Chapter 29 #2
She scrambled toward the opal swirl of wind glowing beside her, the rune pulsing with soft light, but something made her pause.
Her eyes darted upward, heart lurching painfully in her chest as she spotted him—the player barreling toward her.
His features were twisted into a savage grin, teeth bared.
She screamed, stumbling back as he lunged at her, his arms outstretched, his movements a wild, an erratic blend of desperation and drunken fury.
But then the wind struck.
A violent gust slammed into him like an unseen fist, lifting him off his feet and hurling him across the grid.
He landed hard, rolling to a stop, just inches away from the glowing rune.
Before he could scramble back up, the wind howled again, dragging him across the board, before disappearing into the swirling chaos beyond.
Elara’s chest heaved, fingers clinging to her tile with what little strength she had left. A strange numbness crept through her limbs, as if the blood had slowed to a crawl, the wind tearing at her hair, pulling at her clothes.
The grid was mayhem—players scattered across the board, fighting to stay upright as the wind lashed at them, one by one getting ripped from the tiles and flung into the gardens. Elara counted. Fifty remained. Maybe less. And they were getting closer.
She scanned the disarray, searching for some way to hold her ground, something she could use, but her mind was blank, scrambling as wildly as the players around her.
Elara rolled onto another wind rune, barely catching her breath, when a woman—a tall, lean figure with hawk-like eyes and a braid snapping like a whip behind her—charged forward.
Her movements were almost unnatural, dodging the wind blasts with eerie precision, slipping between the gusts as if she commanded them.
She was closing in, fingers outstretched, so close Elara could feel the air shift from her reach.
But then—crack.
A blur of motion. Another competitor came from nowhere, his elbow slamming into the woman’s ribs with brutal force. She let out a strangled gasp, her body twisting in midair before she crashed to the ground. The moment her back hit the floor, the runes beneath her flared to life—earth.
Vines exploded from the ground, coiling around her limbs. She barely had time to react before they tightened, but her hand shot out, grabbing the leg of the man who’d knocked her down, her vines wrapping around him too, yanking them both off the board in a tangle.
The crowd roared along the grid, but Elara couldn’t hear them over the pounding of her own heartbeat.
It was anarchy. Carnage. The players weren’t just battling the elements anymore—they were turning on each other.
Pushing, shoving, trampling anyone who slowed them down, anything to get ahead.
The grid shifted beneath them, tiles spinning like mad, and five more players went down, their bodies crashing into the floor before vines shot up to grab them.
The runes shifted, water flaring to life, and a shimmering wall of it rose before Elara, distorting the insanity beyond. She leapt onto the opal-marked tile, squinting through the cascade, and her heart stopped cold.
Tristan.
He stood at the edge of the grid, eyes calculating.
Unlike the others, who rushed in desperation, Tristan waited.
Patient. And then, with a precision that made her breath stutter, he moved.
One step, then another, fluid and graceful, as though he already knew every shift of the tiles, every trap ready to spring.
Where the others stumbled, Tristan glided—unbothered, unhurried.
It was as if the elements bowed to him. Where flames shot up in his path, the earth rose to smother them.
Wind howled, but water surged forward, breaking its fury before it touched him.
Around him, it was as if the elements fought themselves, struggling against each other, leaving him untouched.
Solid. And with each step, he came closer to her.
Another player crashed to the ground beside him, groaning as he hit the grid.
But Tristan didn’t even blink. He leapt over the fallen body with that same lethal grace.
And then his gaze found hers—steady, focused, full of a quiet arrogance, like he already knew exactly how this would end—like he always had.
Elara's breath hitched as Osin laughed, smooth as ever, breaking through the bedlam. “Ah, it seems we have a contender.” His gaze shifted to Tristan, with a hint of something dark curling. “Let’s see if he’s worthy.”
The crowd roared as Osin lifted his hand, the very air around him buzzing with power, shadows coiling at his feet.
They slithered into the tumult like smoke, twisting and curling through the grid, weaving between players.
One by one, they knocked aside anyone in their path, tendrils of darkness sweeping legs out from under them or coiling around their throats.
But through the madness, Elara’s gaze tracked them.
The shadows weren’t moving at random. No—they had a target.
But Tristan was already closing in, muscles taut as he fought against the relentless wall of wind trying to shove him back.
His lips peeled into a snarl, jaw clenched, a guttural growl ripping from his throat as he pushed forward.
The wind roared, but he roared louder. But then the tiles shifted beneath him, glowing a blinding green, and everything changed in a heartbeat.
The earth bucked beneath them, launching him into the air like a rock shot from a catapult.
But Tristan, damn him, made it look effortless.
He twisted midair, using the momentum like it was second nature.
Every heartbeat stretched, the seconds crawling as if the gods themselves were drawing out the moment, mocking her with it.
And then he was plummeting.
Straight for her.
Elara barely had a second to brace herself, barely a breath in her lungs before Tristan slammed into her.
Hard. The impact sent her reeling, the air punched from her chest in one brutal gasp.
They tumbled, rolling across the grid, each hit against the shifting tiles, jarring her bones, rattling through her body.
Her mind spun, trying to catch up to what just happened, when she saw it—dark, curling tendrils of Osin’s shadows, creeping toward them, swirling in tight coils. But they were too late.
A growl ripped from Elara’s throat as she shoved at Tristan’s chest. Her palms collided with the firm muscle. “Get off me.”
He didn’t move. Of course he didn’t. Instead, he braced himself above her, arms planted on either side of her head, face close, that stupid grin already spreading across his lips like he didn’t just knock her flat.
“Not exactly the welcome I was hoping for,” he murmured, hair tumbling into his eyes—messy, careless, still annoyingly perfect.
Her glare could’ve burned through steel, but all she felt was the hammering of her pulse, the rush of blood still pounding in her ears. The blaring gong cut through it all, the sound rattling through her skull as the crowd erupted in cheers. The game was over.
And Tristan had won.