Mystiques were strong fighters—once the most powerful across the continent—but they were falling to the unpredictable strikes.
A scream pulled our attention. An Engrossian towered over a Mystique woman, an ax swinging down. Cyph threw himself at the warrior, grabbed the back of his neck, and chucked him to the stone.
The ax went flying as Cyph swiped a dagger from his belt and sliced it across the man’s throat.
Then, a small, black-armored figure swiveled below the fray. Darting around two warriors, she charged. A dagger aimed at Cyph’s back.
I tried to yell for him, but it was drowned out.
Instead, I ran. Held my breath and swung.
The grind of metal through flesh and bone was gratifying. Her arm severed above her metal vambrace. I blocked out her agonized scream and indulged in the satisfaction warming my blood.
Maybe I could do this. Icouldfight.
She fell at my feet, and that tortured side of myself took over. “That’s nothing compared to what you did to me.” She continued to scream, not hearing me.
I lifted my sword, prepared to silence her for good. But a scar on the side of her neck froze me.
An ax.
Purple against pale skin, her commitment to the cause of the Engrossian Warriors—so fucking similar to the white scar on my own chest.
The echo of the constellation heated as I stared at her, and everything slammed into me. Every minute in that cell. Every drop of blood. Everything, all of it and all at once, a cascade.
Fuck, I couldn’t—this?—
Axes flashed through the square, suddenly all I could see.
My arm fell, sword scraping the ground as I stumbled back. My muscles weakened, my knees buckling. Harsh screeches of blades on stone, on bone, were all I heard.
I stumbled to a halt on the outskirts of the battle, slamming up against a brick wall to catch my breath.
But I forced my eyes open. I may be a mess, but I wouldn’t be that stupid.
One breath in—count to four—hold seven—release eight.
Watching the massacre before me, I repeated the meditation. My hand shook, sweaty on the grip of my sword.
This is ridiculous, I scolded myself, still panting.You’re being a fucking child.
All I could smell was blood and terror. All I could feel was the sting of blades carving my flesh.
Warrior Prince, the taunting voice echoed.You’re not even a real fucking warrior. You don’t deserve to be.
Fear gripped the bars of my heart, rattling until the organ shrank away like a lashed creature, my chest hollow and empty. Dark shame unfurled before my eyes. It slid into that void space, becoming my master, and I its vessel.
I hadn’t completed the Undertaking. Couldn’t even find it within myself to attempt it, overridden with disgrace and the secret fear that I may not be worthy of true ascension. After all, I’d been sired by the Spirits-damned man whose despicable, selfish actions caused the horrors now playing out before my eyes.
Maybe it would be best if I let fear take me?—
Then, a young warrior took an ax to the gut only feet away, and I shouted out with him—desperate and pained.
Blood bloomed across his white shirt, my stomach contracting as it spread.
I stumbled forward.
As his last hope, he swung out with a dagger.
