Trying to shrug out of my ethereal chains is as pointless as trying to reason with gods. The Sept is angry for my transgression. Of course. My plea resulted in less blood spilt over the arena. Now I pay the price.

  “You dare interfere, Haledyn of House Kavoh?” Center Dane’s voice whips through me like a storm. “Well, let me make the Sept’s position very clear for all duels that follow. This is a test of mortality, for worthy blood to awaken the warring dark. If I find any orphan lacking the intention to spill blood, to sacrifice their opponent… I will do it myself!”

  His statement sucks the air out of the room. No one dares move a muscle—even the spicing brutes. They just linger, hoping I rightfully receive the brunt of his wrath.

  Center Dane summons the parchment of another Dane, which flaps through the air. It lands on the dais in front of him. “House Mother Vanosha Creedbond states that Haledyn Winbridge has all rights to live within his brother’s shadow… yet does not. Worthy in a way different than Kane Winbridge. Where Kane possessed swift decisiveness and variant physical skill—”

  Possessed, like past tense? My anger boils. Did he die in this arena?

  No, get a hold of yourself. It’s a writing from House Mother. It’s past tense because Kane is no longer part of the house.

  “—Haledyn possesses curiosity and the will to activate his knowledge. What say you, boy?” The center Dane loses all of his poise, malice dripping from his words.

  “I say it is cruel to play god with us. But if some of us might live, I’d hope you let me ask a question to alleviate our ignorance.” My voice is shaky, yet tempered with anger. A fiery twinge prickles my throat too, telling me the preece stone is starting to wear off.

  Unintelligible whispers gnaw at my ears.

  “Your action in disrupting a potential awakening is disgraceful. However, your blood is worthy. Ask it! Choose your weapon, and leak all over the arena stone! Do it quickly, orphan, for my patience wears thin.”

  Wind from the center Dane’s voice blows my hair back and sends a frosty chill all over my body. My mind speeds through a fiery barrage of thoughts. Jurso is alive, but judging by his position in the pit of shame, he’s about to be hauled off to exile. So any knowledge gained after my death is in the hands of Layla Barristan, the Burnt Scar. My guard.

  I struggle to turn my head, to make sure she’s paying attention. She is.

  When I turn back, selfish thoughts prickle me all over. I should ask the whereabouts of my brother. Knowing his fate could help the greater good…

  But that’s not true. It’d only help me—a dead man.

  Then what? We know the sky is a manifestation. We know that there’s a faction called Miria we live within. We know there is a tiered society looking down on us like we’re insects. What then is the best piece of information I can arm my brothers and sisters with?

  Untapped potential. That’s what we are, according to the Sept.

  Fine.What happens if we awaken the warring dark? Easy, we will receive some kind of advanced attunement to magic. Mythos is consistent enough on that point. Or so I hope.

  Will we have access to the world’s actual knowledge base? Can’t say for certain, but given the Danes are willingly giving up information, I’d suspect second houses have better mythos.

  What if—

  “I said be quick!” The Dane snaps me back. “Or I will hurl you into the barracks unanswered!”

  Shit.

  There’s something that’s been bothering me since I was a kid.

  There’s no proof of our parentage except for bullet-pointed lines explaining ancestral achievements. An accomplished linage like Sovernblade’s might have five bullet points. But it is all so vague. So fake.

  Fuck it. I’m taking a risk.

  And if it pays off, it’ll give Layla a reason to fight to the top.

  “Master Dane.” I bare my teeth. “Are we of the first houses in this room… actually orphans?”

  My question plagues the air.

  There’s a long pause.

  No whispers, just dead stares, all my way.

  I wonder if he’ll toss me headfirst into the blade rack and be done with it, or crush me in his ethereal grip.

  My shackles vibrate, tightening.

  “No. You are not.”

  The room gasps. I wait for more information. The Sept tends to give a bit more after the direct answer. But not this time. Their vagueness is deafening.

  Another revelation. Another boldfaced lie to our faces.

  Are my parents prisoners who were forced to give me up? Or… did they willingly do so, knowing I’d one day end up here?

  My chains release as the sconces light the cove in front of me. I give center Dane a grueling stare as I walk the plank into the barracks before the dais disappears over my head.

