her, like their opinions are the only ones that matter. Our eyes meet as I brush past them and she’s got that look, glazed with boredom. Like she wants to escape.
That’s when I twist my hand, like I’m twisting a doorknob, and the bar cuts to darkness. For those two scholars anyway. I hold the illusion, clenching my jaw, even as the telltale headache begins to nag at my temples. The young woman grabs the opportunity, with them swearing and fumbling, and slips away.
I release their minds from the illusion, and they blink at each other, seeing their quarry has bolted. Allowing myself a small smile, I sink into the cushioned seat at a table in one of the alcoves at the back.
And I wait.
I’ve trained for moments like this my whole life, blending with a crowd, waiting for a mark the Collector wants, or someone I have a keen interest in. For the past few months since I learned of Killmarth, I’ve gleaned that it is a place for magic wielders to train. And best of all, fully funded by the Crown, the rulers of Kellend, which to a person like me, means it is possible. But it wasn’t until recently that I overheard a snippet that changed everything.
When you walk through the gates of Killmarth College, all outside magical interference falls away. No one can follow you through their wards, no matter how strong a wielder. I’ve been hunting for more information ever since and, with whisperings that the next intake of hopefuls is about to be chosen, I’m ready to take my place amongst them.
Sipping my velvane, I toy with the silver bracelet on my left wrist, the one that shackles me to the Collector. My uncle, my boss, my keeper. The man who’ll be impatiently waiting even now for me to deliver the vial of blood from today’s assignment. And just as I’m about to give up on this bar and move on to the next one, I hear two voices at the next table.
‘You need to stop,’ one voice says, insistence cutting his tone in a way that makes me want to listen. As the tables lining the back wall are set into alcoves, they can’t see me, but as I sink back into the cushioned seat, toying with the cool octagonal planes of my glass, I can hear them perfectly.
‘. . . just have to get through it. At Killmarth, you’ll suss out the competition.’
‘Glad you have faith in me.’
‘Just be smart at the Crucible tonight. Don’t slip up, then you’ll be fine. Place practically guaranteed.’
I nearly choke on my drink. Could it be . . . is the Killmarth entrance exam tonight? I’ve heard the word ‘Crucible’ before but hadn’t found the link until now. Hope blooms inside me, my fingertips tingling as I clutch my glass. At last, I’ve found the kind of hopeful scholar I’m looking for. I lean towards them, angling my head so I can better hear over the noise of the bar.
‘You should come back, join me there,’ the other voice says quietly, a male voice, low and melodic, weaving under the harsh, clipped voices of the freshers surrounding our tables.
‘You know I can’t, not yet. My work in Theine has been . . . challenging. All-consuming.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Just do what you’re supposed to. Get your place at Killmarth, train your magic. It’s what your family want.’
‘And yours?’
There’s a sharp bark of a laugh then a sliding sound, before one of the men stands and I look away, tapping my fingers against my glass. ‘My family don’t come into this – you know that. Good luck tonight. Don’t get yourself killed.’
I glance up just in time to see the back of his head of dark hair and a tailored jacket as he walks past the bar, Pewter giving him a particularly longing look before the young man sweeps out. This is my chance, my only chance to find out where the Killmarth entrance exam is held and insert myself amongst the hopeful scholars undertaking it. I slide forward in my seat, waiting for the exact moment the other young man with the melodic voice stands and moves forward, so I can bump into him.
‘Sorry!’ I say, empty glass in hand as I blink up at him, careful to keep my expression startled, doe-like.
He’s frowning, as though deep in thought, but as his gaze slides over me, the frown falls away. Surprise throws me off kilter as I take all of him in. He’s gorgeous. All dark brown hair and soft brown eyes, mouth and cheeks slightly flushed, a rugged quality to his features. There’s nothing manicured about him, like he might not fit in a standard sort of college for learning. He looks more suited to a battlefield.
He’s wearing what most of the other scholars are in this bar, a white shirt and slacks, but somehow on him, they fit like a disguise he’s thrown on. As though he’s trying to blend in, just like I am. He’s adopted the appearance of a brooding scholar, but as he pushes his hair back from his forehead, gaze sweeping over me, I can’t help noticing the way his muscles bunch underneath that white shirt and my treacherous heart flips. No scholar I’ve ever met is this buff. ‘My fault. I wasn’t looking.’ Then his eyes drop to my glass. ‘Going to the bar?’
‘Well, I was just leaving, but maybe . . .’
‘What are you drinking?’ he asks, leaning in so he can hear me over the shrieks of a nearby group. ‘The least I can do is buy you a drink for nearly knocking you flying. Velvane?’
