Between Smoke and Shadow

14. Rune

FOURTEEN

RUNE

“I can’t believe it’s real,” Petra says.

She’s talking about the fighting dome, an enormous arena that must be half a floor’s width and several more deep. It starts on one of the lower levels of the military section, and it may very well go to its top. I stand behind Viana at the bottom of the tiered seating. We’re only feet from the glass enclosure, where soon, Harrick and Malek will fight their first duel. A rowdy crowd surrounds us, gulping nightwater and placing wagers.

I am numb to it all. I’ve moved through the last ten days in a confused fog, utterly consumed by the fact Prince Harrick kissed me. Me . A lowly servant. A rat-whore, as Malek called me. I’d never been kissed before that night, though I’m not sure this actually counts. I thought Harrick was about to kill me, and he was trying to save my life. In the aftermath, we didn’t talk much before he walked me back to my quarters.

I’m sure Harrick doesn’t consider it a real kiss.

Still, Viana would kill me if she knew. She and Saskia would string me up somewhere and take turns stoning me to death. Luckily, Viana hasn’t had much time with Harrick over the past several days, and when she has, I’ve been able to keep my distance. As long as Malek didn’t see me that night—and I don’t think he did—I should be okay.

The lights start to dim, and I force myself back to the present. Petra fidgets with her pale dress, and beside her, Viana sits primly with her nose in the air. She’s wearing a skin-tight viridian pantsuit, touched with flecks of scarlet. She looks absolutely flawless now, but an hour ago, she was a sobbing mess.

I’m sure she’s terrified to lose her crown, though she’s yet to say a word about it. Earlier, her only concern was whether her pant legs were long enough. She didn’t like the way her exposed ankles looked, or the way her heels dug into her skin. Luckily, one of the seamstresses was able to find better shoes. Viana had been placated and I escaped physically unscathed.

“I wonder why they don’t have shows anymore,” Petra muses. She adjusts her skirt over her crossed legs, fussing with the pleats. Her voice is soft and her demeanor is quiet, but she’s as finicky as the rest.

“They’re monstrous,” Nordan says from the other side of Viana. His face is unremarkable but handsome enough. His suit is all green, save for his blood red tie, buttons, and cufflinks. He props his elbows onto his knees and arches his eyebrow in challenge. “Fighting to the death, Petra? It’s inhuman.”

“They’re not entirely human though, are they?” Viana asks, the awe bright in her voice. “Our loves are more god than man.”

I don’t let myself react. I’m carefully positioned behind Viana’s chair, wedged between Petra and Nordan’s servants. We’ve been standing here for forty-five minutes, long past the scheduled start time. Nobody seems surprised it’s running late, and I imagine the nightwater vendors are happy for the delay. There are over three hundred royals and elites packed into this place, and most are already intoxicated.

Only the important people—the crown, the betrothed, the upper royals—fill the bottom ring. The rest of the attendees’ ranking goes down as the seating gets higher. By the fifth level, there are families of the guards, who will probably have to squint to see.

“I think it’s beautiful,” says Viana. She stares at the circular mat. It’s smaller than the Royal Training Arena, probably thirty paces by thirty paces. Glass walls encompass its floor and stretch all the way up to that distant ceiling. The barrier seems too thin to protect the crowd, but I imagine it’s been magicked to do exactly that.

“Beautiful?” Nordan scoffs. “Since when is beating someone to death beautiful ?”

“The princes aren’t going to kill each other. That would be a waste,” she says. She tilts her head to the side, and I catch a glimpse of her ruby-red smile.“Yes, this is beautiful. Pure and animalistic and beastly. As humans, we tend to bury our instincts, you know. We pretend to be civil, kind, good. But this? This reveals exactly who we are.”

I shiver at that. If this is Viana’s tame side, I don’t want to see her truest self.

Before Nordan has the chance to respond, the lights dim. I sweep my eyes over the audience one last time. The Architect sits on the opposite side of the arena with Queen Elaria and Princess Tora to his left. The women look bored, as if they couldn’t care less to be here. The Architect, of course, is hidden behind his mask. Still, I get the inexplicable sense he’s grinning.

