Chapter 59
ChApter
Fifty-Nine
Ilook to Dante. His jaw is so firm, it could be carved from stone, but I see the storm behind his eyes. His fists clench. His chest rises, then falls. His eyes flick to me—holding, grounding. Apologetic.
He glares, not at the tsar, but at Torbin. “I’ll fight.”
“Perhaps you’re not as foolish as I believed,” the tsar says.
But then the tsar stills as the seer leans toward him.
She whispers something, and the tsar nods.
I can’t help but wonder if it’s a conversation or if she’s manipulating his mind.
There’s a subtle shift in her jaw, the delicate curl of her fingers at her side.
The tsar’s expression sharpens as he darts his focus between Torbin and Dante.
Osrem leans in to hear the whispered words, his brow creased. Even Torbin looks confused, glancing toward her with a slight tilt of his head.
As the seer takes a step back, the tsar straightens, spreading his arms wide.
“Our dear seer has reminded me of something crucial.” The tsar’s eyes gleam as they land on Dante. “It would not do for this fight to be unbalanced.”
I exchange a look with Dante, neither of us unclear of what to expect.
“Torbin is not the mere human he used to be. He has had the benefit of our seer’s alchemy skills to make him stronger.”
He means the carnoraxis potion, which gave him superhuman strength. I wasn’t aware that it was the seer’s concoction.
“So, let us give both of our challengers equal advantage.” The tsar’s grin is laced with malice as he nods to Osrem.
Fuck! No!
My heart stutters. He can’t mean—
Osrem disappears from view for a moment, then appears again, descending the stairs. In his hands he holds a pair of glass vials. The serum inside is thick, metallic orange, swirling sluggishly as though it were alive.
There’s no way he was coincidentally carrying the potion with him to the arena. Those vials were already prepared. This was the seer’s plan all along. And she means for Dante to consume one of them. Which means he will become what Torbin is.
“No,” I breathe. “No, no—don’t.”
The tsar gestures casually, as if he were suggesting a game, not sentencing a man to corruption. “Drink,” he commands. “Both of you.”
I twist in the guard’s grip. “You can’t! That serum—what it’s done to Torbin—Dante, it will change you!”
“If he doesn’t drink,” the tsar shouts, his hands planted on the balustrade, “then he forfeits the challenge.”
Oh, gods. Oh, gods!
Dante doesn’t speak. He only watches the vial handed to him, expression unreadable, but his movements are stiff and there’s a quick rise and fall of his chest.
Torbin, for his part, doesn’t hesitate. He takes his and downs it in one long, defiant swallow, then throws the vial to the ground. His muscles flex, his nostrils flare—and for a second, I swear his pupils narrow like a beast’s.
The carnoraxis release high-pitched whistles and screeches from their cages, as if they can feel what the serum is doing to Torbin. As if they feel he has their power.
Dante lifts his vial slowly, eyes meeting mine. The muscles in his jaw tighten for a heartbeat, until resolve slams down like an iron door.
After releasing a long breath, he swigs the potion.
I flinch as the serum disappears down his throat.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then his shoulders twitch—once, twice—and he drops the vial.
His breath hitches once before he emits a series of coughs.
I feel like screaming, but I can’t find the breath to do it.
Dante bends forward, one hand on his knee, as though grounding himself against the sudden tremor racing through his bones.
“Dante,” I whisper, tears threatening.
At first, he squeezes his eyes shut, his teeth gnashed together. Then he straightens slowly, his chest heaving, gaze locked on me. His throat bobs as he swallows. He looks as though he can’t speak, but he gives me one curt nod, as if to tell me he’s all right.
But I don’t believe it.
With a mocking flourish, Torbin unsheathes his sabre, raising it high, then points the tip at Dante. “You came all this way just to be sliced to ribbons.”
A guard marches out, carrying Dante’s falchion. I see my dagger strapped to the guard’s belt, the sapphire embedded in the weapon’s hilt catching my eyes.
The guard hands Torbin the falchion before retreating. I keep my eye on where he is because if I can find an opportunity to get my blade back, I’m going to take it.
Torbin paces, a weapon in each hand. For a moment, I think he’s going to keep them both, but then he tosses the falchion, hilt first, to Dante.
“Wouldn’t want you to accuse me of not being fair, Brother.” Torbin swings his sabre in a half-circle before adjusting his grip.
“We’re far beyond that.” Dante doesn’t flinch. He takes one slow step forward, dragging his falchion through the dirt before lifting it into ready position. “And you can stop calling me that. From this moment, you are no longer my brother. You are nothing to me.”
