CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AT ALL COSTS
Fear stews me alive. I’m drenched in sweat from my frazzled nerves, and the heat of it all is ensnared by the fur and leather of my armor.
We eleven soldiers stand in a row on one side of the arena.
Well—nine soldiers, one Praeceptor, and one fraud.
Kaidren’s team stands at the opposite end. There are twelve of them. Eleven soldiers with Kaidren proudly in the middle. He’s the only one not wearing a mask.
Terror’s hooks dig so deeply into me, I don’t even feel a rush of vindication at the sight of Kaidren’s team clutching tshira weapons, exactly as I predicted.
Flynn begins the countdown. “Four . . . three . . .”
The energy in the arena somehow doubles. They pick up the chant with him. “Two . . . one!”
Kaidren’s team races forward. Our team is still. We raise our hands, focusing magic on our opponents’ tshira weapons.
My target is at the end of the row of soldiers. His sword has a wooden hilt wrapped in leather and a blade of sharpened tshira. Magic rushes from my outstretched hand. At my command, his blade liquefies. It drips to the ground in black rivulets, settling against the stark white snow like tar.
I smirk. On to the next.
I channel magic into a second soldier’s weapon—a tshira-hilted dagger in a holster around his hip.
My entire body jolts, from my toes to my rattling teeth, and the dagger remains whole.
I mutter a curse under my breath. The soldier used his own magic to hold the tshira in shape. He must’ve seen the melting weapons around him and reacted accordingly.
The soldier next to me wears a chain of woven leather around his neck twisted with strands of ivy. He touches the sliver of skin between his glove and sleeve to the ivy, siphoning his source and pushing it toward another soldier on Kaidren’s team.
The dark blade of their tshira battle-ax puddles to the ground.
The first wave of our attack is over. I count six disarmed soldiers. In a matter of seconds, we’ve rendered more than half the opposing team all but defenseless.
Because of me.
I feel a swell of pride. It’s just for a flicker, but in that moment, it’s deep enough to bury my dread.
Luc motions our team into action. The six soldiers designated to rush the front lines swoop, spreading out across the width of the arena, forming a human wall.
Kaidren’s team is ducked around him—he must be hastily doling out new instructions, since half his team have lost their weapons.
Dhavik and I, the two soldiers assigned to flank Luc’s side, press in closer. Dhavik grips a sword, while I have a knife tucked into a pocket on my thigh. In my short time with Flynn, I learned basic self-defense, not swordplay, so I selected a weapon I might actually be able to use.
Kaidren’s group disbands. I take a quick survey of their revised strategy.
It appears Kaidren gave up his own sword to one of his disarmed soldiers.
Like Luc’s team, Kaidren’s soldiers form a wall.
Unlike us, there are eight of them. With an extra team member, he still has three soldiers who remain by his side, guarding him more closely.
Six of Luc’s soldiers clash against eight of Kaidren’s in the center of the arena.
The crowd roars at the first clang of weapons slamming into each other.
It takes only seconds for one of Luc’s soldiers—a short man called Pol—to drive a sword into the stomach of one of Kaidren’s unarmed soldiers.
I don’t know him, but my throat tightens as he tumbles over.
The wound in his gut is deep, spilling blood over the snow. No one pauses. Not even his own team.
Pol steps casually over the body and begins hacking at a second decurio like it’s nothing.
The fallen soldier is still alive, but fading quickly. He’ll be dead soon without medical attention, but he just lies on the ground, ignored by the war around him.
I have to look away. No one is going to save him, and I don’t want to watch him slowly die.
Pol clashes with another soldier. There’s a brutality to his movements that’s unsettling. He’s battling another member of the decurio of his own army, yet he fights with the same ruthless intensity I’d expect from someone attacking an enemy.
Flynn was surprised how viciously I fought him. He’d noted how rare it is to see in untrained soldiers. I wonder if the decurio are instructed to be violent, with no regard for their opponent. If cruelty against their own is encouraged, even in training.
With a screech, Pol uses his blade to sweep his opponent’s legs out from under him. He falls to the ground, and Pol raises his sword. All he has to do is swing down, and his opponent is dead.
Luc takes a small step forward, as though to call out to him—to tell Pol there’s no need to kill.
I catch his arm and shake my head, as subtly as I can.
