The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2)

of the cave.
“Do you want the treasure?” whispers Vitelotte.
“No,” I whisper back. “But I don’t want it falling into the hands of Ingrid Strab.”
She grunts her agreement. “There’s another bottle of Quickburn in my backpack. What do you say?”
I still owe the production assistants for tampering with my glider and arranging the ligers. It’s also time to turn Queen Damascena’s rage elsewhere.
A smile curls my lips. “Let’s see what they make of this failed challenge in the Lifestyle Channel.”
Vitelotte huffs a laugh.
When there’s no sign of the girls returning, Vitelotte rifles through her backpack and pulls out the full and empty bottles of QuickBurn.
Excitement ripples through my insides. She’s making a fire bottle. On one of the few Red Runner youth cell meetings Carolina ran, she taught us how to create these weapons in preparation for the revolution.
Vitelotte hands me both bottles then reaches into another pack and pulls out Gaia’s bible. Its pages are made of a thick parchment that won’t burn as quickly as paper or make the bottle explode before it reaches its target. I open the full QuickBurn bottle, pour half its contents in the empty one, and soak the parchment so that it forms a wick.
After placing the soaked parchment in the bottle, I hand it to Vitelotte, who wraps it in medical tape and places it between her knees. I prepare mine, ignite its wick with the gas-lighter, and create a orange flame that flickers in the wind.
I turn the lighter to the bottle Vitelotte holds outstretched. “Ready?”
She nods.
“On my count.” I raise the bottle, and Vitelotte mirrors the movement. “One… two… three!”
The bottles fly through the air, their burning making an arc of fire that lands in the cave’s back wall. With an ear-splintering boom and a ball of fire, smoke and soot and splinters of stone force us back. My arms fly to my face, and my back slams into the trunk.
For the next few heartbeats, ringing fills my ears. I can’t stop shaking. Maybe it’s the QuickBurn. My lessons in the Red Runners never prepared me for the intensity of a fire bottle. I scrunch my face, clench my hands, and examine my body for lacerations. Fortunately, I’m not hurt.
I turn to Vitelotte. “Are you alright?”
She squeezes my shoulder. I think that means yes.
Seconds later, a rumbling sound makes my heart tremble. Vitlotte squeezes me hard, and I squeeze back. With the light stakes ruined in the explosion, I’m guessing the cave has collapsed.
I exhale several rapid breaths. If Gaia’s statuette is still intact, whoever stumbles upon this cave next will need more than a glider to win this round. With any luck, those Nobles might point their manicured fingers of blame at Ingrid.

Chapter 5
Once the ringing in my ears fades, I lower my arms from where they’re protecting my face and peer at the cave. The scent of burning fuel lingers in the air. It fills my nostrils, permeates my sinuses, and sticks to my throat. My pulse won’t stop racing, and my lungs heave with rapid breaths.
I peer down at the flames receding into the wreckage, guessing that the fire has consumed the liquid we used to fuel our explosives. Moonlight streams down into the debris of fallen rocks that was once the cave, illuminating a fallen tree we must have uprooted with our fire bottles. Even some of the chalk from the hill has broken off and lies in chunks over the debris.
Vitelotte releases my shoulder and exhales several panting breaths. I guess this was the first time she’s thrown an explosive, too.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” I whisper.
“As soon as my heart stops spasming,” she replies with a tiny laugh. “That was unexpectedly destructive.”
“It must be the QuickBurn.” I grope around the branch, my fingertips checking for breaks. The explosion was forceful enough to knock me back, and I’m not sure if the branch will hold if I move. We’re still perched above the largest bitterthorn shrubs I’ve ever seen, and I don’t want to fall and impale myself with its spikes.
I’ve dealt with bitterthorn before, but we learned about it in Modern History and Agricultural Studies. It’s a plant that was cultivated by the early Phanglorians to protect their domes. Nothing can get past bitterthorn’s spikes, not wild men, not bears, not rabid wolves. Anything insane enough to charge through the shrub became lacerated as the barbs imprisoned their flesh. Later, scavengers picked them apart, and their bones tangled into the plant.
A convulsion seizes my throat, and I cough. Whatever happens, we needed to avoid that bitterthorn.
Bracing my back against the trunk, I ease myself up to standing. Its rough and uneven bark provides me the comfort of several places to hook my fingers in case the branch fails. We’d be safer if we withdrew to the tree on the other side of the bitterthorn, but I need to put as much distance between us and the dead girls.
With my arms outstretched for balance, I walk along the length of the branch using the diligence of a tightrope walker. My weight balances on my back foot, with the tiniest pressure on the front in case the wood beneath me cracks. The first dozen steps are steady, and the branch thick, but as it curves downward and twists, my heart quickens.
I glance over the edge, and the bitterthorn's wiry stems stretch to the underside of my branch. Vitelotte moves behind me, her weight lowering us toward the shrub.
“Stay back,” I hiss. “We’re too heavy for the branch.”
The fabric of her backpacks rustles as she retreats toward the trunk. “Is that better?”
“Much,” I reply. “If you wait for me to jump before moving, I think we’ll reach the other side.”
I edge farther across the branch, which sinks with every forward step. Sweat gathers around the edge of my hood, and a drop trickles down my forehead. I don’t know if it’s my impending fall or the stench of scorched QuickBurn, but my vision