A circular arena of enchanted runic stone reeks of the same stench as the Sept’s chamber. We were forced into a room in the darkest corner of House Sivus, by a man too destructive to wield such power. Jurso and Renesta are all tense silence at my back, and Izfael’s minions relish in it.
“I thought those were only supposed to exist in the sub-tier.” My brow furrows as I gaze at the Seal.
Thrum!
Tyros commands the bowing servants to shut the enchanted door behind us.
“The Danes would love for you to believe that. Then they can continue to hold a monopoly on the warring dark, spirits, everything on our side of the aisle,” Izfael says.
Renesta breaks away from us, ignoring the threat and crouching to press her hand against the raised stone, tracing the familiar symbols. “How?”
Izfael straightens, loving nothing more than our awe. “Drydon and I have been paving our own way since we were little orphans in Valor. The house of extreme acts goaded us, after all.” He walks up to me, grabbing my collar in the harshest way.
I lift my chin, staring him down.
I’m not afraid to die. Already happened once.
“Your blood is valuable, Dragonborn. I won’t lie to you.”
“So that’s all you’re after. You’re not mad about the trade, or the house lord’s investment. Just rationalizing a way to sacrifice me for your own—”
Izfael laughs, fire erupting around his glove just under my chin, raising the temperature to boiling levels. “Don’t speak naively, Winbridge. It does not become you. Drydon and I… we’re stronger than any awakening could ever make us. And you’re going to cement our ascendance.”
As all focus is on me, I notice Renesta lingering in the corner pretending to analyze the room, stuck in one position… reminding me of that spire cove. She’s summoning a shade.
The warring dark crisscrosses my forearms on cue, rising to the levels I need in the face of this nefarious threat and keeping the attention on me.
“Boeru.”
“I am with you, mortal. We will defy this fire-ant together.”
That’s all I needed to hear.
Pfff!
I shove Izfael back and draw my chained dagger, wrapping the links once around my opposite fist. “Why not drag someone of your own rank in here?” I test. “That’d be too difficult, wouldn’t it? You’re just a low-grade predator, aren’t you, Izzy?”
Izfael laughs after being taken aback for a moment. “Bravo, Dragonborn. I see the spirit writhes within you. The afterlife will like that.” He slips out of his robe, revealing elite-quality wyvern-scale armor around his torso and wrists. His toned biceps are bare, the heat emanating from his skin distorting the air around him.
“You’d try to murder us here, on our second night?” Jurso says. “There will be hell to pay.”
“Who would ever know?” Izfael opens his fist. “I have a built-in incinerator in my grasp. Just a few more logs for the hearth.”
“Are you kidding? After all that commotion at the induction ceremony. Everyone in Elshard knows Haledyn Dragonborn,” Jurso does his best to plead reason.
“Yet no student will miss him.” Tyros squares his shoulders. “All they see is someone sent to steal their glory.”
Jurso scoffs. “Haven’t you blood-obsessed idiots ever read a tome? Elshard isn’t blind to military brotherhood. Almost everyone I met in class bleeds their house’s colors. Only a few share your selfish sentiment.”
The three predators laugh, and I wonder if Jurso sees what I see in Renesta.
She remains unmoved, despite the commotion. A part of me worries that the others will catch a shade since they so easily dispelled her shadow attempt, but it’s our only shot out of here. There’s no way I can touch a seasoned cadet like him. Just thinking of the skirmishes in the arena—those mid-ranks were so fluid. It takes forty victories in the Elshard arena just to break glass rank. That means endless skirmishes in the house arenas.
“You forget your tactical advantage,” Boeru growls. “You have me.”
I’m startled, forgetting that Boeru can hear my every thought.
The dragon’s right.
I slip on the ring Scorius tossed me in his lair and focus heavily on the warring dark pressing into my limbs. No practical experience with any of this except for my awakening, but I’m backed into a corner, and I have to buy time.
Once the laughter stops, all eyes fall on me again.
Keeping the dagger’s spinning rotations wide fends his two minions off as I nod for Jurso to get away.
