Chapter 41
“Come with us,” a chorus of voices bellows from the other side of the armory’s door.
I haven’t seen a court mage since my brother’s funeral, nor had I sensed them when they’d performed their magic on me.
But I feel them now, their dark magic whipping through the air, making the air taste bitter and tingly.
The energy in my left arm responds to them, swelling with an intoxicating power.
If they can sense it too, they say nothing.
Ronan nudges me to turn around so he can slip a cold metallic helmet over my hair and ears. I hear scraping—he must be fastening it somehow—and then the mages pull me into the hall.
We wordlessly walk from the armory. Even though we are still far from the arena, the beating of drums and the bells ringing across the castle reach into my soul, demanding my deep-seated fear to surface.
The faint cacophony of laughter and cheering sounds amidst the chaotic instrumentation.
It certainly doesn’t sound like my audience is small, as I’d been made to believe.
The mages interrupt my concentration, the battle against the terror clawing at my resolve, lost.
“You look like the dead prince,” their voices glide dissonantly together. Their words are meant to compliment, but the air turns sour as they continue, “He’d worn similar armor the day he died.”
My heart pounds in my ears. That is the last thing I wish to hear.
But they say nothing more as the gate opens and they lead me along the castle’s walls.
We near the arena, the drumbeats growing in intensity and the steady humming of brass gurgling in the thrum of drunken hollering. The noblemen have already taken to their drink, it would seem. Underneath their blabbering, I hear the aggravated snarls of the beast contained inside.
The mark on my arm warms.
Is Ether near?
I toss my head left and right in search of my mate, but I’m quickly forced into the arena with a harsh shove, and the door grinds shut behind me, sealing me from safety. My body begins to shake. It can sense the dragon’s looming presence, the hostility wafting from it like the summer heat.
The crowd falls silent. All eyes, I imagine, are on me. My heartbeat thunders in my chest, the sound deafening in the oppressive stillness that coils around me like a tightening vise.
The king’s voice pulses through the air, as sardonic as it is weighted with power. “My son, Xavelor Faundor of Arioch, has arrived to claim his right as heir to my throne!”
If it weren’t for the mortification straightening my legs into stiff rods, I would collapse.
The crowd roars, glasses clang together, and some break, liquid splashing to the amphitheater’s stone seating.
My left hand grips the hilt of my sword, and my right forms a fist at my side. I turn in the direction of my father’s voice. With a helmet on, no one should be able to tell I am blind. No one will know I am not my brother.
Not until I fight.
But that doesn’t matter.
The king has stooped so low as to refer to me as Xavelor Faundor . As though I no longer exist.
No, to these people, Ramiel never existed from the start. And my father knows this. Had he not said I was to stand in for my brother? Why would he ever introduce me as Ramiel if he never had a second son?
I hold my breath to stop the biting tears that threaten to spill and pang against the nose of my helmet.
“Thank you for attending this momentous occasion, even amidst the threat of war. Your loyalty to Arioch will not go unthanked.” Azriel’s voice rumbles over the crowd, riling the spectators with each word.
He says something more, but all I can focus on is the change in the drum’s beat, the snares sizzling as they grow in volume until the king finally shouts, “Release Lrozyn!”
Shouts of excitement fill the arena, anticipation scorching the air with heat.
Or maybe that’s the dragon.
The crashing of metal and screeching of claws against the stone ground accompany a low, angered growl that rumbles around me. The men roar, shattering more glasses. My father cackles above it all, surely as drunk as they.
Let’s get this over with.
I lift the sword to my waist, angle it outwards, and breathe.
I do not see Ether’s eluviam. I cannot sense the dragon, only hear its sharp nails cracking through stone as it paces to my left.
My greaves scrape against each other as I stumble forward.
A roar rips from the beast, and I still as heat rises next to me, warming my entire left side. I’ve barely dodged a bolt of molten flame.
My knees clang together.
As it moves, a heavy chain grinds and clunks together, its sound meant to either protect me from the beast or make it easier to emerge victorious. I’d been told I would receive no help, but perhaps this is my father’s idea of pity—a clear advantage for a blind warrior.
I pass the sword between my palms. The crowd stays silent.
