Chapter 36
Istep into the arena and am immediately blinded by the blaze of the rising sun and shaken by the thunderous cheers of the crowd. For a moment, the brilliance and the noise drown my senses, leaving me blinking and unmoored. I raise a hand to shield my eyes and let my gaze sweep across the arena.
Not a seat remains unclaimed. The benches sag beneath the press of bodies, the air vibrating with the fervor of those eager to witness the final challenge.
Then my attention snags on the ground ahead, and confusion knots my brow. The once-level earth has been raised, sloping upward in a subtle incline toward the far end. At the far end, two vacant thrones wait.
My thoughts leap to Ryker and Mael. The younger prince’s calculating gaze flashes in my mind, and I banish it at once. The seats cannot be for them—no royal would risk sitting so near whatever storm is about to break here. Then who are they for?
The clamor is suddenly interrupted by a booming thud to my right, followed by a roar that reverberates through my very bones. All eyes swing to Zyrel, who strides into the arena, flanked by his dragon. The black beast lunges, its massive bulk surging in our direction.
I brace for the strike, magic thrumming beneath my skin. But Kaelzar is faster.
Before my next heartbeat, he’s standing in front of me, ready to unleash devastation. Yet the dragon doesn’t attack. Instead, it opens its maw and roars, a sound so deep it shakes the air. Ash-gray breath pours from its jaws in a thick, seething wave.
But the wave never reaches us.
Instead, it slams into something unseen standing between us. As the echo of that roar fades into silence, Kaelzar glances at me, his expression mirroring my confusion.
Our gazes shift to where the smoke met resistance, and then I see it. A wall of glass, so impossibly clear it’s barely noticeable, stretches across the arena, dividing us from Zyrel and his Godbeast. I follow it up until the glare swallows its top edge. There’s no climbing it. No going around.
We’re separated. A slow breath leaves me, half relief, half disbelief. The odds no longer feel impossible. I had promised Peonica I would return, though part of me hadn’t believed it. How could I, facing an opponent like Zyrel, in a physical battle?
Now, with this barrier between us, victory suddenly feels within reach.
Relief starts to ease the tension in my chest when, without warning, my body locks up. My muscles seize so hard I bite down on my cheek and taste blood.
“Trouble!” Kaelzar’s panicked voice cuts through the haze.
Then the pain hits, like I’m being torn apart from the inside. Like invisible seams are ripping open. I gasp, unsteady, trembling. It’s as if a layer of my skin has been peeled off, leaving me exposed, raw, cold and burning all at once.
Kaelzar’s arms catch me, steadying me as my vision swims. Tears spill down my face and I try to wipe at them, dazed.
Then I spot Zyrel. He’s doubled over too, shaking, caught in the same invisible grip. Whatever this is, it’s affecting us both.
“Trouble,” Kaelzar says firmly, his hands gripping my shoulders. “Look at me. Are you hurt?” His voice tells me he’s asked that question more than once already.
I start to shake my head to reassure him, but then I see something move behind Kaelzar. A crimson mass, pulsing with a slow, sick rhythm, crawls across the ground on my side of the arena. On the other side, a molten, silver shape rolls away from Zyrel, moving in the same direction.
Kaelzar notices the panic in my eyes and turns. He sees it too.
“What is that?” he asks.
I knew the moment I saw it. The connection was instant, primal.
“My Blood magic,” I whisper. “It’s… the physical form of it.”
It’s been ripped out of me. Torn free. Watching it crawl along the sand toward the thrones leaves me hollow, like someone has stolen a vital organ.
A furious growl rolls from Kaelzar, no doubt at the thought of all the nearly dead animals he spent hours tracking down so I could ease their suffering and gather enough Blood magic for the Challenge—now wasted.
The red mass moves fast. Within seconds, it climbs the throne, stretching and twisting, taking on form. The arena falls utterly silent as the shape becomes unmistakable—a woman.
The Witch Goddess, Calista.
Even from a hundred and fifty feet away, her outline is clear: horns sweeping upward like blades, her body draped in liquid scarlet, as though her very skin bleeds.
She sits in perfect stillness, hands resting calmly in her lap.
Even blurred by distance, the sight of her freezes the air in my lungs.
On the throne beside hers sits another figure, twice her size.
Thul’Barak. His horns spiral thick and long.
A physical pull tugs at me, an instinct to run, to seize my magic and drag it back into myself by sheer force. But before I can move, the Sibyls’ voices boom from the high rails above, ringing in perfect unison.