“It will be just us, Dragonborn.” Izfael draws his gaudy dagger, backing up onto the familiar Sept-looking circle. “Step onto the Seal and I will spare your friends.”
The whooshing of my chain spinning next to me gives comfort. One underhand throw could cleave his neck, if I’m lucky. Doesn’t matter how seasoned he is. He’s still mortal.
Would I be tossed down the spire if I killed him? Expelled from Elshard on my second day?
No.
The facts are obvious. I was dragged to this secret lair. Anyone with half a brain would see it.
My shoe feels hot as I step closer to the Seal, like I’m connecting to the afterlife by approaching it.
Ffff!
As soon as I cross the threshold, a fire wall blooms to life in the outer circle at my back, smoke exhaling into a chimney far above me. This psycho is going to burn the whole house down. His smile turns devilish with his native element in play.
He talks shit about the Danes, but he practices just like them, probably taking up the same tomes.
Renesta… do something.
The flames die to a small campfire around us, tongues periodically shooting up to tell me if I cross the threshold, I’ll be burned to a crisp.
Thoughts race as we stare each other down. He’s probably impervious to fire, so wrestling him to the arena edge would be useless. It’s only me who has to avoid it.
His rank is high, obviously, judging by the reaction Drydon got yesterday. If they’re equals, or anywhere close to the same level of skill, I’ve already lost. Boeru’s right… my only hope is our bond, and his underestimation of us.
Izfael smirks at his friends, removing his gloves to reveal ten of those blood-pricking rings.
Eyes here, asshole. I scrape my blade against the floor, then alternate the rotations to show I’m not as novice as he may think.
“C’mon then.” Izfael dips into ready stance, holding his dagger forward, clawed hand of budding fire behind his back.
“No way I’m throwing the first punch.”
“Not a problem.” Izfael snaps his fingers, and that same concentrated fire collar forms around my neck, constricting my throat and burning it this time.
Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!
I panic as the warring dark writhes to the same levels as against Grondus. The others laugh at the display. Bested without him even laying a finger on me.
Tearing at the collar does nothing. Trying to suffocate it only makes it burn hotter.
Gods, shit!
Then I clench my fingers together to activate the ring, feeling a pinch on my finger, and like a broken dam, the dark flows freely within me.
It’s the same ecstasy as when I returned from the dead with Boeru at my back. The dragon expands wide in my psyche, spreading his wing as great power wraps my veins. This is what Relias meant when he spoke of blood. This is what Scorius teaches.
Hssss.
The collar snuffs to smoke, leaving a black ring around my neck as the dark part of Izfael’s magic flows into mine. I, or Boeru rather, absorbs it, just like I absorbed Grondus’ dark.
But what good is it in my grasp?
Boeru grumbles like he’s gaining strength, and Izfael’s smug expression drops as I kick my blade back into motion. All senses heighten.
No point to dwell on the unknown. Take what you’re given.
First punch thrown.
I release my dagger underhand, watching the chain slither forward on a straight course for Izzy’s throat. I’m testing his reflexes as much as my own. He’s not flinching.
Not only that, he’s looking straight past the weapon and keeping eyes locked with mine. If my senses are heightened, are his too?
Cling!
In a blur I barely register, he wraps his golden blade in my chain, and as soon as he grabs the links with his other hand—leaving my blade dangling uselessly—he ignites a nearly invisible fire that snakes all the way to my fingers.
My hands heat to unfathomable temperatures in a flash, making me instantly drop the chain.
No use. The flame, or whatever it is, claws up to my nose and my mouth, suffocating me. It’s not hot anymore, but he’s depleting my oxygen somehow, making me heave and fall to my knees.
What is this power?
It’s still fire, even if it isn’t scorching. That’s what it does—displaces oxygen to suffocate.
“Hale, get up!” Jurso’s voice reaches past my disdain.
“I am free, mortal. Use me.” Boeru extends his wing, his neck craning so our heads are side by side, lone crystal-blue eye centered on the man strutting up to us.
My throat feels like it’s being crushed by five sets of hands. A blanket pulled tight over my face. There’s not a hint of oxygen for me to breathe. The only hope is the incredible pressure of the warring dark flying around me.