  I’m not an orphan. Kane and I have parents. My vision tunnels at the idea. Are they looking over me right now?

  Now that I’m inside, I realize the crowd can’t see certain weapon racks. Hidden dagger panels curve into the backway. Jurso probably thought the same when he was perusing his options. What’s more—it seems I can take multiple weapons. The Danes didn’t mind when Jurso pulled a hidden blade.

  I strap a belt around my waist and fill it with platinum-hilted, light-blue, steel-tipped daggers. According to mythos, blue is associated with luck. So I’ll pray that part is true.

  House Mother filled the stable with so many mock versions of these weapons. My favorite was the stringed daggers and chained swords. I don’t know why, but it was fun to try and whack my fellow orphans over the head. The blades were too dull to inflict pain anywhere else, and wielding sword-stick against sword-stick always ended with a shit ton of bruises on my end.

  Do I really have the gall to stick somebody with one of these?

  I test a blue-tinted chain dagger in the firelight. It shimmers with the same markings as those in mythos—forged by a real smith. Swinging it in place helps me get a hang of the weight. Feels natural, like I’m connected to it. Reminds me of all my days training with Kane… then Layla.

  She was tougher on me, for sure. Anytime I mistakenly hit myself swinging a stringed dagger, she’d crack me in the back with a stick. One time I was almost sure she knocked my spine out of line. But I’m better for it. I have a chance…

  Keep distance. Attack high, retract, swing low. That’s the only way to survive.

  Biting my lip calms my nerves as I strap another belt over my shoulder and stuff the chained dagger in. I’m worried—what if punishment entails fighting Layla?

  She wouldn’t kill me… but that Dane would.

  And if it’s another brute like Rogoshel? I’m screwed.

  I’m lingering too long again. Time to face the music.

  I count my daggers—three regular, one chained—then take a deep breath. The acidic burn from Arkitus is still faint in my esophagus.

  My legs grow heavy, but I push them all the same, back into the light of the stone judgement room. As soon as I step foot out of the barracks, I’m carried harshly by the Danes’ winds. In another life, it would be a cool magic to wield. I imagine pulling someone out of harm’s way with it, or thrusting Layla into a strike.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The Danes are powerful beings, whatever they are.

  I land in the arena roughly, shuffling my steps to regain balance. Once I settle, I’m left with a ball in my throat and fear marinating in my gut. Faint whispers shoot out of the cracks at my feet, angry ones, like a war is at large far below me. Will I soon be a soul that contributes to the warring dark?

  The glowing intensifies wherever I step.

  I feel stronger here.

  Good. Maybe I don’t have to die.

  When a big blur shoots off the balcony, my fears double.

  Not him. Anyone but him.

  “Grondus Feralas.”

  My nerves twist into knots all over my body. The spicer from the stairwell.

  “House Father Trias Baldren describes Grondus as a powerful aggressor who found the courage to charge a red bear threatening the cattle of House Sivus. This is one of many witnessed feats that speak to worthy blood. Grondus… what say you?”

  “Give me my fist weapons or my axe and let me be quick about it,” he growls at the Danes. “There is no joy in burying the weak.”

  “Must I remind you of our order?” One of the Danes tilts her head.

  Grondus grunts and points my way. “This boy requested mercy from me. He will get none.”

  The Danes nod their approval.

  Blood leaks down the corners of his mouth still. It’s been hours since I witnessed the same on the stairwell. He’s over-spicing. Can barely get words out without his head shaking.

  “Let me at him!”

  “You forfeit your right to a question? Your life is worth one—”

  “I don’t need anything but my bare hands to kill him. Send me!”

  The Danes side-eye one another, then do as he asked. His muscles flex all at once as he’s catapulted my way.

  I immediately draw my chained dagger. Suddenly, I wonder if the loop at the end is strong enough to hold if I manage to puncture his skin. One look almost assures it. The links are finely soldered. The Danes wouldn’t risk something so embarrassing while trying to awaken the warring dark.

  Boom!

  Grondus lands heavily on the far corner of the arena, wind ribbons slithering away all around him. He’s unarmed. But I don’t see it that way. The spice makes his body a living weapon, just as Arkitus makes mine a failing vessel.

  We aren’t orphans.

  The sky is fake.

