The bell rings, and I swear to Vayla if this man lunges again…but he doesn’t.
He stands there waiting unguarded. His sword arm is lax at his side.
A trap? Perhaps he’s trying to see what I can do.
I charge forward, preparing to adjust to whatever guard he takes, but I don’t reach him.
The ground beneath me moves.
It’s just like when we were attacked on the road. The dirt floor of the arena cracks open and slides forward, putting me on my back in mere moments.
Magic. He’s an earth-born, and he’s using magic against me.
It’s not allowed. Someone should be here to stop him in a minute—
I can’t finish the thought before he’s on top of me. He sinks a knee into my stomach, knocking the wind from my lungs. My sword is still in my hand, and I use it to thrash at him, but he grabs it by the blade and tosses it aside.
“Tell Vahlo who sent you,” he says as he reaches for my throat.
He’s going to kill me. He’s actually going to try to kill me in this arena in broad daylight, surrounded by judges and guards and my family and friends.
His hands are squeezing my throat. I sink my nails into his skin, clawing at his hands, trying to get them to release me, but it does no good. He’s going to crush my windpipe before anyone can get to me. Through my fading vision, I see Adria’s flameignite the sleeve of his tunic, but it’s too soaked with his sweat to catch.
His hands squeeze again, and panic shoots through me as I thrash helplessly beneath him. I can’t beat him, not with sheer strength and no weapon, and while I’m certain Adria will eventually light him up like a bonfire, I could be dead before it happens.
Thankfully, my survival instinct has gotten quite a lot of practice in recent days. It takes over then, and I release my magic, tournament rules be damned.
I drop a shadow over us. The darkness isn’t total, not out here in the broad daylight, but it’s still disorienting enough for the earth-born that I’m able to punch him hard in his vast stomach before kneeing him where the sun doesn’t shine as he stumbles forward.
My lungs fill with a painful, shaking gasp.
I’m alive. I’m still alive.
“Sylvie!” yells Adria. She’s close now. I release my shadow so she can find me.
The blinding sunlight disorients me, and I nearly collapse into her arms. My throat aches and burns where he choked me, the narrow passage of my airway swelling as the blood rushes to my wounded neck. I try to say something to her, but the words don’t come out.
“She’s hurt. Healer!”
A judge gestures to someone in a distant white tent almost boredly, as if my serious injury is just an inconvenience to him. The other judge doesn’t look at all. She turns to face the crowd. “Disqualified for use of magic during a non-magical event—”
Well, at least there’s that, I think as I pray to Vayla the healer gets here soon. He tried to kill me, but at least I’m alive, and I’m still in the tournament.
“—Sylvie of House Verran. Victor: Leon the Smith.”
What?
“But I—” Fuck. My voice croaks and hisses, the sound barely coming out. It’s really getting hard to breathe…“He. Used—”
Adria puts her arm underneath me, trying to move me towards the healer tent, but I can barely walk. I see Larus making his way through the crowd, trying to get down to the floor to help.
Adria is furious. “Where is the fucking healer? She’s hurt. Disqualified? He used magic first!”
“Please clear the area and wait for the healer.”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT.” Adria is about to start the war right here in the arena if they don’t start helping me soon.
“Excuse me,” says a quiet voice from behind the judges.
