The adrenaline of the fight against the Ink-Abomination faded, leaving only the cold, vibrating silence of the Celestial Atrium. We found the rest of the Alliance huddled near a pillar of spiraling starlight.

  Brandan was sitting on the invisible floor, staring down into the magma core of the world miles below. He was furiously scrubbing a spot of dried ink from his hammer, Thunder-Fall. Scrubbing it raw, as if the stain went deeper than the metal.

  Every few seconds, a spasm twitched in his jaw. He paused his scrubbing to press a fist against his ribs, letting out a stifled, gurgling cough.

  He swallowed hard, grimacing as if tasting copper, but refused to look at anyone. He just kept scrubbing, harder and harder.

  Gutrum stood guard, his eyes sad and weary. Baldur was reading his ledger, but he wasn't turning the pages.

  "We survived," I announced, my voice echoing in the vastness. "Though Livia Whitefield nearly turned me into a shish kebab."

  Brandan looked up. His eyes didn't find me. They went straight to York Bladeblood,who was shivering behind me, clutching his unstrung bow.

  The King’s face hardened. Not with anger, but with a flinch like a man looking at an open wound he couldn't stitch shut.

  "Boy," Brandan rumbled, his voice rough. "You shouldn't be here. This is the deep end.Go sit with Olenka."

  It was meant to be protective. It sounded like a dismissal.

  York flinched, but this time, he didn't cower. The terror of the arena had burned away his filter. He stepped forward, his hands trembling.

  "I am not a child, Brandan," York whispered. "I fought. I helped Wilhelm."

  "You are shaking," Brandan growled, turning back to his hammer. "You are weak. Just like Vylas. Just like Vayla."

  The air in the Atrium froze.

  Gutrum closed his eyes. "Brandan. Don't."

  But York didn't retreat. He dropped his bow. It clattered loudly on the invisible floor.

  "Weak?" York’s voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes hot, angry tears. "Is that what you tell yourself? That you killed them because they were weak?"

  Brandan stopped scrubbing. He stood up slowly, the Bear rising to his full height.

  "I killed them," Brandan said, his voice low and dangerous, "because they were Butchers. They rode against me at the Bridge of Tears. They wore the Black Armor. The armor of the squad that murdered Lisa."

  He took a step toward York, his shadow engulfing the Prince.

  "I saw them, boy. Through the fog. They didn't come to talk. They came dressed as my nightmares. They came to finish what Valerius Bladeblood started."

  "They came to save you!" York screamed.

  The scream echoed through the Celestial Atrium. Heads turned from the other Houses.

  Brandan froze. "What?"

  York was weeping now, his whole body shaking. He pointed a finger at the King the man who had killed his family, the man he was supposed to hate, but the man he served anyway.

  "It was a trick," York sobbed. "Father... King Hartmut... he knew. He knew you loved Lisa Falken. He knew her death broke you."

  York wiped his nose on his velvet sleeve, looking small and broken.

  "Vayla... the night before she rode out... she came to my room. She sat on my bed. She told me she wasn't going to fight. She told me she loved you."

  Brandan dropped his hammer.

  CLANG.

  "Lies," Brandan breathed, his face draining of color. "She drew her sword."

  "She drew it to lay it at your feet!" York yelled. "She thought you were a good man! She thought if she rode out, took off her helmet, and showed you her face... you would stop the war. She wanted to marry you, you idiot! She wanted to overthrow our father and end the bloodshed!"

  York fell to his knees, the weight of the secret finally crushing him.

  "But Hartmut made them wear it. The Black Guard Armor. He painted it with pig's blood. He sealed the visors with magic so they couldn't take them off. He sent them out as bait."

  York looked up at Brandan, his eyes full of pity and hatred.

  "He wanted you to kill the woman who loved you. He wanted you to be a monster. And you did it. You didn't even let them speak."

  Brandan staggered back. He looked at his hands the massive, calloused hands that had swung the hammer that day.

  He remembered the fog.

  He remembered the silhouette of the Black Armor. The trigger. The PTSD. The blind, red rage.

  Kill the monsters. Kill the memory.

  And he remembered the sound of the helmet shattering.

  He remembered seeing Vayla’s face in the mud. Her eyes wide. Not with hate. But with confusion.

  "I..." Brandan choked. "I thought it was a trap. I didn't know."

  "I know," Gutrum Falken stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on Brandan’s shoulder.

  Gutrum looked at York.

  "That is why I took the boy, Brandan," Gutrum said softly. "When we found York in the nursery... I saw you look at him. You couldn't breathe. You looked at him and you saw your sin."

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Gutrum tightened his grip.

  "I knew if I left him with you, you would destroy yourself. Or him. Hartmut didn't just kill his own children, Brandan. He tried to kill your soul."

  Brandan looked at York. Really looked at him.

  He didn't see a weakling. He didn't see a Bladeblood enemy.

  He saw the little brother of the woman he had executed in a blind panic. A boy who had carried the knowledge that his sister died trying to hug the man who killed her.

  "York," Brandan whispered. He reached out a hand.

  York flinched away. He stood up, wiping his face. He picked up his bow.

  "Don't," York muttered, his voice hollow. "Don't apologize. It doesn't bring them back. And it doesn't fix you."

  York turned his back on the King.

  "Just win the Tournament, Brandan. Win it. Because if you die here... then Vayla died for absolutely nothing."

  York walked away, standing alone at the edge of the abyss.

  Brandan stood there, paralyzed. The mighty King, the Bear, looked smaller than I had ever seen him.

  I walked up to him. I didn't offer a joke. I didn't offer a coin.

  "Hartmut was the villain, brother," I whispered. "Not you."

