5. Rune
FIVE
RUNE
I can’t decide if Viana’s putting on a show. She’s smiling and giggling, waving shyly at Harrick through the glass. She doesn’t scowl when he ignores her. She doesn’t scowl at all now that he’s here. It’s probably an act, but she sure looks genuine. Her eyes track his every movement, smile widening as she watches him.
She doesn’t react when Prince Malek enters the arena, but the other elites do. While he and Harrick were born identical, they’re easy to distinguish now. Gruesome scars line Malek’s face, all different shapes and lengths: one across his cheek, another through his left eyebrow, two more along his jaw and throat. His hair is long, unkempt, and his eyes are just barely lighter than his brother’s.
He moves differently too. Where Harrick takes slow, calculated steps, Malek strides wildly. He knocks shoulders with every guard he passes, flashing a snarled grin at his audience. He does a full rotation of the room before settling in beside Harrick.
The brothers do not acknowledge each other.
Princess Tora arrives last, and the first thing I notice are her eyes. While her brothers’ irises are dark, like strong nightwater, Tora’s are the color of wilting lilacs. She’s weak. Far weaker than a crowned descendant should be—and without masks, it’s easy to see the stark, startling contrast between them.
My heart spikes in my throat.
I know about their magic, of course. Everyone, even lowly servants, know the basics. Descendants get their magic from one of four sectors: the Reaping Grounds, the Wilds, the City of Mirrors, the Pit. Most royals have an ability, ranging from reviving wilted plants to causing deadly rockslides. Their strength depends on several factors, but it’s always visible in their eyes. The darker the violet, the more the power.
And the crowned are supposed to be strongest of all.
After Princess Tora’s disappointing birth, the Architect started a new line. Twin boys, both shockingly beautiful and immensely powerful. Like the Architect, they can channel not one sector, but all four.
Looking between the brothers now, I can feel it.
Their untouchable power.
For the first time since we’ve entered the room, I glance at Caleah. It’s not intentional, but I’m desperate to know what she’s thinking. I’ve never witnessed crowned magic in person, aside from the Architect’s executions. Has Caleah? Have most people here? She doesn’t return my gaze, so I force it back to the arena.
A buzzer sounds, and that’s the only warning we get before the guards lunge. The non-descendant guards grab at the weapon-lined walls. One tears a collection of metal squares and fastens them to his chest plate. Another claims a magicked hook, treacherously sharp and glowing red. She flips it in the air, letting it rotate, before smoothly catching it in her gloved hand. Then, she snaps to face the crowned siblings, legs braced in a wide stance.
As the guards seamlessly move, the siblings maintain their positions in the back. They don’t race to choose weapons. They don’t take defensive stances. They remain still, watching the guards like I imagine lions watch their prey.
The guards shift to the left side of the room, in what appears to be a practiced arrangement. Malek ticks his head, a small and devious grin twisting his scars. Harrick glances at Tora, and though she doesn’t return his gaze, she offers a subtle nod.
A second buzzer blares, longer than the first. This time, there’s a heavy pause. The guards raise their weapons or their glowing hands, shoulders clenching with tension. With each passing second, they cower closer together.
One breath. Two.
Malek moves first, his jaw unhinging with a brutal scream. Despite the glass wall, it sounds like he’s yelling in this very room. His hands light with magic, flaring like hot coals. They burn infinitely brighter than any of the guards’, and the red pulses as it grows in size and changes shape. The viewing elites suck in breaths and give squeamish cries, but I find my awareness narrowing. Suddenly, I feel like I’m alone in this room, watching something equal parts horrifying and beautiful.
Magic pulses at Malek’s fingertips, brighter and stronger, until the smoke takes a life of its own. It coils from his outstretched hands, morphing from heavy fog into a beast unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Rising over ten feet tall, its misshapen body nearly touches the ceiling. It stands on multiple sharp, spindly legs that bend at unnatural angles. Every time it moves, one of its pointed feet pierces clean through the mat.
An elite male screams and sprints from the room. Despite Sorace’s promise of safety, two others are close behind.
I stare, transfixed, as the beast charges with impossible speed.
It isn’t real , I tell myself.
Except it is, in all the ways that count. The creature may be born of magic, but it moves as if it belongs here. It roars, body undefined and shifting, translucent in certain angles. It reaches the guards in three strides, striking its first victim before he fully lifts his sword.
With a sweep of its leg, the creature launches the guard across the room. The man crunches against the wall of weapons, spears and arrows clattering over him.
Malek gleams behind the beast as it turns on its haunches. The scarlet magic stretches from his hands, pulsing life into his creation. Creeping with predatory slowness, the beast faces the guard. And then, it lunges. With a jolting kick, it punches a hole through the guard’s stomach, clear through to the other side.
I scream before I can think better of it, but no one scolds me. They’re too busy screaming themselves, too busy watching a man die before their own eyes. Because surely there’s no saving him. Dark blood spills around him, creating a shallow pool of red.
I dig my fingers into my coveralls, trying to keep a level head. I can’t afford to lose focus here, to draw any more attention to myself.
“Malek!” Princess Tora screams. It isn’t until she’s yelled that I realize she and Harrick have moved. They remain near each other, with Tora straining to see the beast’s victim within the chaos. She twists back toward Malek, grimacing. “No killing blows!”