I chuckle and twirl my hair around a finger. ‘Maybe I’ll have just one more, if you’ll join me.’
He hesitates for a heartbeat then nods. ‘Love to. My friend had to leave, and it’s left me at a loose end for a while.’
‘Well, I can tie that up for you,’ I say with a small shrug. ‘Lead the way.’ He smiles, placing his hand on my elbow to steer us through the groups of scholars to the bar, then his hand moves to my lower back, sending a trail of heat across my skin. Now this . . . this is someone I could lose myself in. Someone to drown in and forget what I do, who I am, if only for a few hours. And if it wasn’t so pressing, if I didn’t need information from this man so badly, I’d happily while away an evening with him. But today, he’s my mark and I am a huntress.
Taller than me, he leans past, signalling for two more drinks and I imagine Pewter’s mouth becoming a thin, unimpressed line as he pours them out and swipes the floren note this stranger places on the bar beside me. I can’t take my eyes off him. He smells of silky velvane and woodsmoke and something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on, something rich and intoxicating.
‘We could grab a table again at the back. It’s kind of crowded by the bar . . .’ he murmurs in my ear and I allow him to guide me back through the groups of scholars, again with his hand on my lower back, to one of the tables in an alcove and a bench seat, only just wide enough for two.
I slip in beside him, tapping my glass against his and remind myself to stay focused. ‘Salutar.’
‘Salutar.’
Not missing a beat, I know how this goes, I brush my hair behind my ear, running my fingers down my throat. His eyes trace the movement, turning dark and molten as he swallows, angling his body towards mine. The faintest thrill of lightning crackles in my chest, warming my entire body as I lick my lips. I line up the key information I need to coax from him in my mind, about the Crucible, where it’s being held, and about Killmarth. If I’m careful, he won’t even realise what he’s given me. ‘Are you a scholar too?’
‘Not like this lot,’ he says, indicating the now packed bar with a slight wince. ‘But yes, a hopeful scholar, I guess you could say.’
‘Oh?’ I shift slightly, sipping my drink. ‘In the city?’
‘Not here, no.’ He says and grins at me. His mouth dips to the shell of my ear and I feel rather than hear his next words. ‘Killmarth College, a place for magic wielders.’
‘So you’re a wielder,’ I say, all wide-eyed and breathy, reaching out to run a finger, feather light along his jaw. Those soft brown eyes darken to chips of charcoal and I know I’ve captured him. ‘How did you . . . get a place there? I’ve heard it’s really hard to get in.’
He moves his leg against mine, as though adjusting to better listen to me, and the press of his thigh on my own sends a flush of heat straight to my core. Clearly, he knows how to play the game too, although if I play this right, he won’t even realise we’re playing different games until I’ve won. ‘I haven’t got a place yet. There’s an entrance exam, shall we say? Tonight. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be drinking before it, I guess.’ He shrugs with a grin.
‘You seem like the kind of person who can take a risk,’ I say resting my head on my hand so the caramel waves of my hair fall over my shoulder. His eyes trace the movement, then slowly sweep back to mine. ‘Is the entrance exam . . . difficult?’
‘Well, kind of.’ He sips his drink, watching me over the rim of the glass. ‘But it’s the best college in Kellend to train your magic.’
‘Fascinating,’ I breathe, as I tiptoe my fingers along his arm, admiring the swell of his bicep before looking back at him. This is more detail than I’ve found in months. The mere scraps I’d gathered before about Killmarth, listening closely on assignments for the Collector, or hanging around public lectures on magic are nothing compared to what he’s giving me now. He’s a gold mine. But before I ask more about the Crucible, I need to be sure. Unconsciously, my hand strays to the bracelet on my wrist, the one the Collector put there. The one that binds me to him. ‘You must be such a strong wielder. What happens when you get there?’
He angles his body even further, leaning on the table with his forearm. Now it’s just us in this small space, the rest of the bar, the scholars seeming to drop away. ‘Well, Killmarth has wards, powerful ones. They measure your magic, and strip any outside magic away, except your own. You can’t trick your way in. No one but a hopeful, a scholar or a professor can enter. So, you do have to be . . . really strong.’ He reaches out, fingers fluttering over my jawline, tracing the curve of my neck and, despite myself, a coil of heat unfurls inside me, the toffee scent of velvane and woodsmoke hovering between us. ‘And this is my last night in the city for some time. In fact, I’ve only got a few hours before the entrance exam begins.’
‘Ah,’ I say, pulling a face as I craft my next lie. So close. I’m so, so close to getting everything I need from him. ‘Well, I kind of have somewhere to be soon . . . Do you have time tomorrow, after this entrance exam?’
He shakes his head slowly, regretfully. ‘It starts at midnight, then after, if it all works out, I’ll have to leave.’