I force my attention back to the enclosed arena. An elite, dressed in a lacy gown, strides into its center. She smiles at the audience, rotating slowly to address all sides. When she begins speaking, she faces the Architect himself.

“Welcome!” she calls. Her voice amplifies through the crowd, loud enough it echoes against the highest ceilings. “Tonight, you are honored to witness the first royal challenge in over forty cycles. This duel, the first of three, pits brother against brother. Prince against prince. Descendant against descendant.”

A burst of applause sounds from the crowd. People stamp their feet, chant their chosen competitor’s name, and laugh the way only drunk people can. Despite the significance of this battle, what the results will mean, the spectators are relaxed in their seats. They’re grinning. This is the type of entertainment most never dreamt to witness.

“The battle lasts until one prince surrenders or until he is deemed incapable of continuing,” the elite says. The crowd hushes, but their anticipation is still palpable. It’s a buzzing in the room, a stinging presence that grows louder with each second.

The elite introduces the Architect, the queen, the princess. Chaos builds through the crowd again, until it’s almost impossible to hear the woman at all. She’s going over rules, though there don’t seem to be many beyond no leaving the arena and no killing blows . The audience boos that rule.

A flicker of movement catches my eyes, and I see him a moment before Viana seems to. She straightens in her chair and pinches Petra, nodding toward the two darkened figures. The opposing brothers stand with a guard between them. Malek is loose, his posture slouched and his head thrown back as if laughing. Harrick is rigid, arms tight at his sides. He’s too far, too shadowed to make out his expression.

Without consciously deciding to, I touch my lips.

“Your betrothed looks nervous,” says Nordan, his voice more of a snarl. “Perhaps he doesn’t find this as beautiful as you do, Viana.”

She doesn’t respond. Her attention is now locked on Harrick, as if they are the only two people here.

“Please welcome longstanding heir, Prince Harrick Ademas!” the elite calls. The crowd explodes with applause, feet stamping louder and louder until it’s deafening.

Harrick strides into the arena, looking nothing like the man who has saved me more than once. There’s a heavy set to his mouth, a wild darkness in his eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think his irises were ebony.

“He doesn’t look nervous,” Viana says, lifting her chin. “He looks feral.”

She’s right, and I’m unsettled to find it as beautiful as she said. Harrick is a caged animal at the back of an enclosure, preparing to strike. I should be terrified, unnerved, but there’s something magnetic about his ferocious energy. Magnetic and inexplicably comforting, if only because he seems as good as he does powerful.

“And now, welcome Prince Malek Ademas, the Architect’s newly selected heir!”

The audience again cheers, but this time, a deep-toned chant rumbles through the lower rings. Young royals call Malek’s name, voices growing with each iteration.

Malek! Malek! MALEK!

“Looks like the crowd has picked their favorite,” taunts Nordan, resting his elbows on his knees. Petra starts to agree, but Viana cuts her off.

“The crowd has no power,” she snaps. “Magic will choose the winner, and Harrick’s got more of it.”

Opposite Harrick’s calm disposition, Malek waltzes into the arena like a preening peacock. He waves his arms, egging the crowd louder and louder. The chanting royals are all too happy to oblige. Meanwhile, Harrick remains motionless at the edge of the mat.

I’m so focused on the twins, I don’t notice when the elite exits. I only realize the brothers are now alone, squared off on opposite sides of the arena. Malek bounces on his feet, movements quick, effortless. Whenever he turns, the lights reflect his gruesome scars and easy grin. As feral as Harrick looks, Malek is somehow scarier. Where Harrick has proven time and again to be good, Malek has only shown the opposite. His excitement is unsettling, as if he’s waited far too long to wound his brother.

“Come on, baby,” Viana says, her voice a low whisper.

