Silas laughs darkly. "I thought you could use a scar like mine," he taunts.
"I’m going to fucking kill you," Thatcher yells, leaping to his feet, blood dripping from his cheek. He swings an arrow at Silas’s throat but Silas dodges.
I edge out from under the awning to get a clearer view of the two men’s struggle for survival. Rain begins to fall, mourning those who have fallen and those who might soon follow. The arena’s stones turn slick, mirroring the combatants and their flashing weapons. The heavy rain complicates their footing, causing Silas to receive a solid punch from Thatcher.
Blood streams from Silas's nose as he regains his footing and charges forward, tackling Thatcher to the muddy ground.
The crowd gasps, riveted by the brutal spectacle. As the rain creates a curtain around them, I move closer—squinting through the downpour to discern their blurred figures. Thatcher, bleeding and furious, kicks Silas in the ribs, eliciting a stifled groan.
Driven by desperation, I attempt to rush into the arena, but the guards restrain me. Thatcher looms over Silas, reveling in his apparent victory.
Silas glares up at him, undaunted, even as the rain blurs his vision. Summoning all his strength, he launches a powerful scream and shifts behind Thatcher—Thatcher spins around, allowing Silas to strike him squarely in the face. Blood sprays from Thatcher's mouth as the crowd watches, enthralled by the fierce battle.
Driven by the ferocity of the moment, Silas stands, not a trace of fear in his eyes—only fierce determination as the rain drenches both fighters. Thatcher recovers quickly, his face twisted with fury as steam seems to rise from his rain-soaked body. His fists clench so tightly that his knuckles turn white. Silas, poised and ready, widens his stance, aware that prolonging the fight could wear Thatcher down, opening an opportunity for a decisive blow.
Suddenly, Thatcher unfurls his hands, releasing a spray of mud from his palms directly into Silas’s face. Temporarily blinded, Silas stumbles, clawing at the mud caking his eyes.
"Fucking cheater!" I scream toward my father, outrage echoing through the rain.
He merely watches, a cruel satisfaction in his gaze as he savors the conflict below.
In that moment of distraction, Thatcher notches another arrow, this one aimed straight for Silas’s heart. My mind races with panic, memories of past horrors flashing before me as the arrow flies true.
"No!" My scream pierces the storm—a chilling echo of terror—as the arrow embeds itself in Silas's chest.
The scene unfolds in slow motion—Silas's body jerks from the impact, standing momentarily as if suspended by invisible strings, then collapses into the mud. I break free from the guard’s grasp and sprint into the arena, my heart breaking with each step.
Thatcher stands triumphant, his laughter mixing with the cheers of the crowd as my father proclaims, "Thatcher Madden is the victor of the second round!"
Ignoring the celebration, I rush to Silas’s side, his blood mingling with the rain, forming a crimson pool around him. Kneeling beside him, I barely notice the sharp stones cutting into my knees.
"Silas," I sob, touching his face, cold and pale under my fingers. "Oh Gods, please."
Healers swarm around us, Eden placing a firm hand on my shoulder. "We need to move him now, Briar."
"Eden, it's the poison! The arrow—it was laced with that ancient toxin Maines was researching. It killed my brother!" I cry out, desperate, as I brush his damp hair from his forehead and kiss him gently. "Don’t you dare leave me, Nastronde," Iwhisper fiercely. "My darkness calls to yours. Fight it. Come back to me."
I swear I see a faint flutter in his eyelids as the healers begin their urgent work. They carefully lift him, rushing toward the medical tent. "Don’t you let him fucking die, Eden!" My voice is raw with emotion, a threat borne of despair.
As the guards pull me away, the announcement for the final round booms overhead. "Ready, Princess?" one guard demands gruffly. "It's time."
I wrench away from their grasp, fury fueling my voice. "Get the fuck off me! Give me a minute!"
Despite my protests, they drag me to the starting position at the arena's edge. "No time to waste, princess. The King's orders. The final round starts now."
As I face the arena, darkness swirls within me, my axes pulsing with a life of their own, hungry for vengeance. The rain begins to ease, providing a brief moment of clarity as I fix my gaze on Thatcher. He stands atop a pile of stones—bloodied, yet smirking—challenging me to step forward.
The voice of my father booms again, filling the air with foreboding. "All should be honored to witness such valor. We now proceed to the third and final round: The Princess of Daramveer versus Thatcher Madden, the newly appointed Chief Officer of Daramveer's Army."
My breath catches. Thatcher now bears Barlowe’s hard-earned title—Barlowe, whom Thatcher had murdered.
"Fight hard and true," my father's voice rings out, a twisted smile in his words. "Begin!"
As the command echoes, the rain stops completely, leaving an unsettling stillness. Thatcher stands ready, his black armor glistening—his red eyes burning with madness. His appearance is nightmarish, as if he's a creature forged from the darkness itself.
Clutching my axes, my hands tremble—not with fear—but with a raging fire within. Thatcher casually picks up Oak’s fallen sword, tossing it with ease, flaunting his readiness for the final confrontation.
This fight will be anything but fair. His deep-seated hatred for me and my brother might override any need to keep me alive for the ritual. What he doesn’t realize is that I’m fully prepared—steeled for this moment—ready to unleash the powerful force that has been simmering within me all these years.
