Cool blue waves shimmered across the surface. The air thickened, pressing close, as though the sea itself had risen to claim the space. Salt filled her lungs, brisk and unmistakable—the same brine she’d tasted on the air back in Verdara.
A low, guttural rumble vibrated through the tiles underfoot. Then, without warning, the roar hit. Water. A wall of it crashing down like a tidal wave breaking free, sweeping over the board in a cold, savage rush.
The torrent crashed into Elara, yanking her from her feet, dragging her under before she had a chance to scream.
Darkness closed in as the freezing water wrapped around her, choking off her breath. Her arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly as she tumbled, chest screaming. But then her hand brushed against something solid—a tile. A raised platform, just barely within reach.
Elara kicked toward it, her limbs burning before she broke the surface with a ragged gasp, water streaming down her face. She scrambled, fingers slipping on the slick stone before finally gripping the edge. With a grunt of effort, she pulled herself up onto the raised tile, collapsing onto the glowing water rune, gulping down air.
She was going to die. There was no way in hell she could handle any more of this. It had been almost an hour since the last dose of stonebrew, and she could feel it slipping, fading out of her system. Her body shook so violently it felt like she was splintering apart, every inch of her screaming for mercy.
Elara glanced up, her vision swimming as the players in the distance struggled to stay upright, their boots skidding across the slick, ever-shifting tiles. The waves showed no mercy, rising high before crashing down with punishing force, the impact sending bodies flying. The fallen were swept from the board likeleaves in a torrent, pulling them toward the outer lines of the grid. Disqualified.
The water rune on the dial flickered, a faint shimmer, before vanishing. In its place, the earth rune blinked into existence for the briefest breath, only to morph into fire with a crackling burst of heat. And again it shifted—faster, each change more volatile.
Then the earth buckled. A rolling hill of stone broke open beneath her feet, throwing her off balance. She stumbled, crashing down, her fingers clawing at the nearest tile. But the earth didn’t take her off the board. No, she wouldn’t get that mercy. Elara dangled, her nails digging into the stone, breaking under the strain as the rune shifted again, flickering into wind—and the tiles reset.
She scrambled toward the opal swirl of wind glowing beside her, the rune pulsing with soft light, but something made her pause. Her eyes darted upward, heart lurching painfully in her chest as she spotted him—the player barreling toward her. His features were twisted into a savage grin, teeth bared.
She screamed, stumbling back as he lunged at her, his arms outstretched, his movements a wild, an erratic blend of desperation and drunken fury.
But then the wind struck.
A violent gust slammed into him like an unseen fist, lifting him off his feet and hurling him across the grid. He landed hard, rolling to a stop, just inches away from the glowing rune. Before he could scramble back up, the wind howled again, dragging him across the board, before disappearing into the swirling chaos beyond.
Elara’s chest heaved, fingers clinging to her tile with what little strength she had left. A strange numbness crept through her limbs, as if the blood had slowed to a crawl, the wind tearing at her hair, pulling at her clothes.
The grid was mayhem—players scattered across the board, fighting to stay upright as the wind lashed at them, one by one getting ripped from the tiles and flung into the gardens. Elara counted. Fifty remained. Maybe less. And they were getting closer.
She scanned the disarray, searching for some way to hold her ground, something she could use, but her mind was blank, scrambling as wildly as the players around her.
Elara rolled onto another wind rune, barely catching her breath, when a woman—a tall, lean figure with hawk-like eyes and a braid snapping like a whip behind her—charged forward. Her movements were almost unnatural, dodging the wind blasts with eerie precision, slipping between the gusts as if she commanded them. She was closing in, fingers outstretched, so close Elara could feel the air shift from her reach.
But then—crack.
A blur of motion. Another competitor came from nowhere, his elbow slamming into the woman’s ribs with brutal force. She let out a strangled gasp, her body twisting in midair before she crashed to the ground. The moment her back hit the floor, the runes beneath her flared to life—earth.
Vines exploded from the ground, coiling around her limbs. She barely had time to react before they tightened, but her hand shot out, grabbing the leg of the man who’d knocked her down, her vines wrapping around him too, yanking them both off the board in a tangle.
The crowd roared along the grid, but Elara couldn’t hear them over the pounding of her own heartbeat. It was anarchy. Carnage. The players weren’t just battling the elements anymore—they were turning on each other. Pushing, shoving, trampling anyone who slowed them down, anything to get ahead. The grid shifted beneath them, tiles spinning like mad, and five moreplayers went down, their bodies crashing into the floor before vines shot up to grab them.
The runes shifted, water flaring to life, and a shimmering wall of it rose before Elara, distorting the insanity beyond. She leapt onto the opal-marked tile, squinting through the cascade, and her heart stopped cold.
Tristan.
He stood at the edge of the grid, eyes calculating. Unlike the others, who rushed in desperation, Tristan waited. Patient. And then, with a precision that made her breath stutter, he moved. One step, then another, fluid and graceful, as though he already knew every shift of the tiles, every trap ready to spring.
Where the others stumbled, Tristan glided—unbothered, unhurried.
It was as if the elements bowed to him. Where flames shot up in his path, the earth rose to smother them. Wind howled, but water surged forward, breaking its fury before it touched him. Around him, it was as if the elements fought themselves, struggling against each other, leaving him untouched. Solid. And with each step, he came closer to her.
Another player crashed to the ground beside him, groaning as he hit the grid. But Tristan didn’t even blink. He leapt over the fallen body with that same lethal grace. And then his gaze found hers—steady, focused, full of a quiet arrogance, like he already knew exactly how this would end—like healwayshad.
Elara's breath hitched as Osin laughed, smooth as ever, breaking through the bedlam. “Ah, it seems we have a contender.” His gaze shifted to Tristan, with a hint of something dark curling. “Let’s see if he’s worthy.”
The crowd roared as Osin lifted his hand, the very air around him buzzing with power, shadows coiling at his feet. They slithered into the tumult like smoke, twisting and curling through the grid, weaving between players. One by one, theyknocked aside anyone in their path, tendrils of darkness sweeping legs out from under them or coiling around their throats. But through the madness, Elara’s gaze tracked them. The shadows weren’t moving at random. No—they had a target.
But Tristan was already closing in, muscles taut as he fought against the relentless wall of wind trying to shove him back. His lips peeled into a snarl, jaw clenched, a guttural growl ripping from his throat as he pushed forward. The wind roared, but he roared louder. But then the tiles shifted beneath him, glowing a blinding green, and everything changed in a heartbeat.
