Chapter 73
When I crawl into the ring, Kazem is waiting with a promise of death on his face, not a single scratch on him from his duel two nights ago. The Megadome is quiet, filled with Zo and Zem noblemen only since no one else got the schedule change notification.
His burgundy dueling leathers showcase every broad muscle, along with glistening red studs that cover his forearms. One for each opponent he’s killed in the ring, too many to count.
He smiles and takes hold of the dueling swords at his waist. “Nice of you to come on such short notice.”
I death-grip my sword and shrug. “Today. Next week. I’ll kick your ass any day.” Even if I was the backdown type, the law requires duelers to fight to their end in the King’s Duel.
I can’t lose.
His smile turns lethal. “Except today your spirit is busy, isn’t he?”
Blood freezes in my veins. He shouldn’t know Dae is gone or that he’s a he.
My knuckles strangle the black hilt. “That’s why it will be even more embarrassing when you lose.”
He chuckles. “You can’t win if you don’t use your vessel at least once.”
The bell screams overhead.
A blinding spray of red smoke sends his gleaming sword surging for my chest.
I snap myself backwards, turning the maneuver into a backhand kickover. His sword grazes the leathers over my abdomen, slicing through my suit.
Before my feet firmly land, his second sword swipes my back, slicing with faster moving power than I’ve ever seen in a duel ring. Searing pain races up the gash.
I’m death-gripping my sword with every ounce of golden strength I have as I favor my bloody side, but his red smoke snaps it from my hand as if I wasn’t even holding it, faster than my eyes can register.
His moving ability is powerful. Too powerful.
He drills my sword down through the mat with his power, past the hilt until it disappears, sinking down through the stone floor beneath us.
That’s when I notice the red gems glowing on his shoulders. Blare gems.
Double fuck.
I hurl a dagger at his leg, but a puff of red smoke stops it mid-flight and does not move again. I palm two more daggers and run toward him.
Another puff of red takes every dagger on me except one, sending them in line with my first.
Shit.
By the way he’s neatly arranging each dagger, turning their points toward me, I know he’s going to drag my humiliation out as long as possible.
I charge him because his attention is on my plethora of floating daggers. His showboating buys me precious seconds. Taking my last dagger hidden in the cross of my X belt mid-run, I deliver a jump-kick-swipe combo that wins me a nice gash down his face, deep enough to scar.
When I turn to admire my work, a sickening dread sweeps through me as the sliced edges of his cheek begin mending together.
His Mark.
He can heal himself. Not just accelerated healing like me.
Instant. Healing.
Kazem laughs at my expression. “You’ll join the Awom from the Winter Rave after I ruin your reputation as a skilled dueler.”
Red-hot rage washes through me. The kind that blinds a person, sending all logic out the window.
The kind that always ends badly.
A scream tunnels from somewhere deep inside me like a war cry as I charge him without any methodical train of thought in existence. No plan. No direction. Just a cart bull on a rampage across the ring.
That’s why I don’t register the puff of red from his palms, or the location of his swords, until one hits me like a battering ram through the breast, knocking me back like a piece of shrapnel from an explosion. I land on my back, and Kazem leans over me, hands clasped behind him, as he drives the sword deeper with his magic.
My scream eclipses the sickening crack and wet fleshy sound as it runs clean through my chest and into the mat below, pinning me. Blood pools to the surface, bringing a gold light with it, shimmering amongst the shades of scarlet. It’s Wala’s gift running through my blood, healing around the blade, lodged in my rib cage.
When Kazem bends over me to admire his work, I kick my boot, driving it into his face with the spike.
He crumples to a knee, howling in pain before mending the gash on his cheek back together. “You’re a dead bitch,” he snarls, taking his second sword in his hands and driving it through my gut with the same wet kiss of blood and flesh.
Another scream pulls from my lips, but it’s quiet. Air is barely coming, wheezing in and out. If I get out of this, if I get my hands around his throat or a knife in my hand, I will kill him.