  There’s so much to discover. I can’t die here.

  “May your spilt blood fuel the warring dark.”

  I take a shaky breath, wrapping the chain once around my fist.

  It’s the same as you practiced, I tell myself, knowing exactly where the blade is as I circle it at my side.

  “Told you it would come to this, runt.” Grondus punches his fists together so hard his knuckles split. His legs are literally vibrating from the oversaturation of spice in his blood.

  Center Dane clenches his fist in front of him. “Duelers… ready.”

  I exhale harshly. “I guess there’s no way to convince you we’re both better off alive?”

  “You heard the Danes. We’re soldiers. Culling the weak is our first priority.” Grondus swings his fists, splashing his own blood over the arena, making it bolster with life beneath the cracks.

  The stables where we skirmished are alive in my head. So many times I’ve been charged by brutes. Only now, there’s no one here to stop him when the pummeling becomes deadly.

  Don’t think about it.

  Focusing on my breath does wonders to stifle this crippling anxiety, even though creeping thoughts of pain and eternal darkness continue to gnaw.

  Just perform, as you must.

  Don’t die.

  “Begin.”

  The word might as well have been a trigger for Grondus to shed whatever was left of his humanity. He roars with feral rage, blood pooling in his eyes and veins bulging out his neck.

  I swing harder, turning the chain into a blur at my right side. I know the sweet spot is twenty paces. My accuracy is best mid-range, and if all works out, I’ll be able to retract and attack again before I’m forced to run.

  The brute seems ten times his size as he charges me. My mind is playing tricks. Or it’s giving me a bigger target. Either way, time to puncture him.

  He increases speed, and I take note of how close I am to the arena edge. One step back and the wind barrier will negate my momentum.

  One more step.

  Fttthh!

  I extend my right arm gracefully underhand, hoping the chains are just as fluid as string. They are. The dagger soars forward like a leaping snake. Grondus jerks his head at the last second, causing the blade to bite his trapezius, an inch from his neck.

  Shit!

  He goes to yank the blade, but I whip it back, using the trajectory of the arena’s wind edges to fling it high overhead. I guide the chain with another pull, careful to let the edge fall away from my body. Once it settles, I whip it back into motion.

  A spicer wouldn’t think twice about being punctured in the leg. Hell, his limbs are probably numb from the drug. I have to go for the head again.

  “I don’t want to kill you, brother,” I shout, more to snap him out of his blinding rage than anything.

  One more shot before he’s on me. The vibrations of his massive boots reach mine. His horrid stench wafts my way. Death itself is about to overwhelm me.

  There’s a move I’ve tried a few times in the stables—one too chaotic to fully control at my level. But what choice do I have?

  “Hrah!” I yell as I release the dagger a second time underhand. This one isn’t aimed high on purpose.

  Sllt!

  It punctures his chest as I somersault to the left, yanking the blade free and whipping it in a wide rotation for another round. I clench my jaw, wrapping the chain tight around my knuckle to shorten its length… so it doesn’t touch the Danes’ elemental barriers.

  Woosh!

  I duck the wide swing and guide the chain back toward my approaching enemy.

  Sllt!

  My eyes widen. He caught it. He fucking caught it.

  I unravel the chain frantically, but I’m too slow. He yanks hard, sending me flying forward, scraping all over the cracks in the stone. For a second I forget where I am. My chin and arms pulsate from the fall, my lungs burning all over again.

  Get up!

  Now free of the chain, I roll away from the incoming brute and push myself to my feet. He’s on me. A giant, looming figure, one side of his head shaved into a flag, veins crawling up every part of exposed skin converging at the neck.

  I pull out another dagger desperately, then shove it back into its sheath.

  No. Even if I’m close enough to stick him, he’ll crush me. He’s a raging animal right now.

  When he swings to grab my collar, I kick back and rush in the other direction. My chain is in the center, dangling half in a crack. The cerulean-amber light pulses from below, taunting me.

  All I hear is Grondus’ panting closing in.

  “Coward,” he barely gets out the word. It’s mostly growl. “Fight me!”

  I’m running full speed around the edge of the arena as Grondus does his best to cut me off. When he lunges again, I jump back-first into the wind barrier and propel myself over him like a slingshot. A couple of brutes on the balcony laugh—not sure if at me or at him, but it certainly works to anger Grondus.

