The Glass Throne

Sera

Blood runs down my forehead before I even realize I’m cut. My lungs burn and my muscles scream. The obstacle course stretches before me. Three hundred students are watching, phones out, recording everything. Somewhere behind me, Cassie’s ragged breathing echoes.

Ten seconds separate us. She’s been ahead the entire course. I let her think she has the upper hand.

But that’s about to change.

FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER

“Final competitors, take your positions.”

The announcement echoes across Ravencrest’s main quad, amplified through speakers mounted on Gothic stone buildings that have stood since 1847. Afternoon light slants through October clouds, casting everything in shades of grey and gold. The air smells like wet leaves and expensive cologne. Three hundred students packed into viewing areas, phones already out, ready to make this moment viral.

Five of us line up at the starting gate.

The final five of the Gauntlet.

We began with ten challengers three weeks ago. Challenge One eliminated three through a brutal written exam. Graduate-level questions on history, politics, economics, and philosophy. Challenge Two took out two more through a fencing tournament that left Madison Porter with a sprained wrist and Ivy Chen with a black eye.

Now: the final five. The obstacle course. Winner takes the Crown of Glass and becomes Queen of the Court.

The rest? Thank you for playing.

Cassie Jameson stands to my right. Last year’s Queen is defending her crown with the desperation of someone who has everything to lose. Blonde hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Athletic build from years of competitive tennis. Jameson family legacy at Ravencrest spans four generations. Old money, older grudges, oldest expectations. She’s been glaring at me for three weeks straight.

To my left: Riley Hayes. Junior. Quiet but shrewd. A dark horse no one expected to make it this far. She’s lean, fast, smart. Earned her place through strategy, not brute force.

Madison Porter stretches at position four. Senator’s daughter. Ruthless. Willing to do anything including sabotaging other competitors’ equipment to win.

Ivy Chen takes position five. Brilliant. Calculating. Family owns half of San Francisco’s tech sector. She approaches competition like a business acquisition methodical, data-driven, efficient.

And then there’s me.

Sera Alaric. The new girl. The exchange student. The diplomat’s daughter who appeared six weeks ago and disrupted everything. If only they knew.

The viewing platforms are packed. Students clustered by year and social hierarchy. Freshmen in the back. Seniors closest to the action. Faculty in a separate section, pretending they’re not as invested as the students in this deeply unofficial tradition.

And elevated above everyone else: the Court of Glass.

Twelve members sitting on a raised platform draped in black and silver—Ravencrest’s colors. The ruling body of this school. Twelve students who control everything that matters: social status, event planning, reputation, futures. They’re not elected. They’re chosen. Proven. Earned.

At the center of the twelve sits Evren Blackwell.

The King.

Dark hair slightly mussed. Sharp jawline. Storm grey eyes that haven’t left me since I walked onto the quad twenty minutes ago. He’s wearing a custom Brioni blazer. Probably $4,000 worth of Italian wool over the standard uniform. Patek Philippe watch on his wrist catches the afternoon light. Another $80,000 of Swiss engineering marking time while he watches us prepare to destroy ourselves for his entertainment.

He leans forward slightly. Interested.

His second-in-command, Kieran Matthews, murmurs something. Evren doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look away from me.

Good. Let him watch.

Let him see exactly what he’s getting himself into by forcing me into this competition.

“Competitors.” Headmaster Blackwell’s voice booms through speakers. Evren’s father. Distinguished. Authoritative. Standing in the faculty section wearing academic robes like this is Cambridge instead of an American boarding school. “The rules are simple. First to cross the finish line becomes Queen of the Court of Glass. The rest...” He pauses for effect. “Your time ends here.”

Dramatic. Very Ravencrest.

Three hundred students lean forward. Phones raised. This will be trending worldwide before we’re halfway through.

I scan the crowd one more time. Looking for him.

Gabriel Marchand. My French teacher. Except he’s not really my teacher. He’s my royal guard. Assigned by my mother to watch over me during this “gap year” she still doesn’t entirely approve of.

He’s in the back. Arms crossed. Expression neutral. But I can read his body language: Don’t get hurt. Don’t expose yourself. Don’t do anything that reveals who you really are.

Too late for that, Gabriel. I’m about to use every bit of royal training Mother spent seventeen years drilling into me.

Sorry. Not sorry.

“On your marks.”

I settle into position. Muscles coiled. Years of athletic preparation disguised as “hobbies” for a future Queen. Equestrian training to appear graceful while controlling a thousand-pound animal. Fencing to build reflexes and strategic thinking. Dance to perfect balance and posture. Tactical fitness hidden inside “wellness programs.”

All of it designed to make me appear delicate while being deadly.

Mother would be horrified if she knew I’m using palace training for a high school competition.

I glance right. Cassie’s face is set. Determined. She’s not giving up her crown without a war.

I glance left. Riley looks nervous but ready.

Ahead: four obstacles visible from the starting line. Wall. Monkey bars. Cargo net. And in the distance, partially obscured by morning fog rolling across the grounds, the rope climb.

Thirty feet straight up.

That’s where this race will really be decided.

“Get set.”

I breathe. Center myself. Feel the ground beneath my feet. Wet grass, slightly muddy from last night’s rain.

From the platform, I feel his eyes. Evren. Cataloging every micro-expression. Every movement. Like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve.

You want to see who I am? Watch.

BANG.

The starting gun fires.

We explode forward.

OBSTACLE ONE: THE WALL

Twelve feet of vertical wall. Solid wood. No handholds. No rope. Just height and your ability to overcome it.

