Twenty
With Nyxen at my shoulder, we head towards Kael and Vaelis, both of us dripping from the cave flood, mud streaked up our legs.
Across the grass, under the humming shadow of the Mother Shard’s crown, Kael looks far worse than I realised.
Vaelis braces him on his left side, practically holding him upright.
Kael’s posture is all wrong, his spine twisted so subtly, only someone obsessed would notice.
He’s trying to look composed, but every breath makes his jaw flex in pain.
The moon has shrunk to a silver slice, cutting everything into shadow and glare.
Around the clearing, the stone pillars throb with blue-white energy, each one scorched by the earlier lightning strikes.
I can’t stop staring at the death counter.
The number eleven hovers in the air below the crown, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
Four are missing.
A branch cracks to my right, and Nyxen turns.
He’s slower than usual. Serraith is there, vaulting over roots and broken trunks with a predatory grace I’ve not seen in him before.
His uniform is in tatters, sleeves ripped away, his brand exposed, but his face is undamaged—if anything, he looks more spirited and smug than ever.
He doesn’t say anything to us. He just takes a spot beneath the Mother Shard’s crown, eyes locked on Kael and Vaelis.
We’ve somehow arranged ourselves like sacrificial pieces in a ring, as if by instinct—or by design. Kael glances at him, and something in his face curdles in disgust. Vaelis, meanwhile, gives Serraith a once-over—cold and clinical—then dismisses him entirely.
A tense silence stretches. No one speaks. The only sound is the low hum of the Mother Shard’s magic, as though she is deciding which of us to break next.
Another figure glides into the clearing—Atheron, walking like he owns the Heartlands. Behind him, stumbling through the grass, is Marissa.
I nearly go to my knees.
She’s not dead.
But she’s not whole either. Her uniform is burned, fabric melted into her shoulder and arm. One eye is swollen shut, and her hair is gone in patches, like it was torn out by the roots. She keeps her face down, teeth bared, staggering behind Atheron like a prisoner on a leash.
I reach for her, but Nyxen clamps a hand on my wrist, holding me back. Across the makeshift ring, Kael shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.
Vaelis breaks the silence. “You look like shit,” he says to Serraith, cold and flat.
Serraith flashes a dark smile, jerking his chin toward Kael. “Better than your prince.”
I glance at Kael, and for a moment, he meets my eyes. The desperation there is raw and unmistakable before he wrenches his gaze away.
“Where’s Morwen?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. I already know.
Serraith cocks his head, considering me. “Does it matter?” His voice is ice-cold. “She stopped screaming eventually.”
I swallow bile, my head swimming. Nyxen’s grip is the only thing tethering me to the world. My hands are shaking, and I can’t stop them.
Marissa falls to her knees. She doesn’t look at me, but her mouth moves silently, shaping words I can’t hear. Her body trembles with exhaustion. I want to go to her, but I can’t move. Nyxen is a statue at my back, expressionless, but I feel the tremor running through his grip on my arm.
Atheron paces back and forth, each step placed with deliberate precision. He looks immaculate, completely untouched by the trial. Impossible.
He surveys us like we’re a disappointment. “Just the seven of us,” he muses. “One more ought to be enough.”
Serraith snickers, but the sound is hollow. Kael grits his teeth, then speaks for the first time, voice ragged. “What’s your plan, Atheron? You seem to have some sort of performance in mind.”
Atheron’s eyes flick to Kael, appraising. “Very good, young Prince,” he says. “But I’m not the performer, and the show is already underway.” He gestures to the death counter, which pulses faster now, as if aware of its own hunger.
Vaelis shifts, adjusting his grip on Kael. The motion is awkward, pain flashing across his face. He’s injured too. “What are we waiting for, then?” he asks.
Atheron tilts his head back, sighing deeply. “Patience,” he says. “All in good time.”
Serraith cracks his knuckles. “I’ve got one more in me.” He glances at me. “Your turn next, Lightborn.”
“You killed Morwen,” I say, voice flat, matter-of-fact. “She was harmless.”
“Not that harmless.” Serraith shrugs. “Sharp nails, you see. Fought harder than I expected.”
The words don’t mean anything at first. Then they do.
It’s Marissa who finally looks up, her one good eye filling with tears. “You’re all monsters.” Her voice comes out like broken glass.
A moment passes in which everything—time and air and breath—stops. I feel so very small, like I am nothing at all.