  Boom!

  I slam down, the ground pulsing harder at my feet. There’s an aura seeping out of it. A tangible one that prickles my fingertips. Is this… the warring dark?

  No time to consider it.

  Grondus waves off the excess wind from the barrier and dives my way.

  If he tackles me, it’s over.

  I jump awkwardly the other way. I’m midair in the opposite direction as him, almost out of his reach, buying myself another few seconds at least.

  Then I can reclaim the chain, puncture his neck this time. M—

  “Gotcha.” He catches my ankle mid-dive, holding on with a beast’s grip.

  My breath hitches. No.

  No. No. No.

  “Hale!” Layla’s voice carries throughout the arena.

  “Don’t give up!” Jurso’s voice comes from the pit of shame.

  Their care gives me strength.

  I’m not dead yet.

  Shhnk!

  I draw a dagger, and as soon as I hit the ground I twist and stab with all my might, sticking his hand right through the center and into the stone.

  Wasn’t sure I had that in me, but I’m not going to complain about it.

  Kicking away haphazardly, I lose one of my daggers and get back to my feet. As soon as I’m vertical, I realize it. That breath hitching before… it wasn’t because of panic. The Arkitus.

  My throat nearly closes from the amount of burning acid running up and down my esophagus. The pain is so blindingly bad I curl over and grab my throat.

  Out. Get out! I cough out a heap of black sludge as I stumble away from the brute. Immediate relief allows me a long exhale. My vision converges to Grondus yanking the dagger free and testing his fingers with the hole in his hand.

  He’s a monster.

  And now he has a weapon.

  My eyes flick to the chain five paces away. Even if I did make it, he’d be all over me. Have to stay away.

  Another shot of acid shoots up my esophagus, making me cough uncontrollably.

  “I’m doing you a favor, runt.” Grondus stalks forward. “I’ve put beasts out of their misery back at Sivus… ‘cause no one else would.” He bares his teeth at me, blood pouring onto the stone. “You fought well.” He holds up his hand. “Made me look a fool. Now it’s time to return the favor.”

  I hold my throat, inching back, one hand on the pristine hilt at my side.

  Throw it? He’s bleeding from hand, shoulder, and mouth. Maybe one more hole will put this tyrant to bed.

  He rushes forward again, and my chance for a throw is gone. I try to skip back, but my legs feel heavy from the Arkitus. Oxygen isn’t flowing properly. My body… it’s failing.

  Move!

  I yell at myself when he reels back the dagger. I realize I’m not close enough to the edge to try and hop over him again. There’s only one option.

  Meet him head-on.

  Shnnk!

  Pulling my dagger and roaring back at him is all I can do. I’m staring death in the face, and he’s smiling right back at me.

  Fflt!

  The spot where he stabs numbs immediately. I can tell I’m leaking only by the warm liquid rolling down my belly. Then comes the pain when he twists the dagger hard inside me. I was wrong about being stabbed. It fucking hurts.

  He pulls the dagger out, leaving an extreme burning sensation pooling around the wound. He then takes my hair in his massive hand and headbutts me, rolling back.

  “Hale!” Layla’s voice echoes in my mind a thousand times as my vision blurs.

  Grondus isn’t done yet either. He stomps up to me as I lay sprawled on the floor. I’m seeing double, hearing nothing but my own slowing heartbeat in my ears. Visions swim into view like some half-remembered dream.

  “Kane,” my voice dies to a whisper. He’s offering me a hand to lift me up amidst hazy halos all around him. Tall with a debonair smile, a warrior’s ponytail. His extended arm is a bridge of tightly wound muscle. “Are you dead too? Is this what comes after?”

  The vision washes away to Grondus standing over me with bloodstained teeth. His blood leaks down like a drizzle from the black sky. He presses his boot over my mortal wound.

  “Do you feel it, runt? The warring dark.”

  It’s true. Unless my eyes are playing more tricks on me, there’s a shadowy substance circling his limbs.

  “I am worthy.” He looks up toward the direction of Layla, points his dagger at her, then to the Danes, who are all standing. “It’s me who awakens tonight.” He returns his gaze to me. “While you… sleep.”

  He plunges the dagger into my heart.