I can’t tell if he really means it, or if the serum has shifted something inside him. Is it clarity, or has the potion made him crueler?
Torbin moves to the center without hesitation, his boots leaving prints in the damp soil. “You think she holds your heart? I can’t wait to rip it out and hand it to her.”
Dante sneers at him. “You can fucking try.”
Torbin bares his teeth in something like a smile as they circle each other. His sabre glints as he moves, boots crunching over the blood-soaked earth. “I made them scrub her raw when she got here. Not that it helped much. I can still smell you all over her.”
It’s a lie—at least the scrubbing part. Though she did say Torbin wanted the ‘scents from before’ washed away, Staja left me to bathe on my own. Torbin is just trying to provoke Dante. Taunting him so he’ll make the first move.
Dante’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t rise to the bait.
They strike at the same time. The sound of steel clashing against steel is deafening. Their movements are brutal and fast, each blow meant to injure, to weaken, to end.
I can barely breathe.
The tsar and seer watch with pointed focus. The carnoraxis growl and shriek from their cages, agitated from the ruckus of the fight.
Torbin lunges, Dante blocks. Dante swings wide, Torbin ducks beneath it, his sabre flashing as it cuts across Dante’s arm. The fabric tears. Blood seeps into the sleeve.
Dante doesn’t pay it any attention.
Torbin chuckles, backing up but keeping his sabre ready. “I have the feeling you already know, Brother, but I have to say this—she is delicious.”
My stomach turns. I rub my neck where the pain from his bite still lingers, like a brand of violation etched into my skin.
“Then again,” Torbin says, orbiting Dante with the easy arrogance of a predator, “you may have been tasting from a different part of her than I. But if I win, I’ll be sure to make my own comparisons.”
Dante lets out a vicious growl. His next swing is aimed at Torbin’s neck.
Torbin deflects it at the last moment, the blades scraping so hard, it sends a shock up my spine. He spins and slashes at Dante’s ribs—barely missing.
They regroup and start circling again.
“You’re afraid,” Torbin taunts, breathing heavier now.
Dante grits out, “Afraid of you? You’ve grown delusional.”
Torbin’s grin sharpens. “No. You’re afraid that Celeste knows what I am and still might want to be with me.”
“Like I said,” Dante replies, eyes burning, “delusional.”
They clash again, blades screaming against each other. Torbin ducks under Dante’s guard and slams a fist into his ribs. Dante staggers back but recovers, driving his shoulder into Torbin’s chest, forcing him off-balance. Dante takes the opportunity to swipe low, slicing a gash in Torbin’s side.
For a moment, Torbin backs up, pressing his hand against the wound and then staring at the blood as if he doesn’t believe Dante landed a strike. But then he grits his teeth and raises his sabre again.
Their blades clash a final time—locked. They press into each other, each trying to get the upper hand, but neither is willing to back off.
Then, as if by mutual agreement, they throw their swords aside. The falchion clatters near the edge of the arena, the sabre skidding to a halt against a blood-streaked stone.
They attack each other, hand to hand now. It’s raw and ruthless, with Torbin landing the first punch. It’s a clean hook to Dante’s jaw that snaps his head sideways. Blood sprays from his mouth. But Dante retaliates instantly with a brutal knee to Torbin’s gut, doubling him over.
The crowd roars. I want to scream at them to shut up.
Sweat glistens on their skin. Blood drips from both their wounds, their noses, their lips.
Torbin swings his fist again. Dante blocks it, then slams his elbow into Torbin’s sternum. They grapple, dust rising around them.
I want to help Dante, like I did during the trials, but I feel the seer’s gaze land on me. It’s almost as if she can read my mind. It’s almost as if she’s daring me. Like she will see to it that Dante fails if I make a move.
“Why are you holding back?” Torbin growls at Dante, spitting blood onto the ground.
Dante pants, chest heaving. “Maybe there’s part of me that doesn’t want to believe you’re a lost cause. That there’s still a part of you that’s human enough to save.”
“Now who’s delusional? I don’t need saving, Brother,” Torbin shouts. “What I need is for you to let me go.” Then he throws his forehead forward, cracking it against Dante’s head.
Dante stumbles, knees buckling, but he doesn’t fall. He lunges, punching Torbin in the temple.
Torbin’s snarl curls through the air like coiling, venomous smoke. His chest heaves. But his eyes burn with that same twisted hunger that’s haunted me since the day I found him in the pit.