Another scrape across the arena. A second low warning growl.
I wait with my sword poised, and my feet settle on their toes.
After a moment, the dragon breathes its fire again. I can feel the heat as it rushes toward me. I tuck my body and roll on the ground, scarcely avoiding the sweeping flame for the second time.
This earns me excited cheers. I can almost imagine the condescending approval on my father’s face, and I grimace.
He and I both know this is raw luck.
I lunge forward, aiming my sword high. I’m unsure of the height of the beast, but if the low timbre of its guttural voice is any indicator, I’d wager the dragon is stronger than a typical hatchling.
The end of the sword slices through air, and before I can twist around, something thick and heavy knocks into my side.
Pain prickles from my ribs, spreading along the right side of my body, and my sword loosens from my hand and clatters to the ground.
I slam into the slate, my armor crunching with the impact.
Hot blood sprays from my mouth, wetting the interior of my helm.
I’ve broken at least one rib, even with my armor’s protection.
Precious seconds pass as I scramble to my feet, but I chuckle through the agony searing through my chest. The crowd’s reaction is muted. I hear their murmurs. Perhaps they’re questioning whether I’m truly the infamous warrior son of Azriel.
The zinging pain flaring in my head and reverberating from my side makes it rather difficult to care.
When my feet are under me, I abandon the sword, wherever it is. I haven’t had enough training with it anyway. Instead, I concentrate on the power in my arm and the magic swirling in my eluviam. With a breath, I brandish my fists in the air.
The crowd goes silent, probably from shock, but they simultaneously rumble with excitement at this development. Many of them are warriors and soldiers, but many are also noblemen who’ve never laid hands on a sword. Have they seen what magic can do?
I bite my tongue to stifle the wound wetting the garments under my arm.
With a step forward, I call forth fire to my right hand, and it obediently sparks to life. I will coldness to my left hand. When ice bristles at my fingertips, a laugh gurgles in my throat.
Has it always been this easy?
The dragon growls, its claws scraping as it moves toward me. If it hadn’t seen me as a threat before, it does now.
My hands burst outward, and the magic rushes from me, emptying me of the strength I’ve been growing familiar with. I hear the beast groan in pain, but my focus returns to the emptiness at my center. An angry rumble shakes the ground. The dragon draws nearer.
My flame extinguishes, the ice melts, and I’m on my knees, patting the ground desperately for my weapon. Sweat mats under my arms, and my hands begin to shake. The dragon scrapes closer still.
The audience begins to whisper.
My heart turns to stone.
They’re going to know I’m not Xavelor soon, if they haven’t realized it already.
Is he really the prince rumored to have been the greatest warrior of all time?
He can’t even see properly.
What happens when a crowd turns on the performer? Will they throw tomatoes? Will those holding the chains release the beast to claim me as its next meal? Will I be put out of my misery?
I pat around frantically, but my movements begin to slow, my arm sore.
Death is near.
“To your right!” a familiar voice whispers harshly. I’m surprised I can hear it over the clamor of voices now rising in protest to the current conditions of the duel.
I lift my head, and my heart immediately thaws. Ether’s eluviam swells mere yards away, though I can tell she’s not in the best condition either. She is experiencing my pain too. A disadvantage that comes with our bond.
If I die here, will she die too?
The thought sobers me.
I reach farther, and sure enough, the sword is to my right. I fumble the hilt into my hands and lift the heavy blade in the time it takes to dodge another sweep of fire blasting the ground where I had been standing.
My breath shrivels in my throat. Blood dries on my lips.
The beast exhales heavily—it’s now much closer. With a lunge, I might reach its neck, though I ought to take my chances and aim for its chest.
Ether once told me humans discard the eluviams of dragons, but to eat one may grant its slayer a wish.
I make that my current goal.
A guttural cry escapes me as I charge forward and drive the blade into stubborn flesh.
The beast screeches as it stands taller, lifting me into the air.
My teeth grind together, the wound at my side ripping open further, hands slipping on the hilt slick with the beast’s hot, gushing blood.
Panic claws at the edges of my mind, but I shove it down, clinging to the blade with every ounce of strength.
I can’t afford to let go. Not with the ground so far below. A fall now would mean certain death.