Chapter 49
The nearest obelisk stands in the center of a broad ruined square. Warriors have already crowded in the area, gathering beneath the shrill cry of the siren.
Some approach with anticipation, others with visible dread, but all of them keep their eyes fixed on the shifting names climbing and vanishing across the stone.
The atmosphere feels different than the usual challenge crowds—tenser, heavier. Those that do not see their names yet decide which battle they want to observe, voicing aloud their opinions on each fighter and which ones they see as competition.
Moe squeezes my hand as we push through the gathering mass. Lis glides beside us uninvited. Not a single person dares protest her presence. In fact, most step aside the moment they recognize her.
The obelisk ripples. Then my name appears.
Nykander v’Kyro (403) vs Serrik Vael (417).
A murmur passes through the crowd along with whispers about this Serrik. They all talk about his abilities and his control over his domain, which happens to be Frost. My jaw tightens.
“He’s stronger than you,” Lis remarks beside me.
I shoot her a look. “Thanks for the encouragement.”
“You should be grateful,” she replies mildly. “A weak draw teaches you nothing.”
I turn back to the obelisk, staring at the unfamiliar name. I haven’t fought a Frost Domain this strong before.
Beside me, Moe shifts closer. “How bad is it?”
“Annoying,” Lis answers before I can, already taking control of the conversation. “Frost wielders specialize in battlefield control. He’ll try to slow your movements, numb your limbs, force you into predictable paths.”
“I know how combat works,” I mutter.
Who even invited her here?
“No,” she says. “You know how brawling works. There is a difference.”
I narrow my eyes at her. She’s not helping. And seeing how everyone around us gazes at her—with a mix of admiration and fear—I don’t think this is the best time to voice my real opinion of her. Or tell her to get lost. Or at least shut up. By the Seven, how I wish she would do both!
Moe coughs into her hand, poorly disguising what is very obviously laughter.
The obelisk pulses once and a beam of red light descends over us.
“Assigned combatants, proceed,” a disembodied voice commands.
The crowd parts immediately, those wishing to stay coming closer while those who are not interested in this fight exit the scope of the beam.
Lis folds her arms. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”
I bare my teeth. “You are remarkably irritating for someone who claims to be helping.”
“And you are remarkably fragile for someone so proud,” she fires back.
“Nyk,” Moe says quickly, stepping between us before I can answer. She places both hands on my chest and rises slightly onto her toes. “Ignore her. Just focus on the fight. I know you can win.”
My gaze drops to her beautiful face. The noise of the square fades a little.
Mine. She’s mine.
She smooths a hand over my shirt then looks up at me with that quiet confidence she always wears when she believes in me more than even I believe in myself.
“Make me proud,” she says softly.
Some of the tension in my shoulders eases. I lean down and press my forehead briefly to hers. “I’ll make it quick.”
“Please do,” Lis cuts in. “Watching you flounder will be exhausting enough without prolonging it.”
I shoot her one last glare.
Then the world fractures and morphs.
Space folds inward with the now-familiar wrenching violence, the ruined square dissolving into crimson static before reforming around me in a burst of freezing wind.
The first thing I feel is the cold—and I fucking hate it.
Snow whips through the air in dense, blinding sheets, driven by a howling gale so fierce I have to brace myself just to remain upright.
Beneath my feet stretches a vast frozen expanse of cracked ice, frost-covered stone and jagged formations.
Far in the distance loom shattered glaciers and cliffs of blue-white ice that vanish into a sky the color of blood.
Once more, the arena benefits my opponent. At this point, I have to wonder whether that’s on purpose or I just have wicked luck.
The boundary sets automatically around, creating a barrier between the fighting space and the space where the audience is. The cold, too, seems to stop the moment it reaches the barrier.
Moe and Lis are right there, watching me, as are a dozen or so other warriors.
With a nod to Moe, I turn and focus on the fight.
My opponent is a small distance away.
Tall and lean, he’s clad in pale armor rimed with frost, his silver hair whipping violently in the storm. Even from this distance I can see the thin crystalline layer coating his skin, creeping over his throat and jaw like frozen veins. He holds no weapon.
He does not need one when this entire arena is his weapon.
He smiles as he rakes his gaze over me.
“So,” he calls over the screaming wind, “you’re the little anomaly everyone’s talking about.”