Atheron catches my eye, and I see what he wants. Not only victory. Not even survival. He wants to see me broken, stripped of even the illusion of hope. I want to disappear into the earth. Instead, I stand there, hands vibrating, every cell in my body desperate to flee.
Atheron raises a hand, palm up, and the air above it ignites. Serraith does the same. Fire coils above us, spinning into a perfect sphere.
“Now,” Atheron shouts.
The ball of fire drops, slamming into the ground. Flame erupts, violent and blinding, splitting us apart. Nyxen, Vaelis, and Serraith are cut off behind the flames.
On this side:
Kael. Marissa. Atheron.
And me.
The heat is immediate and overwhelming. Grass and trees ignite around the clearing as the fire consumes everything it touches.
Kael is on the ground, dragging himself forward, one hand pressed to his spine, the other clawing at the dirt.
Marissa stands, swaying on her feet, arms limp at her sides. She is so small in the firelight, her shadow huge and wild behind her.
I call out to her, but she doesn't respond.
Atheron paces towards her, the fire haloing his figure. His eyes are pitiless, almost bored, as though we are just pawns in a game, nothing more.
“Come here,” he says to Marissa, and she does, stumbling with every step.
She stands before him, head bowed.
“Shall we show them what we practised?”
She nods, the smallest movement, all the bravery she has left.
I don’t move. I don’t know if I’m supposed to save her—or if this is the part where I fail.
Atheron drags Marissa forward until the blaze illuminates them both. The death counter flickers above as Atheron shoves her to centre stage.
Broken as he is, Kael tries to move towards me. Pain contorts his face, but he fights, dragging himself forward on his elbows.
The world is burning.
Atheron clears his throat. “In the Fire Dominion, power is earned.”
He pauses, fire crackling at his fingertips. “Shall I demonstrate?”
Marissa looks up, right at me. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t beg.
“I’m sorry,” she mouths.
I try to scream, but the heat has turned my throat to ash.
Lightning strikes a nearby pillar, and the flash burns across my vision.
Overseers rise from the ground. One. Then more. Seven in total. They rise in a single, unhurried gesture, arms unfolding in unison, faces turned to the sky.
They float like sentinels for a moment—then shift into a ballet of synchronised motion, every gesture mirrored.
This is theatre for them. Ritual. A show for the Mother Shard’s private audience.
And it’s about to begin.
The stone pillars begin to radiate with a deep blue pulse, warning of something worse to come.
The Mother Shard’s crown floats above, pulsing with insatiable hunger. The number eleven burns so bright I can see its afterimage even when I close my eyes. The air thickens, burning and strange, as though I can taste the coming storm on my tongue—metallic and charged.
Above, the moon is reduced to a scrap of light, overpowered by the bolts of lightning now arcing from pillar to pillar.
Each strike sends a crack down the old stones, until the whole clearing seems stitched together by flame and sparks.
The ground beneath us trembles, then splits, fissures radiating from the wall of fire and carving the clearing into broken pieces.
Kael is crippled. Agony lives in every movement, his jaw set so hard I fear his teeth will shatter.
Vaelis and Nyxen must be fighting on the other side of the fire, but they were both injured.
Atheron watches Kael with indifference. He makes no move to stop him—just allows it, as if he wants Kael close enough to witness whatever comes next.
“Stay where I can see you, Prince,” Atheron says, voice smooth as glass. “All eyes on our little Light Champion.”
Marissa.
She stands before Atheron, withered but not broken.
Not yet. Her fingers twitch. She’s breathing shallow, her eyes on me, as if trying to memorise my face.
I want to run to her. I want to be brave enough to save her, to sweep her away, but I’m so far out of my depth that all I can do is stand and shake.
Atheron raises his hand.
A controlled burst of flame—just a spark, really—shoots from his fingertips and darts towards Marissa’s face. She raises a trembling arm, and a shield of light flickers into existence, paper-thin, but it holds. The flame scatters across the surface, the embers drifting away harmlessly.
He cocks his head, almost impressed. “Again,” he says.
Another burst, hotter, more insistent.
The shield reappears, but it shudders, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface. Her shield looks different from mine—golden glass, thin and trembling. Marissa holds it, her arms trembling so violently, I can see it from metres away. Sweat pours down her face, stinging at her wounds.
I try to reach for my own Mana to help, but every time I think of channelling, something in my chest seizes up. Guilt? Fear? Or maybe something more insidious.
Kael drags himself closer, only paces away, but he can’t stand. He looks at me, his face hollow and desperate. “Luceris,” he says, and it sounds like a plea.
I can’t answer.