“Greetings,” they say. “Today we gather for the final challenge, one that will decide which of the two remaining Champions shall raise their god to the rank of Sovereign of Calcatra. The rules are simple: one half of your magic has been taken from you. Whichever of you reaches and reclaims it first will prove your worth to your magic.”
My smaller size could finally be an advantage, though it could just as easily be a disadvantage. My legs are shorter, which means my stride is too, and I wouldn’t be able to run as quickly.
But the Sibyls aren’t done.
“Your Godbeasts,” they continue, “may act as they choose—to hinder your opponent or to defend you from one another. Or from other obstacles.”
Other obstacles.
The words hang heavy in the air. My pulse quickens as I scan the arena, searching for any sign of danger. There’s nothing. No movement, no trap I can see.
“When do we—” I start, but the question never finishes.
A piercing, bone-deep screech cuts through the arena as the glass wall between us trembles violently. A second later, it explodes, shattering into a thousand glittering shards that pour down on us like lethal rain.
There’s nowhere to run. No cover from the storm of glass hurtling toward us. Instinct takes over. I reach for my Blood magic, instinctively hoping to have enough to use it on both myself and Kaelzar— and feel nothing.
The emptiness where that power used to live hits like a blow. It’s so sudden, so absolute, that for a heartbeat, I can’t move.
Kaelzar doesn’t hesitate. He lunges forward, wrapping himself around me. One arm sweeps above our heads, and shadows surge to life, forming a solid wall of dark brick between us and the onslaught.
The sound that follows is chaos. Shattering glass, the deep, pained roar of a dragon, the crack of shards slamming into stone. It’s deafening, a storm of violence.
I risk a glance past Kaelzar’s shoulder.
Zyrel crouches beneath his dragon’s belly, the beast shielding him completely.
Glass shards rain down on them, clattering against thick scales.
Most bounce harmlessly off, but some sink deep where the scales thin—at the joints of its legs, the base of its neck, along its tail.
That’s when I understand. The part of Zyrel’s magic that was taken is the magic of Transformation. If he still had it, he could have turned the glass into water, dust, anything.
Suddenly, there’s a deafening quiet. For a few moments, we wait.
When it becomes clear that the last shard has fallen, Kaelzar lowers his arm, and the wall of shadow crumbles into mist. In its place, smaller shadowy shapes rise from the ground—dozens of slender, twitching silhouettes. I blink, realizing what they are.
“Brooms?” I breathe.
Kaelzar shrugs as they sweep the glass away in neat, brisk strokes, clearing a path before me. The sight would almost be comical if not for Zyrel’s sudden roar across the arena.
“Take her head off, you useless beast!” he bellows, kicking his dragon’s leg. The blow barely makes the creature flinch. But I do on the dragon’s behalf.
Any trace of pity vanishes when the dragon’s manic, dark eyes lock onto me.
Before it can lunge, Kaelzar is already moving, charging straight at it. Two shadow-forged blades extend from his arms, and a swirling mass of darkness rises at his side, taking form. The audience erupts into a roaring frenzy, hungry for the spectacle.
I don’t wait to see what kind of creature my Godbeast calls forth. He’s doing his part—holding off the dragon—while I do mine. I run.
Out of the corner of my eye, Zyrel bursts forward too, his leather boots crushing the glass shards under his weight.
We move in unison, both sprinting toward our thrones. The distance isn’t far. If I’m fast enough, I can reach my magic before he even tries to stop me.
But I’ve barely gained a few feet when something shoots from the ground—a thin, writhing spike of metal, like a silver worm. I twist to dodge it and keep running until pain flares around my ankle.
I’m yanked backward so hard I crash face-first into the floor, air exploding from my chest. The ground quakes with the clash of dragon and shadow somewhere behind me as I scramble to understand what just happened.
Then I see it. The ‘worm’ is no creature, it’s a wire, thin and barbed, coiled tightly around my ankle. Blood already slicks the metal. I grab at it, trying to pull it free, but the spikes slice into my fingers.
The wire seems almost alive, its other end buried deep in the ground.
When I try to pry it open, it tightens, cutting deeper into my skin.
The memory of Kaelzar’s chains biting into his flesh flashes through my mind, and I can’t help but wonder if the Sphere knows. Did it take his pain and turn it into ours?
Zyrel is a few strides ahead, wrestling with two wires. One coiled around his thigh, another cutting into his wrist. He yanks and twists with all his strength, but the more he fights, the tighter they bind.