He stood in the middle of the mat, a small Scribe’s training dagger in his hand. He was dressed in white clothes, his dark hair a mess of curls and his eyes downcast, as that same boy who had always pickedat Kinlear – Brutus, with oily black hair and a smile that always seemed to be more like asnarl– was following him.
“What kind of prince doesn’t know how to wield a Sacred sword?” Brutus snarled.
A spike of rage went through Arawn. “Stop,” he commanded.
But no sooner had the words left his lips...that he suddenly felt his insideslurch.It felt like he’d been stabbed. It felt like someone had taken a hot fire poker and thrust it through his ribs, until he bent over from the pain of it.
Gods, what waswrongwith him?
His vision blurred as he dropped to a knee, no one the wiser of him from where he stood hunched over at the edge of the circle.
“That’senough,”he heardSoraya’s voice, a youngling who’d always been a shadow to him and Kinlear. “Leave him alone, Brutus!”
It was Arawn’s job to protect his twin.
But...he couldn’t stand up.
He couldn’t evenbreathepast the pain that was now spreading through him from his chest to his fingertips. He could feel it in his veins, as if something hot and horrible was swimming through him, setting every inch of his body on fire.
In the background, he heard the sounds of a scuffle.
He heard Kinlear’s voice, then a yelp from Brutus as he went sprawling to the floor.
But Arawn couldn’t see.
Oh gods, he couldn’tsee,because now the flames were in his eyes, and everything went red. Everything was burning, and he was going to die, he was going to?—
“I claim you, Arawn Laroux,”said a voice. It was ancient and it was all-knowing and it was inside of his mind, his heart, his soul. He’d never heard anything like it.
It was a song. A melody.
He gasped through the pain, because...
Because that was the voice of a god.Hisgod, claiming him.
Vivorr.
God of fire.
Arawncould have wept as the pain was swept away from him. As it all fizzled away, fading from his eyes and his chest until he inhaled one sweet, victorious breath.
And then his hand began to burn. All of that pain, all of that heat, had spread down to his palm, where his hand had curled into a tight fist. It felt like he had an ember cradled inside of it. It felt like that ember had turned to a blazing flame, and if he did not let it go...
If he did not unleash it...
It would devour him.
“You’recrazy!”Brutus’ voice broke through the pain.
Younglings were shouting, and Arawn forced himself to his feet so he could see, just in time...
His brother...kneeling upon Brutus’ chest.
Kinlear had a wooden dagger pressed hard against the boy’s throat. If it were real, it would have drawn blood. It would have killed Brutus where he laid, and yet the calm, carefully controlled rage in Kinlear’s eyes?
Arawn hadneverseen anything like it.
His fist tightened.