Her voice is too casual to my ears. As if she’s scolding Malek for cheating their game, not for murdering a man.
I force my gaze back to the remaining guards. They break from formation like a cluster of frightened insects. A few challenge the beast, hacking at the meatiest part of its legs, swinging for its underbelly. Most guards, however, retreat to the opposite side of the room. I wonder if they knew the man, now corpse. They must be terrified they’ll be next, and for this, a stupid show of bravado.
The beast spins, stabbing through a guard’s foot as it faces Tora. Harrick wrenches the princess behind his back and lifts his hands. They’re brighter and sharper than Malek’s, not like burning coals, but like fire itself.
I tell myself to remain still, emotionless from the show that isn’t meant for me. But when Harrick screams, I flinch. It’s a strangled, pained cry, like he’s being tortured.
His magic strikes three guards at once, ripping them away from the beast. The pinned guard screams as she’s pulled across the mat, the beast’s foot slicing through the side of her ankle.
“That’s three for Harrick,” Viana says without flinching. She lowers her voice, forcing Saskia to lean closer. “Smart to take the guards nearest Malek’s magic. Claim the points for himself.”
I ignore Saskia’s reply and squint at Harrick’s magic. It’s almost too fast to track, snapping left then right and breaking into multiple strands. It is only as it curls around his victims that I realize his magic has taken the shape of vines. The Reaping Grounds. They weave over the three guards’ bodies, mummifying them as they strain against his hold. Only the fronts of their masks remain exposed.
“Wyhel,” Saskia says, words trembling. “Three at once. That’s terrifying.”
“What did you expect? He’s our king. Of course he’s powerful.” Viana sounds anything but frightened.
“Still,” Saskia murmurs.
I silently agree.
More and more guards collapse. I count twenty-one, and according to Viana, Harrick is far in the lead. I’m not so sure. My head spins with the endless blasts of magic. Vines and branches from Harrick. The spiky-legged beast from Malek. Nothing at all from Tora.
“That’s sixteen for Harrick,” Viana says, her voice echoing through the viewing room. “Sixteen for Harrick. Five for Malek.”
“I’ve got eleven for Harrick and ten for Malek,” an elite woman says down the line. She leans forward, raising an eyebrow at Viana. “It’s okay, V. Counting is hard.”
“I think Malek is going to take it,” another woman says.
“No way. Harrick will get the last three,” a man says.
The others pitch in, drowning out Viana’s insistence that Harrick has already won.
I scan the arena. I’m better at counting than reading, and I decide the other elites are right. There are eleven mounds of calcified vines to nine surrendered guards and one dead. The latter are curled on the floor, incapacitated in one way or another. Blood seeps around them, and something tells me the first victim will not be alone in the burning room tonight.
Malek’s creature lunges at one of the final three guards. Before its strike lands, however, the guard drops to his knees. I lean forward, shadowing the line of elites before me. The beast lowers, growling and exposing hooked fangs. It roars as water spills from the bottom of the guard’s mask.
“Well finally,” one of the elite women calls. “Tora decided she wanted to play after all.”
The princess doesn’t acknowledge the heckler. I’m not sure if they can hear us, or if only we can hear them. I’m surprised anyone, even an elite, would be so bold. But she’s right. Of the twenty-two fallen guards, this is the only one Tora has claimed.
Water spills harder from the guard’s mask, drenching the front of his uniform. He falls to his knees, flails an arm in submission, and collapses on the mat. Tora drops her hands, letting her pink-singed fingertips hang at her sides. The guard curls into himself, his ragged coughs loud enough to hear over Harrick and Malek’s ongoing battle.
“Yes!” one of the elite men screams when Malek’s creature takes another guard. “That’s a tie. He just needs the last one.”
I shift from my toes to my heels. It shouldn’t matter to me which brother wins, but I want to watch Malek lose. I want to see his face when he realizes he killed in vain. I’m not sure it will matter to him anyway.
The final guard stands between Harrick’s lashing branches and Malek’s growling beast. He staggers between them, masked face turning toward one and then the other. Tora leans against the nearby wall, as if submitting a single guard took everything from her. I can see her heaving chest and flushed cheeks from here.
“Come on, Harrick,” Viana whispers. She clasps her hands, leaning against them as she watches the twins. “Focus, baby. End this.”
She speaks as if she knows Harrick. Maybe they’re already dating, even though it’s against tradition.
Harrick thrusts two vines around the guard, forcing the man’s arms to his sides. Malek’s beast lunges a moment later, but it doesn’t go for the guard. Instead, one of its spindly legs strikes against Tora, knocking her hard against the wall. A hanging sword falls at the impact, the blunt handle cracking against her shoulder. She lets out a high-pitched cry, crumbling to the mat and tucking around herself. The beast surges, as if to attack her, and the viewing room sucks in a collective, horrified breath.
Surely Malek didn’t mean to hurt Tora…right?
Harrick’s vines instantly disappear from the guard, and seconds later, they’re tight around Malek’s neck. The scarred brother smiles maniacally, even as his face turns red, then purple. He doesn’t fight Harrick’s hold. He only raises his hand, twisting it to command the beast before him.
The creature staggers away from Tora, and just before Malek passes out, it tears into the remaining guard’s throat.