  Brandan looked at me. His eyes were wet.

  "She loved me," Brandan whispered, his voice breaking. "And I crushed her chest."

  He picked up Thunder-Fall. He didn't hold it like a weapon anymore. He held it like a cross.

  Suddenly, Brandan doubled over. A wet, jagged cough ripped through his chest, sounding like grinding stones.

  He hacked into his fist, his body seizing violently. When he pulled his hand away, I saw a smear of dark, unnatural fluid not red blood, but something black and viscous.

  "Let the next round begin," Brandan said, staring into the dark. "I have a lot of sins to burn."

  The massive gates of the Celestial Atrium groaned open, revealing the Grand Melee Arena.

  It wasn't a dungeon this time. It was a flat, featureless expanse of hard-light, designed for one thing: War.

  On one side, the Alliance. King Brandan, his eyes red from crying but his jaw set like granite. Gutrum, Gerald, Astrid, Mary. Baldur and Bastian. Malachia flickering on my shoulder, and York standing nervously with his bow.

  On the other side, the Coalition of Venom. The Shadowgroves: Silas, Kordula, Alexander, and the crippled Konstantin. The Whitefields: Vireo, Livia, and the bored child Morvin.

  "No monsters this time!" Archbishop Desmus shrieked from a hovering podium. "Just high-born savagery! Last faction standing takes the zone! BEGIN!"

  "For the Storm!" For the Truth!" Brandan roared.

  He raised Thunder-Fall. He looked magnificent. The Bear had woken up from his grief, ready to smash the board.

  He took one step. He took two.

  And then, he didn't.

  There was no arrow. There was no spell. There was no enemy near him. Brandan simply... turned off.

  His legs gave way. His massive armored body hit the hard-light floor with a sound that was sickeningly loud in the sudden silence. CRASH.

  "Brandan!" I screamed, breaking formation.

  The Alliance faltered. Seeing their King their tank, their moral center drop face-first into the floor shattered their momentum.

  Alexander Shadowgrove didn't hesitate. "Push them! While they are confused!"

  The battle erupted, but it was a slaughter. Gerald was trying to parry Alexander while looking back at the King. Astrid was trying to shield Mary. The focus was gone.

  I slid across the floor, skidding to a halt beside Brandan.

  "Get up, mate!" I yelled, grabbing his breastplate. "This isn't the time for a nap! Get up!"

  Brandan rolled over. His face was a mask of agony. His veins usually blue were pulsing a bright, toxic neon-green. Foam was gathering at the corners of his mouth.

  "I... can't..." Brandan gasped. "Can't... feel... legs..."

  I looked at his Health Bar. [ BLOOD: 15,000 / 15,000 ml ]

  "He has full health!" I shouted, looking around wildly. "Why is he dying?!"

  Dr. Fenris Vulpine Walkin onto the field, ignoring the chaos around him. He dropped to his knees, his cane clattering. He forced Brandan’s eye open with a thumb.

  "Pupils dilated. Asymmetrical," Fenris barked. He sniffed Brandan’s breath. "Bitter almonds and sulfur."

  "What is it, Doctor?" Vasco Vane appeared beside us, crouching low to avoid a stray arrow.

  "It’s not damage," Fenris diagnosed, his voice cold. "It’s a neurological shutdown. The nervous system is being liquefied."

  Fenris looked up at me.

  "Tears of the Basilisk."

  The world stopped.

  My mind flashed back to the Void Zone. To the shadows. To the figure I had seen talking to the Reptilian shapeshifter. The conversation about poisons. I had accused Konstantin Shadowgrove. He had denied it. He had an alibi. He had a witness.

  I looked across the battlefield.

  The Shadowgroves were advancing. Duke Silas was cackling. But Konstantin... Konstantin stood at the back. He leaned on his cane. He wasn't fighting. He was watching us. He met my gaze. He didn't smile. He didn't gloat. He just tapped his Mask with a gloved finger.

  The brain, he seemed to say. Not the brawn.

  "It was him," I whispered, horror rising in my throat. "He didn't need to be in the Void Zone. He arranged it days ago. A delayed fuse."

  "A masterstroke," Vasco murmured, watching the King convulse. "To kill the strongest piece on the board without drawing a weapon."

  "This is murder!" I screamed at Desmus. "Stop the fight! He’s been poisoned! It’s illegal!"

  Desmus laughed from his podium. "Illegal? In a death tournament? Poison is just a spicy strategy, Master Storm! Fight on!"

  "Defend the King!" Gutrum roared, swinging his axe to decapitate a summoned Ink-Monster.

  But it was too late. The line had broken.

  Kordula Shadowgrove danced through the chaos. She moved like a nightmare, skipping over the bodies. She saw me kneeling over Brandan.

  "Oh, look!" Kordula giggled. "The Bastard is crying over his broken toy!"

  I tried to draw Cinderbrand. I tried to use a shout. But I was distracted. I was holding Brandan’s hand as he choked on his own tongue.

  "Brandan, stay with me!" I pleaded. "I have a cure! I have the shop!"

  I didn't see the mace.

  Kordula swung. A heavy, spiked bludgeon.

  CRACK.

  It hit the side of my helmet. My [Helm of the Ash-Seer] absorbed the lethal force, but the concussive impact rattled my brain against my skull.

  My vision went white. Then purple. Then black.

  I fell sideways, landing on top of the paralyzed King.

  "Sleep tight, little merchant," Kordula’s voice floated through the dark, sticky and cruel. "When you wake up... the King will be dead."

  The last thing I saw was Konstantin Shadowgrove, limping closer, his silver-skulled cane tapping out a rhythm of victory on the hard-light floor.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Then, darkness took the Arena.