Nordan doesn’t taunt her now. He—and everyone else —is abruptly quiet. The entire audience hitches forward, collective breaths held, bodies growing tighter with each passing second. The two princes regard each other. Identical twins in identical red bodysuits, made different only by their individual lives. Malek’s unkempt locks and gnarled scars. Harrick’s untouched skin and sharp posture.

Though the elite remains out of sight, her voice radiates through the arena.

“Prince Harrick, Prince Malek. Prepare for battle.” Her words float through the strained silence, followed by an automated buzzing. It sounds like the changing of the hour, only faster.

Beep. Beep. Beepbeep. Beepbeepbeepbeep.

With the final note, a crash of cymbals and a momentary blackness ignites the battle. A second of blindness. Then, a piercing white light in the arena, made brighter by the lingering darkness everywhere else.

There’s no time to suck in a breath or to fully realize the fight has begun. Malek’s already conjured a beast. This one is different than his first. Where that creature had been tall and spindly with a wide body, this one is low to the ground. Its muscular body is shaped almost like an alligator, only instead of one sweeping tail, it has two. Its head is worse, flat and flared, with fangs protruding almost to the ground.

“Wyhel,” Nordan breathes. His voice trembles as the beast strides across the arena. It prowls with the surety of a bloodthirsty predator, undeterred by the vines coiling from Harrick’s outstretched palms.

Stark red, Harrick’s magic whips against the mat and the domed enclosure, growing larger and wider with each passing second. An ear-splitting crack echoes each time a strand hits the glass, and soon his magic looks more like a spiraling tornado than individual vines. Petra gasps at every sound and movement, her hands taut against her armrests.

I search Harrick’s face for something familiar, but everything is different. He is different. Violent. Terrifying. Powerful. My knees tremble as I watch him. Magic swirling, building, coursing through him like a being of its own control. Harrick’s mouth clenches as he moves, raising his arms until they’re level with his shoulders.

Viana is right: he is not fully human. In this moment, he looks nothing less than a beautiful, monstrous god.

One of his vines strikes, curving around the alligator’s neck. Malek grunts, and the noise amplifies through the stadium. His beast snaps wildly until his teeth sever the nearest vine and then another. Malek screams, twisting his wrist, the beast moving with it. One of its tails whips to the side, like a lunging serpent. It cuts through the remaining vines. Eviscerates them as if they’re parchment. Harrick screams, stumbling as he sends another twist of vines toward the beast—and misses.

It’s a costly mistake. The beast lunges between the whipping vines, its fangs clamping around Harrick’s ankle. Blood spills onto the mat, and Harrick screams, throwing chaotic magic from his palms. It’s three tries before a vine latches over the alligator’s throat, but finally, the beast loses its hold. Harrick stumbles away, struggling to put weight on his injured leg.

“Kill him!” a royal screams from behind me. I don’t turn to face her, but I can feel flecks of her spit against my neck. “Kill him, Malek!”

Harrick screams again, this time not from pain but from power. Arms raised, he hurtles both the beast and his brother with a violent gust of air. They slam against the glass barrier, and the alligator evaporates into red mist at the impact. Malek howls as his magic dissolves around him, but he’s already conjuring as he gets back to his feet. The hazy red takes shape again, jolting into a solid beast.

This one is taller, thinner. A horrifying bird creature with an oblong, hanging mouth and endless sharp teeth. It jerks as it moves, as if a puppet with damaged strings. Harrick staggers a step back, arms still raised. Calculating. His vines have returned, snapping wildly around him, forcing the beast to stay back.

Harrick rotates his wrists, and as though spurred by Malek’s shift of magic, his changes too. It coils and writhes, then jerks and shudders. The vines morph into shattered stone until there are dozens, hundreds of them. They float around him like a swarm of vermilion wasps.

In one sharp lurch, the rocks catapult through the air. They slam against the bird creature, puncturing its body and exposed teeth. The creature lurches, moving forward despite itself. Malek lets out a heinous cackle.