“You thought absorbing my dark would do you good, novice?” Izfael swings my weapon in wide circles, the shining blue steel shimmering in his flame light. “All you did was lengthen my fuse.”
I try to speak, but nothing comes out. I’m doing my best to focus on Boeru, to give him a path out.
“Not to worry, though. If I strangled you to death, how would I ever break the Seal? It’s your blood I need, Dragonborn, to raise my attunement to new heights.”
The invisible fire fades, and it’s in that moment I’m able to separate the feeling of his warring dark versus mine. It burns hot around my limbs in a corrosive sort of way, cycles faster than my own. Now that it’s identified, my body, or Boeru, something expels it like a plague.
I’m free.
“Now bleed.” Izfael throws the chained dagger straight for my chest.
The sight makes the hair stand on my neck—his perfect form, straightened arm and loose grip letting each chain link flow fluidly over his hand as the dagger’s edge comes to bite.
I’m not paralyzed anymore though.
I extend my arm, feeling the might of the Torn Wing forming from the darkness of my own shadow. He’s gigantic, and fast.
His claw materializes from mist and grabs the blade—stopping it dead—as his massive maw forms with a rumbling growl face to face with Izfael. And for the second time, Izfael loses his smile.
Shnnk!
Boeru’s second claw swipes at the fire warrior, sending him tumbling into his own barrier. The flame wall floofs as it stops him from rolling out of the Seal.
My heart rate triples to the point I’m not sure it’s my own beating in my chest. The dragon’s spirit is alive within me, but when he rewinds back into my shadow, he brings with him an incredible depletion of warring dark—like I just fell thousands of feet off the spire and landed flat on my back.
“Arh.” My heart feels like it just melted down my other organs.
“Hale, get up!” Jurso begs.
“We are one,” Boeru rumbles. “Now do as your small friend says, and rise.”
Confidence soars through me from the Torn Wing’s words, but all of those heightened senses are gone. I’m fighting like I’m in the stables, even with this great new body. I’m weak and exhausted.
“You have more in you, mortal. Go!”
He’s right.
I somersault to reclaim my dagger and charge to end this fight.
Izfael’s already on his feet, wiping his robes off with a nasty scowl on his face. “Impossible, little glass rank. You remind me of someone else that entered this tier once. Someone with the same last name as you.” He pulls his golden dagger as I charge.
Kane—
Once I’m ten paces away, I stop suddenly and let the dagger fly overhead. This time I retract the chain before he can react, somersault again, and swing for his abdomen.
He knocks the blade away with a spark of his gold steel and lunges terrifyingly fast. I swing the chain to catch my dagger by the hilt, and we clash for a fraction of a second—steel on steel.
Fsh!
He slashes my arm bloody, then unabashedly digs his point into my gut and drags it upward before kicking me tumbling back.
I roll, and roll, wetness splashing everywhere.
It’s over, I tell myself, doing my best to get back on one knee, blood pouring out the wound. I’m heaving. Every inhale sends a sharp pain radiating through my body, worse than Arkitus ever could be.
Dagger through the heart all over again.
“Look what I found.” Vigil holds a pearl-white trident through a shadow writhing on the wall.
I strain to turn my head.
No.
Renesta’s shade holds onto the base, trying to loosen the white-glowing tip from its abdomen. When Vigil finally retracts the trident, it turns into a blindingly bright spear of light before disappearing entirely, leaving the shade to trickle to the floor like a spent hourglass.
Shit.
Boeru clamors angrily around my body, doing what he can to curtail the wound. My warring dark is depleted though. We have no idea how to manage such power and blew it all to the wind like a mad sprinter in a long marathon through the forest.
The two servants near the door stare through the black abyss of their oversized hoods. Reapers. It’s always reapers staring at me before the end. Whether it be the Danes, or this new perversion. Jurso’s screams become muffled as he flails in Tyros’ grip. Renesta lays unconscious after the death of her discovered shade.
It’s hopeless.
Hearing Izfael’s boots behind me makes me say a prayer.
Vigil’s a healer, isn’t he? He has to be their bliss protection if they’re experimenting with Seals night after night. Do something.
