That night Ashe had gone to bed without a second thought. His mind was at peace for once, and he finally felt a flicker of control.

  It vanished in an instant.

  The night split open and a voice rolled out, controlled and even—a god, a watcher of their struggle.

  “A species has reached ten million points. A change in the rules will now occur.

  Current standings: Draken, ten point two million. The Gifted, nine point eight million. Humans, eight point nine million.”

  Ashe lay there unmoving, unsure if this was just another nightmare. His body felt frozen, as if the air had hardened around him; he couldn’t even lift his arm.

  Something was happening. He could feel it in the air, a subtle pressure, the way the smell of everything around him shifted—faintly darker, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

  “Cross-species combat will now be allowed. Portals will now be the arena.”

  As the words faded, the air settled a little, and Ashe thought it was over. Then the dull pain of his ability spiked in his chest. For a second he didn’t move, his body still refusing to react.

  When it finally did, he rolled out of bed just as something hit the mattress with a heavy thud.

  He scrambled across the floor, reaching for his wardrobe where he kept his weapon. Something cold and clammy wrapped around his ankle and yanked. The carpet burned against his forearms as he slid, but he didn’t care. His mind had already dropped into one mode.

  He twisted, kicking at whatever had him, but his feet met only a cold cloud of air—what he imagined a ghost would feel like. He grabbed the corner of the carpet and yanked, twisting it over himself like a blanket. The weight of the carpet pressed against him, and the air became cleaner somehow. For a second the grip on his ankle loosened, the cold vanishing.

  He shoved the carpet away and lunged for the door, snatching up his weapon where it rested against the closet as he went. A heartbeat later he slammed the door shut behind him.

  His heart pounded all the way into his fingertips and his breathing was shallow and ragged. He’d been scared for his life before, but never like this. In the portals he was ready for it. He never expected to be fighting for his life straight out of sleep.

  He clicked the button on his weapon, revealing what he knew to be a sword. His fingers shook on the hilt.

  He waited. No sound came from inside his room. No scrape, no hiss. Just the too-loud thudding of his own heartbeat. Then footsteps on the stairs. His father.

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  “What’s going on?”

  Axel had barely turned when Ashe heard it—a wet gurgle, cut short, and the heavy collapse of a body hitting the floor. His thoughts jammed, like someone had shoved a rock into the gears of his mind. No words, no breath, just static. His skin prickled, every hair on end, and a hot, dizzy anger roared up to fill the empty space.

  Then his mother.

  Her scream ripped through the hallway, a sound that seemed to vibrate his bones, his teeth, his spine.

  He was already running toward it, sword in hand, but he wasn’t fast enough. A hiss—wrong, inhuman, furious—swelled in his ears, and then a brutal impact: something hitting flesh, bone snapping under the force, and a body slamming into the wall hard enough to shake the house.

  His world narrowed to a point. No portals, no gods, no tournament—just the hollow where his parents’ breath had been. Despair and rage poured through him in equal measure, a choking mix that made it hard to stand. He gripped the sword until his nails dug into his palms and warm blood ran between his fingers in thin streams.

  Now he truly didn’t care if he died. In fact, a small, broken part of him might have welcomed it.

  As he launched toward the stairs where his parents had been, any thought that wasn’t death or destruction burned away. He wanted blood.

  The door behind him slid open with a slow hiss. There were more of them. He didn’t turn. His mind was fixed on the staircase.

  Pain lanced across his cheek. He still didn’t stop. He welcomed it, almost grateful for the distraction from the storm tearing him apart inside.

  The sensation was wrong. It burned like fire yet felt cold and almost ethereal, definitely not alive. He didn’t scream. Instead he drove his weapon backward into the thing behind him. The blade slid straight through; there was no cry, no howl—only a sudden release as the cold evaporated and the faint smell of rot vanished with it.

  He spun, but the one behind him was already gone.

  He ran up the stairs. Whatever it was had given up and slipped away. Ashe reached the landing, turned toward the stairs’ top, and dropped his weapon. His fingers went numb.

  His parents’ bodies were there. He could smell the blood, the iron filled the air.

  They were still warm. His father’s breathing was already gone, chest unmoving. His mother still fought for air, each attempt a wet rattle; the sound of blood and fluid in her lungs drove despair deeper into his bones. Tears streamed down his face, hot and endless, mixing with the blood on his wound.

  “Stay safe,” she whispered.

  Her hand rose, trembling, to brush his cheek—still warm, still her—and then it slipped away, falling limp as the last of her strength left her.

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  Leanor watched in horror. His minion had managed to keep the boy alive; because of it Tristana’s monster lay dead. And yet the boy had still lost everything, just because his siblings had felt threatened.

  He couldn’t quite name the feeling twisting in his chest. It was new, sour and heavy. Was it pity for a mortal, or just anger that his trump card had been mangled for someone else’s move on the board? He didn’t know.

  What he did know was that their plan had worked almost flawlessly. If not for his minion watching that house, Ashe would have died as neatly as Tristana had intended. They would surely blame the whole thing on the new rule changes, on the confusion and the interspecies fighting about to erupt.

  The worst part was that he understood. In their place, he would have done the same if it gave him even a sliver of advantage.

  He forced his features smooth. He would have to react with a measured exterior. Calling them out now, with Father on their side, would only backfire.