“Is that it?” he calls. His voice wavers though, and I swear, Harrick’s lips tick at the show of weakness. With an echoing grunt, Malek twists his magic toward the creature, mending its injuries.

Harrick bares his teeth, but ignores his brother’s taunts. His hands are steady, fingers pulsing as he silently packs the stones into a gigantic boulder. It forms behind Malek’s back, and though some in the crowd shout warnings, the older twin doesn’t seem to notice. He’s focused on his beast, patching it together like a worn sock.

Through a faltering smile, Malek taunts, “I thought you’d do better than?—”

Harrick doesn’t give him time to finish. He hurls his boulder toward himself, clipping Malek’s shoulder on his way and obliterating the bird’s upper half. Malek collapses to the mat, crying out as his magic once again vanishes. Harrick balances his boulder in the air, letting it rotate. There’s a flicker of indecision on his face, so quick I might have imagined it.

And then, he drops the stone on his brother. It hits the same shoulder again before crashing onto Malek’s leg. There’s a brutal crunch, like a dozen sticks snapping at once. Malek screams and sends a violent blur of magic back to Harrick. It’s glass, I realize. A dozen jagged shards that slice across Harrick’s cheeks and throat. There’s blood everywhere now, streaming down his face and into the collar of his suit.

I expect Harrick to collapse, but he screams again, sending wave after wave of broken rock across the arena. It is only as Malek wails that I realize Harrick’s magic is not like his brother’s. His rocks are not erupting. They’re not fading or evaporating. Instead, they’re turning to solid, obsidian stone.

Multiple people in the audience gasp. This isn’t normal, I realize—and Malek might not stand a chance.

“Come on, baby!” Viana screams. She’s on her feet, leaning over the metal fencing between us and the glass enclosure.

A rock strikes Malek’s temple. Then another smashes his stomach. His shoulder. He’s taking too many hits to act unaffected, and before long, he’s not striking back. His magic has died, leaving his hands violent red with heat.

Harrick holds another giant boulder over his brother. If he dropped it on his chest, this would be over.

But Malek also might be dead.

The two brothers stare at each other, both with teeth bared like wild animals. Neither casts magic, but their hands glow red with heat. Their breaths are the only sound, heavy and unsteady, as if on the verge of collapse.

“Come on!” Viana shouts. “Call it! Malek is done!”

At Viana’s outburst, the arena comes alive again with chants and cheers, boos and demands. I can hear bets swirling in the rows behind us, and despite it all, some people are still laughing.

Harrick casts another stream of magic. It’s misshapen, uncertain, as it unspools from his palms. I watch, breath held tight in my chest, as he pauses. It’s as if Harrick can’t decide how—or even if —he wants to destroy his brother.

He’s afraid, I realize, not of losing but of winning .

With his legs buried beneath stone and his body bloodied and bruised, Malek struggles to rise. His eyes flicker between Harrick and the looming boulder. And he must see it, that same horrible reluctance that I do.

He makes his final move so quickly I almost miss it. With a heave of his chest, he shoves his bloodied hands toward Harrick. A burst of water, no more than a bucket’s worth, surrounds Harrick’s face. It latches onto him, moving every time he does, until he’s drowning on his feet. He staggers, dropping the boulder where it hangs. It misses Malek by less than an inch.

“Pull through,” Viana yells. “Focus! You just have to?—”

Harrick collapses to the mat. Malek holds the water over his brother’s unconscious face, only releasing it when the elite officially calls the match. The stadium erupts in cheers and boos, and Viana deflates in front of me. She returns to her seat, eerily still as Petra celebrates beside her.

A pair of healers remove Harrick from the ring, while several casters work to free Malek from the mess of stone. He curses at them the entire time, and when they finally destroy the last boulder, he lurches to his feet. White bone sticks out from his ankle, and his left elbow bends at an unnatural angle.

Malek doesn’t acknowledge his wounds. He hobbles around the mat, managing a sloppy bow in each direction. His fans once again fill the stadium with his name, and he pumps his good hand with each chant.

Malek. Malek! MALEK!