Pol plunges the blade through the other soldier’s chest, killing him instantly.
Within the first three minutes, Luc has all ten members of his team still standing. Kaidren has lost two.
The wall of soldiers is a blur of swishing weapons and violence.
I can’t decide where to focus, until a third one of Kaidren’s soldiers drops to the ground in a spray of blood and frost, either dead or injured enough they can no longer fight.
Both teams now have six soldiers fighting in the middle of the arena.
“Go,” says Luc urgently. He has two team members hanging back. Their job is to try and skirt past the wall and get to Kaidren. Hopefully, the battle in the center is enough of a distraction they can get through to the other side, put Kaidren in a death position, and finish this.
They’re halfway to the center of the arena when the snow beneath them melts. The soldier on the right slips and falls.
My eyes snap to Kaidren’s team. Someone used magic to heat the ground beneath them. One of Kaidren’s soldiers breaks away, running toward the fallen decurio. He pushes to his knees, trying to rise, but before he can, Kaidren’s soldier swings a sword at his legs.
He screeches as his left leg is sliced. He can’t fight back before he’s cut again, this time on his torso.
Blood streaks the snow as he collapses. He isn’t dead, but he won’t walk for the rest of the trial. Maybe ever.
Kaidren’s soldier doesn’t take so much as a second to pause before turning to Luc’s second flier, Aleta, and stabbing her in the stomach.
Aleta doesn’t make a sound. The soldier twists the sword in her gut, and she collapses like a stone.
To my horror, the blade is still in her. As she falls, it keeps slicing.
I cover my mouth to muffle a shriek. My knotted stomach drops to my feet as Kaidren’s soldier draws back his sword. Aleta is dead.
One of Luc’s team members pounces on Kaidren’s soldier, and they begin a dance of darting limbs and clanging weapons. All the while, Dhavik and I keep tight to Luc’s side. Part of me feels guilty we don’t move to help, even as I know there’s nothing I could do to stop this.
There are casualties on both sides now. The sounds of battle heighten. The screeching of the crowd grows louder. Each team fights harder now that they’ve lost someone. More bodies drop as both sides attempt to force the other back, closer to the opposing team’s candidate. Neither is gaining ground.
My hopes of this being over quickly are slashed when I see Pol—Luc’s most vicious warrior—plummet in a shower of red blood and white snow.
By this point, Kaidren has five soldiers left. We have seven.
Except two of Luc’s soldiers—me and Dhavik—aren’t actually fighting. We stay back with Luc to protect him.
My heart pounds, and I’m burning up under this armor.
All five of Kaidren’s remaining warriors are at the battle in the center of the arena, fighting against five of Luc’s.
Kaidren is alone on the other side of the wall of war.
The three soldiers initially designated to guard him have been drawn into the bloodbath.
He no longer has a direct guard—he’s practically an open target.
We need one person to get across the field and fight him into a death position.
Just one.
The blood pulsing in my ears quiets as I force myself to think. Now is the perfect opportunity to send one of us to attack Kaidren, but someone has to stay behind and defend Luc.
Which is more important: defeating Kaidren or protecting the Praeceptor?
The answer is obvious. Defending Luc is the most important thing. Crossing the arena will mean nothing if, in the process, someone gets to Luc and we lose before we have a chance to win.
I can’t risk leaving Luc with the only soldier on this field with no training—me. The real decurio must stay and defend him, while the fraud should go after Kaidren.
My only weapon is the knife tucked into the pocket at my thigh. All I have to do is press the blade against Kaidren’s throat, and this is over. Luc wins. We win.
I turn to my brother. “I’m ending this.”
His head jerks to me. “What are you talking about?” His eyes widen as he glances across the arena to Kaidren, answering his own question. “No. Absolutely not. Have you lost your mind? You’ll have to run through the battlefield.”
“It’s our best option.”
I’ve never seen him look more panicked. “There are at least three people already dead. Do you understand me? You could die.”
“Or we could win.”
Luc stares at me like he’s never seen me before. He shakes his head emphatically. “Mira, no. I forbid—”
I don’t let him finish. If I do, I might let him talk me out of this.
Instead, I let my terror drown in his words. Before he can stop me, I take off in a sprint across the arena, gaze fixed on Kaidren Vale.