I’m bonded, for fuck’s sake.
My inhales are short now, and when Izfael’s iron grip clamps around the back of my neck, I wonder if he’ll snap it.
He pushes down hard, to the point my body presses flat on the stone, smearing my open wound over the Seal, frustrated that my blood does nothing for him.
“Seems like—only—the Danes know what they’re doing,” I spit. “Argh!”
I’m dragged harder over the ground.
“Isn’t this what you want, General?” Izfael shouts, unhinged, then looks to his servant. “You! Give me that tome!”
The servant hurries to the large book in the corner of the room, then tosses it into Izfael’s hands. He flips it open, and my vision is too hazy to make out anything.
“What else do you require to empower me, General?”
“Rrrh!” Boeru huffs. “He chases the general of Usep Tower. As if this puny Seal would ever reach him.”
“Name. Boeru. What’s the general’s name?”
“Castenbold.”
“I feel his spirit,” I lie. “Castenbold of Usep. He speaks to me.”
Izfael flips me onto my back, splashing more blood over the Seal. Half my vision focuses for a fraction of a second, to register his wide eyes staring back at me. He looks to his Seal, noticing no cracks, or glow. It’s as barren as Layla’s magic.
It’s in this moment I realize all that dragonshit about not valuing awakened bonds is the opposite of the truth.
That’s all this bastard wants. Power.
“Give him to me.” Izfael shows his teeth, clenching his fiery hand over my gash.
“Arhh!” I yell in pain. “Heal—” I point to Vigil, but Izfael only shakes his head.
“Your blood will seep deep into my Seal, Dragonborn. I will not let you take another from me,” Izfael seethes. “Your marked will become my next servants. Glass ranks to pour my wine and fetch my books. Perhaps I will even bed that one.” He nods toward Renesta’s unconscious body.
Anger trickles throughout my spine like icicles stabbing me. But the focus soon finds its way back to the mortal wound.
“They will bleed if I ask them.” Izfael grabs my collar, shaking me. “We’ll drink your fucking ashes, I swear it, if you don’t unleash Castenbold!”
My eyes feel heavy from the loss of blood, chest weakening like the end of an Arkitus coughing fit.
This isn’t the last thing I want to see.
I want to be strong. Find my brother. Unveil the truth and tell my parents that they’re born from hell for sending me to the sub-tier. This can’t be the end.
Izfael’s gaze suddenly scans up to the doors. I lean my head back to see the iron-stone glowing red.
Whoom!
The door slides violently open, revealing Aster with his tome under his arm and Layla, Rogo, and Misty at his heels.
“Trespasser.” Izfael gets to his feet, spawning circles of flame around his arms.
“Stand down, cadet,” Aster demands, holding tall at the entrance. His eyes are tired and his sleep-shirt is stained under his robes, but his expression is more serious than I’ve seen him.
“Head Magus will hear about this.” Izfael bolsters the flames higher, threatening the ring leader. “I am your house’s wealth!”
The book under Aster’s arm glows red, and he tosses it, causing it to flap open midair as pages rip out and soar strikingly fast toward Izfael.
Tnk! Tnk! Tnk!
Before Izfael can react, five metal clamps pin him against the far wall, neck and limbs immobile.
The hell kind of magic is that?
I wince as a giant spot overwhelms my vision.
“Vigil, in case you decide you don’t want to be barred from Elshard, I suggest you heal him, now,” Aster shouts.
Layla sprints and slides on her knees once she sees me.
“This place… dangerous,” my voice is air.
Layla’s blue eyes fall sadly on mine. Then they quickly become determined. “Healer! I’ll hunt you for the rest of my days if you don’t—”
“Step aside.” Vigil shoves her off and presses his hand hard against the wound. It illuminates bright, making my throat dry and heartbeat rampant. A strange, calming rhythm flows into my chest, like my body is reaching out for help that this earless prick is providing.
“Don’t!” Izfael calls, struggling in his confines.
“We have no choice, Fael.” Vigil twists his palm, closing the wound in an ugly fashion, then draping my arm over his shoulder. “We must get him to the arena aura.”
