“The blood of a huntress is also known as the cure. The only way someone could ever survive the burn of the Darklands lava is through the blood of a huntress and the Light Stone.” - Book of Azure
“I'M NOT RIDING A DAMN dragon!” I shout, tripping over my feet to catch up to Octavian who strides ahead through the tunnel. My voice echoes through the air as my cheeks flush a deep crimson with the thought of me soaring in the clouds.
A sharp, nervous laugh escapes from my trembling lips. “There is no way in hell you will see me on a damn dragon!” My heart pounds as I envision myself falling to my death, and I can feel the heat rising from my skin.
Absolutely not.The Queen is mad.
Octavian tosses his head back with a deep amused chuckle. “There are no dragons in hell.”
“You know exactly what I meant!” I hiss, rubbing my hands through my hair, my loose braid coming undone. I give up braiding my damn hair.I slam my ribbon on the ground, a frustrated groan bellowing from my throat. “I am not training with you.I will not ride a damn dragon.”
We exit the tunnel and the sounds of swords clashing against one another still dance in the air. Sounds of what seem like daggers piercing wood are mixed in with it. Octavian strides forward to the other side of the Pyre, towards an arch opening with daggers and arrows pressed against the wall, blood stains still present on the blades.
“Who saidIwas training you?” His silver hair catches the slight breeze and his strands flicker across the scars slashed across his eyes, glancing over his shoulder but knowing he is never looking at me. But hearing me. He halts by the archway, and I notice two men in the distance fighting. “And who said anything about riding a dragon?”
His silverish eyes glisten from the sun that beams directly above us, highlighting his scars across his face. As he shifts his body, he crosses his arms, waiting for my response. My lips pull into a tight line.
“No response?” His brow lifts. “That’s rare coming from you.”
My knee bounces. “I suppose no one said anything about riding a dragon,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “So then, if we aren't riding a dragon… what the hell am I training to ride?”
“The rumors about you have been true, I suppose.” He releases a soft, breathy chuckle. “Where the hell have you been all your life?” He turns, but before he takes a step, he pauses for a moment and lets his hand rest at the brick arch and whispers to me. “To the chosen, I shall offer my very breath and heart to fight, to bring peace, once again.”
His head rests against the bricks, then straightens his back. “Do not make me regret bringing you in here.”
“What is this place?” My boots hit a few small rocks as I follow him under the archway, dragons and horses are carved into the bricks with symbols almost resembling the language of the flames.
“You are entering the courtyard of the chosen, where only those who have beenthe final eight of the battle games are allowed to enter.” He strides forward, inhaling a deep breath. “But for some reason, the Queen has allowed you to step foot inside before the ceremony of the flames.”
“I suppose what happened yesterday made the games this year a little different.”
“You can say that.” He lets his finger glide against the wall, feeling the indentation of the markings. “The chosen are not pleased with what the Queen has done, inviting you into the battle games and bringing you here without the flame accepting you. So be prepared.”
“Everyone has threatened my life here in the Realm, trust me. I am used to people hating me.” I glance away, staring at the neon green bugs with hard shells walking around the cracks of the short tunnel. “Nothing phases me anymore.”
He halts, knowing the last step we take, we enter the courtyard. His voice shifts to a deep whisper. “Keep your head down. Do not make a scene. If they even sense that you are weak—even with the ability to burn people, you can still be weak to them—you’re dead.They will kill you. The Queen cannot protect you in here, even if she swore she would.”
“Noted.” I force a smile.
“The brothers are here, waiting for you.” He nods to the far left corner where Koen sits on a log, vines swirling around it and up the side of the brick wall. With his dagger, he picks up meat, ripping it with his teeth. Florian impatiently waits for me. I catch sight of his jaw ticking every few seconds as he stares at the others fighting on the opposite side.
“Good luck.” Octavian reaches out to find my shoulder, but I jerk away, hitting my back against the brick walls of the tunnel. “Ah, shit. I forgot about that.”
My heart thumps against my chest, flashes of the man’s ash floating in the air and falling onto me replays in my mind like a broken nightmare that never leaves. I close my eyes. “Sorry, I…”
“You didn’t want me to burn to ash?” He chuckles. What a sick humor he has. “I believe that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done to me.”
He grins, revealing his pearly white teeth before walking out to the courtyard. “Good luck. You need it.”
Florian catches sight of Octavian walking in before his eyes lock onto mine. I suck in a deep breath, square my shoulders, and walk out. In the center of the courtyard stands a statue of a woman with a dagger to her heart and her hand reaching up to the sky. The char markings along the sculpture feel as if fire itself has scorched it and molded it. Almost reminding me of the time Florian shifted, breathing the bridge to life.
I never want to witness Florian in painever again. And he never will, as long as I do what the Queen says.
To the right, I lock eyes with a man whose right arm appears to be part machine, with raven-black metal that gleams menacingly with every twist of his blade as he practices with another. Inside, a fierce, molten red—like the fiery veins of a volcano—pulses through it with a vivid glow. His auburn hair cascades down to his lower back, with the left side intricately styled into multiple thin braids. I can see the tones of warm emerald and golden hues inside his eyes.
His scarred lip tugs upward as he sees me walk in, snapping his gaze back towards the man with a dark, braided mohawk. With each movement of the man shifting his blade left to right, his muscles tighten, revealing rows of thick veins down to his broad fingers. The golden markings along the side of his shavedhead and along the sides of his face, brighten against his dark skin. He is the only one shirtless, revealing his defined abs and pecks, with scars across his body.
As he moves, the necklace of shells and bones clash together and it hits me.He is from the sea.
