Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
How had she ended up in this mess?
Augustine was gasping for air, her mouth bone-dry and her heart hammering against her ribs after a bungled attempt to run. Her Thread turned red, and she knew.
He had caught her.
That morning, she’d woken up on edge and could barely stomach a bite of breakfast. She knew it might be her last day in the world, and she would have wanted to say a proper goodbye to her family, but that would’ve meant giving up on Alderian.
She’d chosen to trust him. So, she had no choice but to keep going, even if it felt like she was just going through the motions.
She regretted having accepted the podcast invitation. Her head was truly not present in what would happen there. She wasn’t even excited anymore. She would have preferred to stay locked in her room, sinking into the agony of the wait.
But she couldn’t just bail. At the agreed-upon time, she started the car and headed to the address they had sent her. The day was cloudy and rain was forecast. The gloom of the weather perfectly reflected her emotional state at that moment.
Did Alderian know how deep her feelings for him were?
She hadn’t had the chance to tell him, and perhaps she never would. She thought about turning around, making some lame excuse, and just going home. But she didn’t. Instead, she pulled into a deserted lot in front of a massive warehouse that she assumed was the recording studio.
She clutched her notes—the ones she had been working on in previous days—and approached the entrance. The door was ajar and the light inside was on, so she pushed the heavy metal door, which creaked as it shifted.
“Hello?” she called out, stepping into the void of the deserted room.
It didn’t seem to be the right place, so she turned around, but standing in front of her, slamming the heavy door shut, was Milán. He was looking at her with a smile—kind, chilling. Augustine froze.
“Milán? What are you doing here?” was all she could ask.
“Augustine, how good to see you… I’ve missed you so much.”
He approached as if the situation they were in was perfectly normal. Augustine instinctively recoiled and ran in the opposite direction, searching for an exit.
Shortly after, she was cornered in a dead end, with Milán closing in relentlessly.
Red Thread.
“What are you doing, Milán? What do you intend to do to me?”
“What are you saying, Augustine? I thought you’d gotten over your little tantrum from last time,” his voice was condescending, as if Augustine were a child who needed to be disciplined.
Her Shadows stirred beneath her.
“You’re insane… let me out of here.”
“But I’ve prepared everything so we can be together today… I wanted you to come happily to see me. I’m glad you were so punctual.”
Augustine moved decisively toward the exit. Milán’s expression soured, and with a chilling smile, he produced a baseball bat he’d been hiding behind his back.
* * *
The confrontation between Alderian and the General of the Elite Warriors had occupied most conversations and whispers in A’aru. The esplanade where the duel was to take place was full, with a crowd of curious onlookers who hadn’t had such novel entertainment outside the human world in centuries.
Alderian waited on his feet, Karivan at his belt. Punctually, at the agreed-upon time, a series of silhouettes descended through the open sky. It was the High Council followed by their champion.
Just as protocol dictated, he offered a profound bow to the Council, who stationed themselves at the flank of the arena. The Guardian of Order looked at him with special disapproval, as if he were observing a rat emerging from the sewer.
“We gather today to execute a duel of honor,” the Guardian of Oblivion proclaimed, his voice instantly quelling every whisper and exchange. “In this contest, the A’aruin Alderian Cernavilis shall defend his right to protect the Silver Thread binding him to his human.”
Alderian was stunned to hear his name—Cernavilis—a familiar name he didn’t even know he had.
“The rules are simple,” the Guardian of Oblivion continued.
“Alderian must demonstrate the awakening of a combat skill of such magnitude that it can energetically disrupt the Silver Thread, thus explaining the anomaly detected by the Sovereign Guardian of the Threads. To do this, he will face the most formidable warrior in A’aru, the General of the Elite Warriors, Prometius.
The match shall conclude once this is proven, or upon his demise. Whichever occurs first.”
Alderian observed his adversary. They were of similar height; he could not gauge the General’s proficiency by his physique alone, yet every sinew in the man’s body had been honed for combat.
“Let the contest begin,” the Guardian of Oblivion proclaimed.
Prometius gave Alderian no time to prepare.
At a vertiginous speed, he closed in and, before Alderian could even draw his weapon from its scabbard, the General delivered a blow that would have been fatal had it not been for the lightning reflexes of his wings, which shielded him from the onslaught.
The throng stifled a gasp of astonishment.
Alderian understood this encounter would be much more agile and ruthless than his practices with Elarión had been. He drew his sword quickly and counterattacked. He allowed his body to take command of the situation, aware that only then did he stand any chance of survival.
The collective silence of the crowd ignited into an exultant roar.
They had expected an execution, yet instead, they beheld a hero confronting a Goliath.
Alderian felt a surge of adrenaline at the cheers and sped up his onslaught.
The General had rightly earned his reputation: he afforded Alderian scant opening to strike, yet wherever a fissure in his defense emerged, Alderian plunged in with his blade.
He only had to put on a good show—something flashy enough to make his explanation of the anomaly plausible.
And if they wanted a show, he would give them one.
He used his alchemical transmutation to raise his stakes.
He moved not once, nor five times, but countless times to attack his enemy from impossible points.
The deafening shout of his kinsmen gauged the temperature of the visual impact his strategy was having.
Prometius himself seemed rattled, struggling to keep up with his unpredictable dance, which was not confined to the ground but integrated aerial assaults as well.
The General took flight, and Alderian felt a renewed respect for him.
Although he had attacked him relentlessly, at no point did the General leave a front open, and in the air, it became evident he possessed a superior level of skill.
His feints and attacks were sophisticated, and for a moment, Alderian found himself in trouble keeping him at bay.
“Wake up, Karivan,” he murmured as he executed the movement that, he already knew, ignited his combat spirit. The sword roared and emitted the silver fire he recognized, which silenced the crowd. Prometius recoiled in astonishment.
Alderian was closing in at top speed to deal the finishing blow when the Thread binding him to Augustine jolted him.
Augustine was in danger.