‘Maybe I could meet you before, nearby. Where is it?’ I ask, running a finger over my bottom lip, so his focus stays there, and doesn’t dwell on the questions I’m asking, the information I’m extracting, drop by drop. I don’t want to push it or make him suspicious.
‘It’s this place called Alabaster House, not far from here, but I have to prepare . . . a pity you have to leave soon. Is it for work? What do you do?’
‘Oh, it’s boring really,’ I lie. ‘Just a city job gathering information.’
His gaze intensifies. ‘I can’t imagine anything about you being described as boring.’
I smile, leaning in to close the last few inches between us and place my octagonal glass firmly on the table. I’ve got all I want out of him. I know the location, the time, and finally, I’ve had the confirmation I needed about Killmarth. Victory is so close, I can taste it, I can feel it, and it takes all of my carefully trained restraint to tamp it down, to seem regretful. I want to ask him how he’s preparing for it, but I don’t want to seem too obvious. I’ve got a few hours, there’s time, and I can’t leap up now and leave. Besides, maybe I like this stranger. Maybe I could linger a little longer.
Maybe I want him to kiss me. ‘So does this count as prep for this entrance exam?’
He grins and shakes his head. ‘Probably not the prep I should be doing.’
‘Oh?’ I ask softly, edging tantalisingly closer.
‘But this is far more interesting.’ His gaze dips to my mouth as he closes that final inch between us, then his eyes meet mine, searching for approval.
‘Let me make it even more…interesting.’ I murmur against his lips as they meet mine. Feather-light at first, the softest brush that sends a shiver of delight all through me. He tastes delicious. Smoky and sweet, an enticing elixir that makes me instantly light-headed, like he’s my first taste of the finest golden toquay.
His hand slips round my back, drawing me into him until our bodies are pressed together, and my senses are consumed by his touch, his skin, his intoxicating scent. His hand moves up my back, fingers threading through my hair, pulling me tighter, deepening the kiss, and I moan softly into his mouth as his tongue flicks against mine. I run my own hands over those powerful arms, feeling the shift of his muscles. I’m sinking into him, tumbling, drawn like a moth to a flame, heat sparking deep in my core, my need for him beginning to pulse. But even still, it’s my mind that’s on fire. All he just said, everything he imparted, the information about Killmarth College, the Crucible . . .
Killmarth has wards, powerful ones. They measure your magic, and strip any magic away, except your own . . .
I press myself a little harder against him, enjoying the feel of him, his skin, his touch, but my thoughts are exploding, calculating, assessing. The bracelet even now is a whispering warning, shivering against my left wrist. I’ve tried cutting it. Heating it, twisting it, tearing at it. But it’s bound to me just as I’m bound to the Collector, growing heavier and heavier the further I have strayed before from the city, the whispering warning against my wrist becoming weighty and thick as rope.
I’d given up all hope. There seemed to be no way, no possibility of ever . . . but this is my way out, I’m sure of it. I commit the place of this entrance exam to memory, Alabaster House, and the time, midnight. Could I? Would I be able to scrape through with the illusion I can wield?
I break away from him, slightly breathless, and reach for my drink. Then I toss back the dregs before winking at him. His mouth is all flushed and swollen, eyes glittering with the promise of more, and it takes all of me to wrench myself away. He would have been one of the best distractions in some time. ‘I really do have to go,’ I say, steeping my voice in husky regret. ‘It’s been fun, though. Nice meeting you.’
‘So soon?’ Desire ebbs away on his features as I rise, tucking my blouse back into place, wiping at the corners of my mouth. ‘Without even telling me your name?’
His hair is all mussed, the top button of his shirt undone. He’s leaning back in the seat like some reclining god and my breath stutters. He’s beautiful in a lethal sort of way, with his come-to-bed eyes, those high cheekbones, the way his shirt pulls across the planes of his chest. At any other time, I would have gladly fallen into him, spent the night wrapped in his arms, the contours of our bodies melding . . . but I have things to do. Maybe if this all pans out, I’ll see him again at Killmarth and we can finish what we started today. ‘I got what I wanted,’ I say.
He exhales, watching me with those dark, glittering eyes. ‘Perhaps I did too.’ For a heartbeat, I wonder what he means. But with a final smouldering glance over my shoulder, I walk towards the door and leave the Pickled Gargoyle, waving goodbye to Pewter on my way out. As I hurry through the afternoon streets of the city, back to the antiques shop, my home, I know I have one more lie to spin. A final goodbye to make. And a Crucible to prepare myself for. My fingers flex over the silver bracelet and for the very first time, hope ignites like a flame in my chest.
*****
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