Gold light doesn’t come this time. It was always Wala, my mother, letting me know she was near. The gold runs inside now, healing, but not fast enough.
Kazem’s blue eyes focus on mine and even here, in this position, I see the tiny flinch away from my black eyes. He rips his first blade from my chest and raises it over me, its bloody point aimed for my heart. He grips it with both hands over his head—a death blow about to land.
That competitive thread in me tugs hard, and it dulls the pain.
I grab the blade of his sword still pinning me to the mat. Its edges cut through my palm and chest like butter, but I don’t let go. At this angle, I’m ripping and slicing through new sinew as I yank the blade free.
Kazem’s eyes widen, then narrow. He thrusts his blade down at me, but I roll out of his line of fire. Roll, because that’s all I’m capable of.
My eyes find the duel ref, whistle poised in his mouth. Beyond him is my royal box section, where my father would be, but isn’t. It’s empty. Even Halix is gone.
Kazem is soaking in the cheering crowd right now, because noble women are screaming his name, and I’m not a threat. He winks and blows a kiss to one of the women in his royal box that’s full.
I’m mangled and, when I go to push myself up, my arms don’t hold my weight.
I don’t know why, but my gaze finds the royal box again, but this time it’s not empty. Tarella.
A tether pulls taut in my chest, and I remember my words to her in the training room.
Face the pain. Own it. Or it will own you.
I push up to my knees.
Kazem’s eyes light up, as if he takes pleasure in seeing me on my knees. So, I stagger to my feet. I have to face who I am—all of me.
Because someone is dying today.
Him or me.
And I have something important after this.
The lock shatters deep inside me. Power winds up through me in churning, lethal waves. When the ugliness releases from me, it moves like a hand only I can see. When it reaches Kazem, his body goes rigid.
In the same manner as it did at the Winter Rave. Just like the innkeeper at the execution.
His blood bends to me. I feel it pulsing through his veins at my discretion.
When I flick my eyes to the sword in his hand, his arm snaps it up until the point is pinching his carotid artery. It pulses, slushing blood up to his head with each pulse. Somehow, I know I could halt it, and it would obey me.
Kazem’s eyes are wide, lucid, and full of fear.
“Tap,” I growl.
His eyes narrow. All the daggers above surge for my—
I force his blade up through his jaw faster than his smoke can move the daggers, and they fall at my feet.
My heart is thudding. I can’t get away from the pounding, consuming anger as the audience chants my name.
A golden thread in my being tugs inside of me; it weaves throughout, beginning the healing process, but also bringing those golden traces of truth.
When intricate deep, red lines break across my arms, swirling, I understand. Father’s ability to control people like puppets didn’t come from his vessel.
It’s hereditary.
My vision flickers.
My pulse feels weaker, as if it has been working to keep blood pumping through me, but it’s not going through me. It’s flowing down my leathers, onto the mat, because one of the daggers did hit me.
Right through the center of my chest.
The blood turns into black holes in my vision as gravity pulls my body, and I slump—the world going black around me, but there’s gold there amongst the dark.
I come too after what seems like hours, but I’m still in the ring, a golden buzz humming through me. Six healers tow Kazem’s body away on a stretcher. His chest isn’t moving.
I killed him.
I killed him.
I climb to my feet with weak limbs. My chest is sore but healed enough. Everywhere else is on a slow mend. I manage to bend my body to fit through the ropes. I leave the ring with my blood smeared everywhere, the golden hum through my body slowly working.
I make it to the long corridor, my guards covertly fall behind me, a newfound fear and worship is in Brunar’s gaze.
I pass Tarella.
Her face hardens, but there are no words between us. The crowd is chanting my name in loud droves of shouts, drowning the chance at conversation. She turns, furling her cloak, and goes to leave through the dark tunnel, but stops just before turning the corner and looks back.
At me. The monster my father created.