First major filter. Anyone without upper body strength or technique stops here.

Cassie hits it first. She’s fast. Powerful. Takes three running steps and jumps, catches the top edge, pulls herself up in one violent motion. Over. Gone.

Riley’s second. More technique than power. She uses momentum, swings one leg up, hooks it over the top. Scrambles over. Competent.

Madison’s right behind her. Struggles more. Her sprained wrist from the fencing tournament hasn’t fully healed. She makes it over but it’s ugly.

I hit the wall third.

Three running steps. Jump. Catch the top with both hands.

For a split second, I hang there. Arms extended. Bodyweight suspended.

Years of holding Arabian stallions at full gallop. Years of formal court dances where partners lift you and you must trust your core strength to stay graceful. Years of “fitness training” that were really preparation for exactly this moment.

I pull. One smooth motion. Up and over. Land in a crouch on the other side. Roll. Absorb impact. Up again.

Textbook.

Behind me, I hear Ivy struggling. Grunting. Trying again.

The crowd roars.

I don’t look back. Don’t have time.

Cassie’s already twenty feet ahead. Running toward the monkey bars.

I follow. Long strides. Controlled breathing.

From the platform, Evren is still watching. I can feel it. His attention like physical weight.

Four of us left. Ivy won’t make it over that wall. She’s done.

OBSTACLE TWO: MONKEY BARS

Forty feet of suspended metal bars over a mud pit. Standard grip. Standard spacing. Nothing fancy except the distance.

This is where upper body strength separates contenders from pretenders.

Cassie reaches it first. Jumps. Catches the first bar. Starts swinging. Fast. Aggressive. Each swing is powerful but consuming energy.

Riley’s right behind. More measured. Careful. She’s lighter, which helps. But I can see her arms shaking already.

Madison hits it third. One swing. Two. Three. Four.

Her wrist gives out.

She falls. Hits the mud with a wet splat. The crowd gasps. She’s out.

Three left.

I jump. Catch the first bar. Cold metal against my torn palms already bleeding from the wall’s rough edge.

Ignore it. Swing.

The trick isn’t strength. It’s momentum. It’s rhythm. It’s physics.

Twelve years of formal dance training. Understanding how to use your body weight. How to flow instead of fight.

Swing. Release. Catch. Swing. Release. Catch.

Riley falls at bar twenty. Into the mud. Exhausted.

Two left. Just Cassie and me.

I’m gaining on her. She’s burning too much energy. I can see her arms shaking now. See her pace slowing.

But she’s still ahead.

From the platform, I sense movement. Glance up for half a second.

Evren is standing now. On his feet. Watching. Kieran says something. Evren ignores him. Eyes locked on me.

Our gazes meet across forty feet of space and autumn air.

Something passes between us. Recognition. Challenge. Heat.

His expression doesn’t change. But his hands are gripping the platform railing. Knuckles white.

Interested now, Your Majesty?

I reach the last bar. Swing. Let go. Land on the far platform.

Cassie’s already ten feet ahead, running toward the cargo net.

But she’s tired. I can see it in her stride. The way her shoulders are slumping.

And I’m just getting started.

OBSTACLE THREE: THE CARGO NET

Twenty-foot rope net. Climb up. Over. Down.

Simple in concept. Brutal in execution. Because we’re not fresh anymore. We’re tired. Bleeding. Arms screaming.

This is where champions are made or broken.

Cassie hits it first. Starts climbing fast. Too fast. Sloppy. Hands grabbing without checking grip. Feet slipping on wet rope.

She’s panicking. She knows I’m close. Can probably hear my footsteps.

I reach the net five seconds behind her.

Don’t rush. Don’t panic. Don’t waste energy.

This is where the race ends. Not at the finish line. Right here.

I climb. Methodical. Steady. Each handhold checked. Each foothold secure.

Conserving energy while she wastes hers on fear.

Cassie’s halfway up when she looks down. Sees me climbing below her. Sees how controlled my movements are compared to her desperation.

Her eyes widen. She just realized: I’ve been pacing myself.

She speeds up. Hands flying. Feet scrambling.

Her left hand slips—

She catches herself on the rope. Barely. Hangs there for two seconds. Gasping.

That’s all I need.

I pass her at fifteen feet.

“What—” she gasps.

I don’t respond. Don’t have breath to waste on words.

The crowd is going insane. Screaming. Chanting. I can’t make out individual words. Just noise. Deafening.

I reach the top of the net. Twenty feet up. The quad spreads below me. Three hundred faces upturned. Phones everywhere.

One face in particular.

Evren. Standing at the platform edge now. Hands gripping the railing so hard I can see the tension in his shoulders even from here.

Staring at me like I’m the only person in existence.

Our eyes lock.

And for one heartbeat, the world goes silent.

Then I’m over the net. Descending the far side. Fast but controlled.

Cassie reaches the top five seconds after me. Starts down. But her arms are shaking. She’s running on fumes and stubbornness.

I hit the ground. Cassie drops beside me two seconds later.

We’re neck and neck again. Both running. Both exhausted. Both determined.

One obstacle left.

The rope climb.

Thirty feet. Straight up. Final push.

I can see it through the morning fog. One thick rope hanging from a metal frame. Bell at the top. Ring it, then drop and sprint for the finish line fifty feet away.

This is it. Everything comes down to this.

Cassie’s faster on flat ground. If we tie at the rope, she’ll beat me to the finish.

Which means I need to win at the rope.

Decisively.