8. Blood and Stone
Blood and Stone
In the blink of an eye, Thatcher materialized beside me.
He stumbled, barely catching his balance mere paces from me.
His chest rose and fell too fast, eyes darting wildly, taking in the mess around us—servants scrubbing blood with rags, red stains being smeared across the marble floor, and finally, the corpses, lying about in all their different manners of death.
I didn't think. I slammed into Thatcher, arms wrapping around him so tightly I could have cracked his ribs. He was solid and warm and alive, and in that instant, nothing else mattered. Not the Aesymar. Not the horrors that had taken place only moments ago.
"It's going to be okay," I whispered into his shoulder. "Everything's going to be okay."
When I pulled back, Thatcher was staring up at the thrones. The blood left his face drop by drop, skin going gray as parchment.
He took a step backward.
Several of them smirked.
"How touching," Drakor said. "The devoted siblings, reunited at last."
Elysia leaned forward in her throne. "So this is the brother our star-wielder is so desperate for us to speak with." Her gaze raked over Thatcher.
"Were either of your parents blessed?" Miria asked. Her voice was gentler than the others, but no less pointed.
Thatcher shot me a confused look. The kind that clearly asked what the fuck is going on here?
"No," I said quickly, before he could respond. "Neither of our parents were blessed."
It wasn’t exactly a lie. It’s not like she asked if our parents were gods .
Nyvora's laugh whistled past us, but there was nothing musical about the sound. "That's rather hard to believe, seeing the level of your ability."
Fire crawled up my throat. "Well, I don’t know what to tell you." My voice snapped. Fuck. Steady. I had to stay steady. "I just mean to say, we don’t know much about the blessed."
Xül shifted. Just a slight adjustment, fingers repositioning on his armrest. But my spine turned to ice anyway.
No one else seemed to pay attention. Nyvora had already turned her gaze on Thatcher.
"Your sister is claiming you don't share her gifts."
"That's correct," Thatcher said, his voice calmer than mine had been. "I was not blessed."
Kavik cocked his head to the side. "A shame. Your sister here was quite impressive."
"You're both quite appealing to look at," Elysia observed. “So at least there’s that.”
"Sometimes gifts can lay dormant," Drakor suggested, his voice carrying menace.
I stepped forward, desperation making me reckless. "We're both twenty-six. If he had powers, they would have manifested by now."
"It's not completely unheard of," Drakor replied smoothly, his smile all teeth. "Or do you believe yourself to know more about divine blessing than I do? "
I wanted to spit in his face. Tell him exactly what I thought of his divine blessing. But I bit my tongue.
"Of course not," I managed, the words coming out flat and lifeless.
Drakor rose from his throne with fluid grace, descending the steps like a nightmare given form. He circled us slowly.
"Tell me, boy," he said, stopping directly in front of Thatcher. "Have you ever felt... different? Ever experienced moments where the world seemed to respond to your will?"
"No," Thatcher said firmly. "Nothing like that."
"Curious." Drakor resumed his prowling. "Twins, born of the same blood, raised in the same circumstances—yet so unequally gifted."
"Get on with it, Drakor," Xül's bored voice cut through the arena.
Drakor turned toward him, his expression darkening. "Investigations require proper handling. Something of which you’d know very little."
Xül's shoulders tensed, but he said nothing more.
Drakor moved to stand behind Thatcher, and every instinct I possessed screamed danger. "Sometimes," he said conversationally, "all it takes is the right catalyst."
I opened my mouth to protest, to beg, to do something, but shadows erupted from the arena floor. They wrapped around me, yanking me backward, forcing my hands behind my back as darkness held me immobile.
"No!" The scream tore from my throat as Drakor placed his hand on Thatcher's shoulder. "Don't touch him!"
Pain exploded across Thatcher's face. He collapsed to his knees, his back arching as agony wracked his body.
I fought against the shadows holding me, struggling with everything I had. I reached desperately for my power, but I was empty, drained from my earlier display. The well that usually burned in my chest felt cold and distant.
"Stop!" I screamed .
But Drakor didn't stop. If anything, he was enjoying himself, watching Thatcher writhe on the bloodstained floor with detached interest.
"Enough, Drakor," Miria said. "You've proved your point."
"No," Drakor insisted, crouching down beside Thatcher. "We're not there yet."
Blood dripped from Thatcher's ears and nose. His screams became hoarse, ragged things that tore at my heart with every breath.
"You're killing him!" I threw myself against my bonds until the shadows cut into my wrists, until I could feel blood running down my arms. "Stop it!"
The torture continued. Minutes that felt like hours, watching Thatcher convulse while I stood helpless. His pain was my pain, transmitted through our bond. I could feel it eating away at him, consuming him from the inside out.
"A pity." Drakor finally sighed. A new wave of pain lanced through my brother.
Thatcher's eyes snapped open.
The pressure in the arena changed, like we’d been dragged to the bottom of the ocean. My ears popped. The smell of rain and storms and earth flooded my senses, so thick I could taste it.
Thatcher's head snapped toward Drakor, and I saw a flash of silver cross his eyes. They looked ancient and terrible and utterly feral. A beast wearing my brother's face.
He screamed.
It was fury itself, compressed into a single, devastating note that rang in from all sides.
"What do we have here?" Drakor cocked an eyebrow, his voice feigning intrigue. "Did someone finally decide to play along? I was beginning to–"
And then Drakor’s body caved in on itself.
The sound hit me first—a wet, horrible tearing that echoed through the arena. His body imploded, pieces flying in all directions. Blood sprayed across the white stone in wide arcs, and a metallic smell crawled up my nose.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stare at the space where a Legend had been and now wasn't.
The shadows holding me evaporated. I stumbled forward, nearly falling in my haste to reach Thatcher. He was still on his knees, coughing up blood, his body trembling from whatever had just torn through him.
"Thatcher," I whispered, gathering him into my arms. "Thatcher, look at me."
"What did I do?" he croaked.
I didn't have an answer. Couldn't find words for what had just happened.
Instead, I turned toward the thrones, my body shaking with adrenaline and terror and perhaps the darkest form of satisfaction.
Every single one of the Legends was standing now, their expressions ranging from grave to shocked. Even Xül had risen from his throne, his eyes fixed on the spot where Drakor had been standing seconds before.
The god was gone. Completely, utterly gone, as if he had never existed at all.
And my powerless brother had killed him.