The room shifts with bodies. Harrick’s supporters grumble their losses. Malek’s crowd lingers, still drinking and counting their coin. Viana remains in her seat, long after Nordan and Petra have left. I stand dutifully behind her, wishing she’d go check on Harrick. Pathetic as it is, I want to see if he’s okay.

When Viana finally leaves, she heads not for Harrick but back to her quarters. My stomach is tight the entire time, even as she maintains her stoic facade. She doesn’t look at me as we enter her bedroom, and I’m tempted to leave without permission. It won’t help, not in the long run, and so I stay.

I stand at the closed door, hand clasping the bronze handle. I may not be allowed to leave, but I feel safest here all the same. Viana storms around the room, ripping the velvet curtains from her windows and taking a knife to her duvet. I’m not sure if the violence is making her feel better, or if it’s only digging the anger deeper. Either way, she’s destroyed her room in a matter of minutes.

She lets out a vicious scream, high and piercing, as she tangles her shredded comforter around her shoulders. She’s gone hysterical, alternating between screams and sobs and strangled laughter. I want a guard to overhear her breakdown, to come calm her. Nobody does, and I’m too terrified to intervene.

She stumbles around her room, pausing occasionally to stab something else with her knife. I shrink against the door as she does, hoping her focus remains on her dresser and not on me. The knife leaves hollow dents along its wooden surface, and Viana shrieks with each skewered punch.

When it’s clear no one is coming and Viana isn’t losing steam, I finally clear my throat.

“My lady,” I say from the doorway.

She doesn’t react, so I clear the guck and hesitancy from my throat. If she doesn’t stop soon, she’s going to destroy everything in her room. Fine by me, except I’ll be the one to clean it. I’ll be the one to face her wrath when she realizes all her belongings are damaged beyond repair.

“My lady,” I say again, forcing the words louder. “Perhaps you should lie down for a while?—”

I don’t have time to react, let alone finish my sentence. Viana hurls the knife across the room, and it strikes the side of my face. A flare of pain shoots through my cheek, bringing with it a warm trail of liquid. My legs shake, and I slide down the door before I can stop myself. I clasp a hand to my cheek, feeling the blood pool between my fingers.

She just barely missed my eye.

“Dammit!” she screams. She lunges toward me, arms rattling the door as they frame the space above my head. “Look at me, wench.”

I do, but only with my right eye. She might not have cut the left one, but it’s already swelling.

“That was an accident,” she snaps. “That wasn’t intentional, and I didn’t do it. You fell, all right?” When I don’t respond, she drops to my height. Her long nails dig into my shoulders. “You did that to yourself. Understand?”

I should tell her to go fuck herself.

I don’t say anything at all. Instead, I nod, hand trembling against my face. There’s blood on my lace veil, sticking it to my skin. It’ll be stained now, and that saddens me more than it should. Harrick gave me this mask, and while it certainly wasn’t a gift, I hate that it’s ruined.

“Good,” she says. There’s a tremble in her voice that almost makes her sound scared. She moves away, returning a moment later. She tosses a scrap of green velvet onto my lap. A piece of her duvet, I realize. “Clean yourself up. You’re dismissed.”

I scrub at my face with the fabric. I’m sure I’ve only spread it around my skin, made a mess of blood and tears. Viana turns away from me, and I take the moment to scramble through her bedroom door. With the velvet still pressed to my cheek, I run from her quarters to my own.

Pathetic . Weak. Helpless.

The words spin through my brain on repeat. Even as I collapse into bed, they whirl faster and faster. I’m sick with it, my own shame and frailty.

I tell myself I would have fought back, if only I’d had the sword or the dagger from the training arena. If I’d had a weapon, I would have destroyed Viana for all her wicked sins. Nobody would ever hurt me again.

I force these ideas to overtake my thoughts. I make them wash away any feelings of inferiority and sadness. If I ever stand on level ground with Viana, with any of these horrible people, I will ruin them until they can’t hurt anyone at all.