The parapet circles a central, crumbling spire. At its peak sits a wide, altar-like platform.
Then I see it. A shard of black crystal, no bigger than my fist, resting on the weathered stone. A faint, sickly light pulses from within its depths, like a heartbeat stolen or trapped.
Selen’s shard.Or at least the one she asked us to take.
Then I spot Blaise. Tucked into the crumbling masonry at thebase of the spire, a shadow within shadows, his crimson tunic a smear of blood against the gray stone. He’s not advancing. He’s waiting.
And then I see why.
From the shadows of a crumbling archway, they emerge. Something worse than the stone beasts. They look almost regal at first: pale wings feathered like swans, long necks arched with deceptive grace. But frost blooms across the stone where their claws land, and their breath rolls out in sheets of rime. Ancient things, once bound to the winter courts I imagine—beauty wrought in ice, perfected for the hunt.
A fitting choice for Emperor Sylthan.
Chaos erupts. The other champions, caught by surprise, scatter as the creatures swarm the parapet. I hear a scream, cut short by a wet, tearing sound.
In the ensuing madness, Blaise moves. He breaks from his cover, a silver glint of purpose in the gloom, and launches himself at the spire. He begins to climb, his movements swift and sure, his eyes fixed on the shard at the peak.
The bastard timed this. He must have spotted the beasts behind that archway.
Zeriel’s body tenses beside me, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His focus is split between the immediate threat of the skittering drakes and the sight of his nemesis escaping toward the goal.
“Go,” I say, my voice cutting through the din. He turns his head, surprise flickering in his eyes, and through the tether I feel the spike of it—swift, fierce, threaded with a flash of protectiveness, possession, an instinct to shield, as if that is his by right. “Go after him,” I repeat, my voice almost a growl as I shove a drake back with a kick. “I’ll handle this.”
For a heartbeat his emotions grind against mine, mostly controlled except for a torrent of intense reluctance. Then something shifts behind his eyes—a recognition that burns between us, as if he’s seeing me as not just an ally. An equal.
He gives me one sharp nod.Be careful.
Then he leaves, a blur of motion, racing for the spire. Blaise is already almost a quarter of the way up, but Zeriel moves with a brutal efficiency, his powerful limbs eating up the distance. The two men quickly lock into a vertical race, hatred and ambition driving them up the crumbling stone.
I turn back to the chaos. Of those I can make out, Kaine Thornecairn—Champion of the Northern Territories—appears to be faring best, driving back the wyrms with twin gnarled spears. One of the drakes lunges at me, its ice-sharp jaw snapping inches from my face.
I twist away, grabbing a loose piece of masonry and bringing it down on the creature’s head even as I reach inward, into the tether, into that dangerous thread of power thrumming in my blood. No time for caution.
The drake shudders mid-lunge, feathered wings flaring wide as my will slams into it with a force that surprises me. It crashes into one of its kin with a shriek of fury, sending both sprawling. They’re faster, stronger, more disciplined than the reavers—every strike sharp, every movement cutting with the precision of winter’s bite. Their breath rolls out in veils of mist, frosting the ground, freezing the air in my lungs. But I fight with a desperate, gutter-born ferocity, turning their speed against them, forcing them to collide in the narrow space, warding off those who approach the spire. Their pale wings thrash above me, a storm of feathers and frost that weaves a canopy so wild and blinding I doubt anyone watching from above can see what’s really happening beneath.
But as I move, a colder hollowness spreads through my chest.
What am I doing?
I’m holding the line, playing the part of the loyal ward, so Zeriel can win this round. So he can get to the top, beat Blaise, and… what? Destroy the shard? Play right into the emperor’s hands, proving that this ancient temple is a source of corruption that must be purged?This temple… likely one of the last left of its kind.
I can’t be sure he won’t. His hatred for Blaise is a blinding sun, and winning this round is the most direct path to hurting him. Selen’s request feels a million miles away from the raw, immediate reality of his vengeance.
“Champions!” Pellvorn’s voice booms from the sky, confirming my fears. “The source of this temple’s blight lies before you! To the victor goes not only glory, but the means of its destruction! A Scepter of Imperial Judgment hangs just beneath the spire’s altar! Seize it, strike the source, and cleanse this stain in the empire’s name!”
My eyes dart to the base of the altar. There, hanging from a golden chain, is a short, heavy rod of black iron. Its surface is darkly gleaming, etched with harsh imperial sigils. The tool for the job.
The confirmation sends a jolt through Zeriel and Blaise. Their climb becomes a vicious fight—Blaise sending down a shower of loose debris while Zeriel swings out, grabbing a different route, trying to cut him off from the scepter.
I watch this surreal tableau—the two of them locked in a deadly dance, the frost-drakes swarming around me, the emperor and his court watching from their gilded perches in the sky, while the distant roar of the crowd thrums on, eager for the blood of criminals.
And I wonder, not for the first time, what is all this for? Another game, another spectacle, another piece of our history twisted into a weapon against us.
Selen’s words echo in my mind.Take it... A chance to wound the emperor in a way he won’t see coming.
Zeriel won’t do it. He’s too close, too consumed. He’ll destroy the shard and call it victory.
And in that moment, something inside me snaps. The fear, the grief, the years of being a pawn—it all burns away, leavingbehind a single point of clarity. I will not be a tool. Not for the empire. Not even for him.
