Chapter 88
I’m brought to my knees before the rising bars, a sword’s tip pressed into my exposed nape. My iron cuffs are removed, offering a burst of hope that’s quickly extinguished as I recognize the pressurized pull at my eardrums, just like it feels beneath the arches in Bothaim.
I don’t bother hunting the walls for the neutralizing runes they’re no doubt riddled with, preventing communication with the Creators.
Choking on a blow of smoke and the smell of baked blood, I’m booted forward onto my hands and knees. Embers chew through my palms while the bars stab into the ground at my back. I work through a series of short, rasped breaths, gathering enough energy to push up, sitting on the heels of my boots.
I lift my head.
The crowd heaves a collective gasp, murmurs and jeers punching down from the thousands of leering folk packed on the tiered balconies.
Given the ilk these fighting pits attract—those loyal to the values of my late pah—I’m unsurprised to see most spectators leaning forward, eyes bulging with hate and sadistic glee.
“IT’S THE SAVAGE KING!”
“KINSLAYER!”
“TRAITOR! KILL HIM!”
In the space between Raeve and me, the swirl of smoke ebbs and flows, thinning enough I’m able to see her clearly. Our gazes clash for a beat that feels like eternity, those glittering black eyes ripe with concern, yet challenging me to shore myself.
I dip my head in a slight nod, and her gaze slits toward a jutted balcony. No doubt where Arkyn’s seated.
Watching.
From somewhere out of view, drums begin to thump so hard the ground shudders—like Bulder’s heart is beating beneath us. The crowd roars, smacking their hands against the balustrades as bits of the rugged terrain begin to blister and bulge.
Those flaming wings unfurl, spreading to the gasps from a besotted crowd; over a thousand folk preparing to feast on the sight of my death. Still ravenous even after watching so many nulls spend their final breath on a gurgling scream for help.
For mercy.
Raeve rolls her head to crack her neck rather than tip it side to side. Another terse reminder that I’m not about to battle the love of my existence, but the ancient being I’ve long believed gave everything so Elluin could return to this world. Somehow.
“KILL HIM!”
“SLIT HIS THROAT!”
“GUT HIM!”
Bulges of magma burst, caved by clawed hands that punch from beneath.
Another wet breath crackles through my throat as something glints in my peripheral; the tip of a metal handle protruding from the rubble.
I grab the hilt, drawing the charred blade free.
It’s heavier than a sword this size would feel were I not actively bleeding, feeding most of my waning strength into the scaled wall keeping Rygun out.
Over a dozen razah claw free of their molten wombs.
They tip their heads to shriek and snarl, gnashing the air as their beady eyes roll about, finding purchase on their chosen target.
Mainly, they look at her—vulnerable atop the knoll she’s standing on.
Perfectly placed to be surrounded, then preyed on by the pack.
No doubt her intention.
As the heaving, salivating majority begin to prowl in her direction, my upper lip tightens.
I kick forward a step—
She growls, raises a daggered hand, gaze pinned on her approaching foe. Quiet command to keep my back to the wall, focus on my own opponents, and not give her something else to worry about.
With a snarl, I drop to a defensive position. She does the same, spinning as she eyes the beasts now circling her.
At once, the razah stampede, kicking up stones and embers in their nimble haste. My gaze whips between my own approaching foe and Slátra’s converging horde, heart in my throat when the beasts reach Slátra first—too fast.
The crowd roars with fiendish delight as she launches into battle with a snarl on her lips and a savage glint in her eye, moving with the swift, violent stealth of a beast plucked from the top of the food chain.
Time stretches, slowing. Every shift of her body smooth, shadowed by the flaming white wings that swish and flick with her motions.
She doesn’t toss her blades like I’d hoped she would, instead using them like claws, pulling close to the charred monstrosities screeching for blood. Like she relishes in the feel of their dying breaths on her skin.
I almost crush beneath my fear, certain it’s only a matter of heartbeats before a claw swipes out and slits her somewhere she’s not scaled in armor.
But the fierce, ravenous beasts that dominated the pit in the previous fights now look almost paltry—yowling as their throats open or their innards spill. Convulsing as their heads roll.
With each swift and messy slaughter, Slátra peels away from their crumpling bodies with only the odd proximity burn that seems to spur her rage.
The remaining razah don’t stand a chance.
I pool my attention on the two beasts powering in my direction as the crowd turns their bellowing hate from me. Turns their famished affections on her.
“FIRE LARK!”
“FIRE LARK!”