Ice creeps over the arena floor toward me in branching white veins.
I lower into stance.
Across the frozen battlefield, Serrik raises one hand and the storm intensifies immediately.
Just as the greyish gale steals my eyes, he lunges for me.
He crosses the distance with shocking speed, his boots barely seeming to touch the ice as he glides over it rather than runs.
The storm moves with him, snow whipping in his wake like a living thing, and by the time I brace for impact his fist is already hurtling toward my face.
I duck beneath it and counter with a strike to his ribs.
My knuckles hit solid ice. Pain shoots up my hand.
He smirks.
Then the ground beneath me freezes over completely.
My footing vanishes.
I slip just enough for his knee to slam into my stomach and send me skidding backward across the ice. Before I can regain balance, he thrusts his palm forward and a jagged spear of ice erupts from the floor where I stood a heartbeat before.
I throw myself sideways. Another spike tears upward. Then another.
Then five more in rapid succession, each one forcing me farther and farther back as the battlefield transforms beneath my feet. Smooth frozen ground becomes a maze of jagged crystal, each path narrowing, funneling, dictating where I can move.
Exactly as Lis said—battlefield control.
I leap over one spike and land badly, my boot skidding hard across the slick surface.
Serrik appears in front of me and drives his fist into my jaw.
My vision flashes white.
The next blow catches my ribs. The next my shoulder. Frost blooms wherever he strikes, spreading numbness through flesh and muscle alike until my entire left side feels sluggish.
I try to reciprocate, but it’s like my brain, too, has become frozen. I am incapable of any proper thoughts—any strategies.
We collide in a flurry of close-range strikes, but every exchange favors him. His movements are efficient and disciplined. He’s clearly the more experienced fighter.
My strikes are stronger, perhaps, but less refined. Each time I force him back, he uses the terrain to recover, sliding over the ice while I stumble and fight for footing.
A kick takes my knee out from under me and I drop down. Then his elbow crashes into the back of my neck and sends me sprawling across the frozen ground.
Somewhere beyond the barrier, I hear the roar of the crowd chanting Serrik’s name and urging him to finish the job fast.
Serrik circles me slowly. Frost gathers over his hands in curling ribbons. “This is the one who escaped the Culling?” he calls loudly enough for the audience to hear. “I expected more.”
Laughter erupts from somewhere in the stands.
I push myself upright, spitting blood onto the ice.
He charges at me again.
This time I do not meet him directly.
I retreat.
He smiles, sensing weakness, and presses harder—driving me backward through the maze of ice formations he created, each strike forcing me farther into the terrain he controls.
Then I understand. Every blow is thought-out. His aim is not to deliver damage with hand-to-hand combat, but to push me towards the areas where his control over the environment is strongest.
In that case, I must shift the dynamic and uncover where he is least strong. Kind of hard to do when the entire arena is a wonderland for his domain.
As he lunges again, I duck low and slam both palms into the nearest frozen spire. My shadows surge outward at the ice.
Darkness races through the cracks and seams in the frozen structure, seeping into every fracture hidden beneath its glossy surface.
Serrik frowns as he tries to understand what’s happening.
Too late!
I wrench downward with everything I have and hold my breath, hoping my idea comes to fruition.
Two tense seconds later, the entire formation shatters.
A thunderous crack splits the arena as the spire explodes apart, sending massive chunks of ice crashing into the battlefield.
Serrik leaps back to avoid the collapse, but the destruction tears through his carefully constructed terrain, obliterating half the pathways he had built and leaving the field fractured and uneven.
For the first time, he falters.
I smirk. Finally!
I don’t give him time to regroup as I lunge for him.
He barely gets his guard up before I crash into him, driving my shoulder into his chest hard enough to send us both skidding over shattered ice. My fist slams into his face. Again and again. Somehow, he manages to twist away and from his palm, a lance of frost shoots forward into my chest.
Agony tears through me and I let out a ragged groan.
From the impact point, more ice forms atop my chest. He’s trying to distract me as he backs away, but I notice his strategy immediately.
My shadows move forward and wrap around his feet, then his wrists and finally his throat.
He struggles against the binds and I know that with my current control over my shadows, I won’t be able to hold this restraint for much longer.
But it’s enough for another blow.
My forehead slams into his nose with a sickening crack and he staggers back.