Torbin emerges. Stripped to the waist, his skin wrapped in fresh bandages, his sabre gleaming at his hip. His eyes burn with something unrecognizable, something feral. Twisted. My stomach knots so tightly, it hurts.
“You’ve participated in trials throughout most of the realms, Dante. But you’ve yet to endure mine,” the tsar proclaims, his voice reverberating through the arena. “Here is your trial. Dante and Torbin. Blade against blade. Strength against strength. The gods themselves will decide who is worthy.”
My breath stutters. My lips shape a frantic whisper. “No… no, no, no.”
“If Dante prevails,” the tsar goes on, ignoring me entirely, “Celeste will be freed. She may leave Dulcamar untouched.” His gaze slants toward Dante, cold and merciless. “The prophecy speaks of power descending through blood. ‘Magic gifted by the gods, to a powerful descendant, must be seized.’ My seer believesyou, boy, could be that descendant as well. She believes I could take you in Celeste’s place. Your strength will serve my throne.”
A chill tears down my spine. Dante’s shoulders go rigid beside me, and I can’t tell if he’s breathing at all.
“And if Torbin triumphs,” the tsar continues, his mouth twisting into a blade-sharp smile, “Celeste will remain here and become his bride. Her power will be mine to claim. If she is the chosen one, she will fulfill her destiny under my hand—whether she wills it or not.”
The ground tilts beneath me. My knees weaken. My stomach pitches. My body wants to scream, but the sound catches in my throat, jagged and raw.
“And if I refuse?” Dante calls, his voice clear, slicing through the night air.
The tsar doesn’t even blink. “Then her friend dies.”
I blink, holding my breath, and then my gaze is yanked to the left, where guards drag Nadya forward, tying her to a post driven into the ground near the carnoraxis cages. Her eyes are wide with fear, her curlswild, her movements frantic as she tries to break free.
I lurch forward. “Nadya!”
A guard grabs me, yanking me back, and I thrash in his grip.
“Don’t touch her! Don’t—”
The tsar tilts his head, studying Dante the way a predator studies prey that’s already snared. Slowly, almost lazily, a smile spreads across his face—cold, deliberate, cruel. His hands clasp behind his back as he begins to pace the balcony, every step echoing like a drumbeat in the vast chamber. He stops, his gaze dropping to Nadya’s trembling form lashed to the post, and then back to Dante, his eyes glittering with satisfaction.
“Celeste’s beloved friend,” the tsar says to Dante, “will be left to the carnoraxis if you forfeit the fight. Choose, boy.”
My breath leaves me, and I fear my legs are going to give out.
ChApter
Fifty-Nine
Ilook to Dante. His jaw is so firm, it could be carved from stone, but I see the storm behind his eyes. His fists clench. His chest rises, then falls. His eyes flick to me—holding, grounding. Apologetic.
He glares, not at the tsar, but at Torbin. “I’ll fight.”
“Perhaps you’re not as foolish as I believed,” the tsar says.
But then the tsar stills as the seer leans toward him. She whispers something, and the tsar nods. I can’t help but wonder if it’s a conversation or if she’s manipulating his mind. There’s a subtle shift in her jaw, the delicate curl of her fingers at her side. The tsar’s expression sharpens as he darts his focus between Torbin and Dante.
Osrem leans in to hear the whispered words, his brow creased. Even Torbin looks confused, glancing toward her with a slight tilt of his head.
As the seer takes a step back, the tsar straightens, spreading his arms wide.
“Our dear seer has reminded me of something crucial.” The tsar’s eyes gleam as they land on Dante. “It would not do for this fight to be unbalanced.”
I exchange a look with Dante, neither of us unclear of what toexpect.
“Torbin is not the mere human he used to be. He has had the benefit of our seer’s alchemy skills to make him stronger.”
He means the carnoraxis potion, which gave him superhuman strength. I wasn’t aware that it was the seer’s concoction.
“So, let us give both of our challengers equal advantage.” The tsar’s grin is laced with malice as he nods to Osrem.
Fuck! No!