“FIRE LARK!”
Their idolization for the nickname packs me full of rage, and I roar while hacking through the abdomen of a squirming razah, splashing myself with blood that burns. At the same time, the other beast lunges, my spare hand coming up to grip its throat—squeezing.
It gnashes at my face, its breath the putrid exhausts of a geyser full of rotten meat, tongue lashing past gray teeth. Its throat finally collapses, and the beast goes limp like a doll.
I toss it aside, looking up. See Slátra sprinting toward a retreating beast with another hot on her heels, hunting her with concerning speed.
I throw my sword.
It whips through the air, and the crowd gasps as it plunges into the back of the trailing monster’s head. With its dying screech, Slátra spins, sprayed by the boiling blood of her prey’s slit throat.
She doesn’t flinch, gaze roving from the slain beast to the blade wobbling in the back of its head, to me—also wobbling. She snarls, tosses her own limp kill aside, then scans the arena. I do the same, realizing—
It’s just us left.
Just us, and a scatter of bleeding bodies being swallowed by the ground.
Even the crowd has grown quiet, waiting. No doubt wondering what will happen next. If they’re about to see the Burn King fall, or their beloved champion.
I know the answer. So does she, evident in the way she looks at me. With a depth too other to be fae. A guttural compassion born from something that knows so much more than us simple folk can possibly comprehend.
Working through a series of short, rattling breaths, I traverse the jagged terrain, finally coming upon the last beast I slayed. I wrench my sword from its skull just in time to save the weapon from being sucked in by the smoldering blister reclaiming the razah.
Slátra begins to circle, and I catch her discreet nod from the corner of my eye.
Except that’s the love of my existence. Even those glinting black eyes urging me to do what it takes can’t make me see her as anyone other than Raeve.
Other than the broken princess I fed in a hall, playing the songs that used to make Mah smile, hoping to see some light in her eyes.
To give her a little strength to keep going; keep fighting to live.
The thought of swiping this sword at her, of spending my final moments pretending to try and maim her … it goes against the grain of my soul.
But our daughter’s life is on the line. So is Veya’s.
Slátra prowls closer.
Feeling the cloying pressure of Arkyn’s scrutiny, I sweep my blade in a wide arc. Though the crowd gasps, the action bears none of the gusto required to inflict any wounds.
Slátra leaps away, growling beneath her breath as she stalks around the back of me. “We must make this believable!”
I tip my head, face screwing. Repress the urge to obliterate the lump in my throat with an anguished scream.
Again, Arkyn’s perusal heckles my skin.
Sensing Slátra’s approach, I let my head drop forward and heave a gurgled breath, then whip around and launch. Somehow manage to catch her off guard, knocking her to a patch of cool ground—straddling her hips with my blade poised at her throat.
Her wings sputter, shock and respect blazing in her eyes. Until I press my forehead to hers, ignoring the bellowing crowd. The corpses being swallowed by the ground. The burning blood on both our bodies.
“I love you, Moonbeam.” My voice breaks against the words, eyes stinging as the vision of her distorts. “Can you hear me? I love you. And I’m sorry …”
I’m so fucking sorry.
Her eyes flare.
She shoves with unnatural strength, sending me skidding across the stone to the gasps of the bloodthirsty crowd. I somehow manage to cling to my sword.
Slátra leaps up. Continues to circle me as I roll onto my side, onto my hands and knees.
Battle my way to a stand.
“Fight me, Kaan Vaegor.” Her voice is barely loud enough for me to hear—spoken from between near-pinched lips—but the words hit like a spray of stones. “You must fight me.”
I turn, tracing her prowling motions. More deflated than my lung that’s squeezing through fast, crackling breaths. “I can’t bring myself to—hurt her.”
She rips off her mask and tosses it aside, black hair billowing with the smoke. “You’ll do more damage if you don’t!”
I sob. The sort of sound Pah would’ve beaten and burned me for.
Frowning, she looks to the ground and scans the smoldering terrain before she kneels, gripping the hilt of another weapon. A smaller sword grinds free, lifting a weight from my shoulders.
Sword to sword … I can keep her at arm’s length.
I’m attacking the weapon, not her.
I raise mine, all the confirmation she needs to launch forward with savage composure.
We fall into a clanging battle like Raeve and I fell into our dance at the Great Flurrt—every shift of our bodies an intimate give and take. Except we’re dancing with blades, slashing at each other with all the gusto of two folk fighting death.
The crowd blurs.
Their cheering clamor dissipates.