Chapter 24
Isprint for the two swords, pumping my arms hard. Adrenaline snaps through my nerve endings, spurring me on, and I feel as if I’m running as fast as the wind.
Ahead, Dagonet and Rion reach the swords just before me, swooping in to snatch them from the stone.
But that’s what I expected, frankly. I was running for the sharpest piece of wood. I scan the ground and find a piece that’s roughly my arm’s length.
Once I’ve got my weapon, I turn to see Dagonet’s sword clashing with Rion’s, sparking in the light.
Dagonet’s Song floats on the wind, and I can hear the haunting melody.
He’s fighting ferociously, a blur of metal and fury.
Around them, the weakest contenders wait, hoping for a weapon before we join the fray.
I move closer to Rion because I want to grab his sword when he dies. I’m circling him like a vulture waiting to pick the carrion clean. A few paces away, Dagonet’s blade sings as it sweeps through the air, his attacks furious. Thank the gods he’s on my side today.
Really, I’m stunned that Rion has been holding his own against Dagonet this long.
But as I start to move closer, the skies darken overhead, and a chill ripples through the air. Wind sweeps over us, and the morning sky turns to dusk. In the gloom, the Ruthless Knight glows like a star, his silver hair gleaming.
My breath catches at the unearthly, sublime sight of him.
This is the full force of his dread magic, and it’s much more powerful than the little demonstration I saw with Goch. He’s not even targeting me, and terror runs over my skin like ice water.
Dagonet lowers his sword. He’s not fighting anymore. Instead, he’s retreating, his eyes wild and panicked.
Rion stalks toward him, closing the short distance between them, his footfalls reverberating over the stones like war drums.
Rion is a beautiful, living nightmare.
Instinctively, I take a step back. I should be hovering around them, waiting to snatch a dropped weapon, but I don’t want Rion’s attention on me for even a second.
Even now, his magic is sending a shiver of dread skittering down my spine. It’s almost like a primal power from the old days, before the most powerful Fey magic withered from the world.
Rion possesses the graceful, careless cruelty of a god. It doesn’t matter how beautiful he looks. He stalks the arena like death itself.
Drunken Mark, meanwhile, has no fear. Maybe his mead swilling really was part of a master plan to shield his thoughts from Rion’s magic. Now, he’s edging closer to the pair, coming in from the right.
He’s also waiting for a fallen sword like a circling hawk.
As Dagonet staggers away from Rion, he begins to scream—holding his head, stumbling back. Shrieking like a child. Then he falls to his knees before Rion. He’s still holding his sword, but loosely, awkwardly, like he’s forgotten what it’s for.
My breath goes still as I watch Rion close the distance between them. The Ruthless Knight towers over Dagonet, staring down at him, and the darkest recesses of my mind are screaming at me that I’m looking at a monster.
Finally, Dagonet seems to remember his sword, and he swings for Rion. But it’s half-hearted, weak, and Rion blocks it easily.
Then, without waiting for Dagonet to yield, Rion carves his blade through Dagonet’s neck, severing his head.
Sir Dagonet’s headless body crumples to the ground, and his blood streams across the flagstones. My stomach turns. I must shield my thoughts from Rion or it’s all over.
From the other side of the mirror, the noble houses roar with excitement. Rion was right. He didn’t need to give a speech—his skill in the arena is all the entertainment they need.
It hasn’t even been ten seconds, and our strongest fighter lies headless on the ground.
Fucking focus, Syn.
I sprint straight toward Dagonet’s fallen sword, but Mark is much nearer.
He snatches it from the bloodied stones, then staggers closer to me.
He wears a wild, ecstatic grin. When he swings for me with his sword, I use my wooden plank to block his attack, and his blade lodges in the oak.
Before he gets the chance to yank his blade out, I twist the wood, trying to wrench the blade from his grasp.
In response, he kicks me in the stomach.
I fall hard, my head smacking the ground.
Pain blooms through my skull like blood spilling through water.
Mark rips his blade free.
Thankfully, I’m still gripping my piece of wood, the splinters biting into my palm.
Pain is a gift. Auberon’s voice rings in my thoughts. A reminder of what’s at stake.
I lift my head to see Mark raising his sword above me, ready to bring it down on my head this time, but I roll out of the way. He lunges, but he’s off-balance.
I kick out at his legs, toppling him. He falls backward—hard. His head cracks on the stone. Still, he doesn’t seem to feel it, because he bursts into laughter.
I jump back to my feet to face him. Apparently, the mead has dulled his sense of pain—he’s already up again, lurching for me as blood drips down the back of his head.
I brace and grip the wood in my hand, holding it low. Timing is everything. And the moment Mark’s a few feet away, I dart forward, fast.
With a lightning-quick strike, I jam the sharp piece of wood into his eye socket. He screams, and his sword clatters to the ground.
I reach down for it, but one of my own teammates snatches it from the stones first.
Fucker.
Mark slumps forward onto me, and I kick him in the chest, pulling my wooden stake from his brain, since it’s all I’ve got.
As I catch my breath, I scan the rest of the arena.
Elizabeth is fleeing as fast as she can from my teammate with the sword.
My fingers tighten on my piece of wood.
As I watch her, she pivots, her eyes glowing bright with flames. Her lips curl back from her teeth, and she unleashes a shriek. A blinding white light bursts from her body, searing with intensity. I cover my eyes, my retinas burned.
When I open them again, I can hardly see a thing.
Stars dance in my vision. Vaguely, I can make out shadows around me, amorphous forms. I blink, trying to clear my eyes, my heart slamming hard.
I have no idea who has the sword now or where they might be.
It’s like I just stared directly into the sun.
I listen carefully, hoping to hear footfalls if someone is coming for me. The metallic scent of blood curls into the air around me, making my breath shallow.
When at last I can see again, the Ruthless Knight is stalking across the arena, sword in hand—a beast stalking his prey. But he’s not coming for me. He’s hunting Morholt, the man who snatched the sword from me.
Aneirin, the book lover, is rather unexpectedly unleashing tendrils of shadow magic from the end of his cane. They twist around my teammate, Bedivere. Threads of darkness suffocate him like a coiling serpent.
I focus on the two men with the swords. I still need to get my hands on one of them. Rion is after Morholt, who is tripping over his own feet to get away. He’s not even trying to use the sword, the useless fucker.
Long ago, Auberon taught me to shield my mind, envisioning a cloud billowing in my skull. A veil in my thoughts. I practiced it, over and over, imagining a cloud in my head to block my thoughts from telepaths.
This time, I’ll be ready. I start to gather the clouds.
Rion drives his blade through Morholt’s ribs from behind, then draws it out again. Blood pours onto the stones.
I race for the fallen sword, sprinting across the arena toward Morholt’s body, my feet pounding hard. My fingers close around the metal hilt.
A pulse of magic skims over my skin, and I look up to face Rion. Frigid silver eyes pierce me, and a wicked smile curls his lips. He takes a slow, predatory step closer, gaze locked on me.
No one lies to me for long.
I feel his magic snaking into my thoughts, and I’m not sure my mental shield is strong enough.
Dread is making my heart race. He’s a living nightmare, and I can no longer think clearly. I can’t breathe.
Panic is death—and death has come for me today.