Chapter 49 #3
I can’t be sure he won’t. His hatred for Blaise is a blinding sun, and winning this round is the most direct path to hurting him. Selen’s request feels a million miles away from the raw, immediate reality of his vengeance.
“Champions!” Pellvorn’s voice booms from the sky, confirming my fears.
“The source of this temple’s blight lies before you!
To the victor goes not only glory, but the means of its destruction!
A Scepter of Imperial Judgment hangs just beneath the spire’s altar!
Seize it, strike the source, and cleanse this stain in the empire’s name! ”
My eyes dart to the base of the altar. There, hanging from a golden chain, is a short, heavy rod of black iron. Its surface is darkly gleaming, etched with harsh imperial sigils. The tool for the job.
The confirmation sends a jolt through Zeriel and Blaise. Their climb becomes a vicious fight—Blaise sending down a shower of loose debris while Zeriel swings out, grabbing a different route, trying to cut him off from the scepter.
I watch this surreal tableau—the two of them locked in a deadly dance, the frost-drakes swarming around me, the emperor and his court watching from their gilded perches in the sky, while the distant roar of the crowd thrums on, eager for the blood of criminals.
And I wonder, not for the first time, what is all this for? Another game, another spectacle, another piece of our history twisted into a weapon against us.
Selen’s words echo in my mind. Take it... A chance to wound the emperor in a way he won’t see coming.
Zeriel won’t do it. He’s too close, too consumed. He’ll destroy the shard and call it victory.
And in that moment, something inside me snaps. The fear, the grief, the years of being a pawn—it all burns away, leaving behind a single point of clarity. I will not be a tool. Not for the empire. Not even for him.
I do something insane.
I see one of the drakes circling, preparing for another pass. Instead of dodging, I stand my ground. I meet its cruel blue eyes and somehow push with a command so fierce it’s unignorable. An image. *Up. The spire. Take me.*
The creature falters, its predatory instincts warring with my intrusion.
It swoops low, claws extended to grasp. I leap, my hands catching its freezing legs, the rough surface tearing at my palms. Its wings beat with furious power, lifting me from the parapet, the wind whipping my hair across my face.
I soar upward, a sudden, breathtaking ascent.
Below me, Zeriel and Blaise are locked in a battle for the scepter.
I see Zeriel slam his palm against the rock face beside Blaise’s handhold.
The stone loses its integrity, turning to sand under Blaise’s fingers.
A subtle, brilliant use of his lithborn blood.
Blaise snarls, his grip failing, and Zeriel surges past him, grabbing the iron scepter from its chain.
He looks up, his eyes widening in disbelief as he sees me cresting the top of the spire, carried by his would-be killer.
Drop me, I command the drake.
It complies, releasing its grip. I hit the altar platform hard, rolling to absorb the impact, my body screaming in protest. But I’m here. Before them.
Zeriel is climbing now with a desperate, terrifying speed, the Scepter of Judgment clenched in one hand. He’s almost here. His fingers are inches from the ledge.
But I lunge for the shard.
My fingers close around the black crystal.
It’s not cold but warm, alive. For a heartbeat, nothing happens.
Then a bolt of pure, searing energy rips through me, flaring from the point on my forehead where Selen touched me and surging outward in a tide of agony and ecstasy so profound it tears a scream from my throat.
The world dissolves into white light. My blood feels like it’s boiling and freezing all at once, every dormant, forgotten piece of my heritage igniting in a single, explosive instant.
The spire groans, and cracks of brilliant, lilac light shoot down its length.
The energy pouring from the shard, from me, is a physical force, blasting outward in a shockwave that shakes Zeriel’s grip on the wall.
It punches upward, through the clouds, a beacon visible for miles, a defiant star in the face of the empire.
And in the heart of the blinding light, words burn themselves into the sky, into the very fabric of the world for all to see:
THE SILENT WAR HAS BEGUN.
The roar of the crowd falters, replaced by a collective gasp of shock and awe. Below, on the parapet, the champions stare upward, stunned. Zeriel’s face is a mask of shock, even Blaise’s. Overhead, the emperor’s dragons thrash and keen, wings beating the air in sudden unrest.
The crystal in my hand is a heart beating in time with mine, pouring raw, untamed power through my veins. And the light isn’t just around me; it is me, like a silent scream given form.
Then the energy shifts. The column of light wavers, and a force like a river in flood grabs hold of me, pulling sideways. My feet slip from the altar. Panic claws at my throat. This isn't my power to command; it's a wild thing, and it has taken me with it.
“VEYRA.” Zeriel’s voice is a raw tear in the fabric of the light.
He lunges for me. His hand clamps around my arm, a feral anchor against the storm.
But the light has no weight, no substance to fight.
It simply pulls him in too. The world dissolves into a shriek of white, a torrent of energy so immense it scours thought and feeling from my mind.
I feel the bond between us flare, a supernova of his shock and raw will, and then it’s all consumed.
The universe snaps shut.
Darkness.
Silence.