A primal instinct surges as I prepare myself—broadening my stance—ready for the pain and determined to fight. It's finally time to face Thatcher. It’s time to end this.
Chapter 33
Thunder claps overhead—stirred by the storm or the Gods, I cannot tell.
“I said, begin!” my father’s voice booms across the arena.
Thatcher mockingly bows in my direction, his eyes locking onto mine as an evil grin spreads across his face—his lips and teeth caked with dried blood, creating a ghastly sight. He charges at me in a full sprint. Fear surges through my veins, overwhelming the growing darkness within me. His wild eyes send waves of panic coursing through me, making my axes feel impossibly heavy. I swallow the fear as best I can and match his speed, lunging toward him. We collide, darkness swirling around us, obscuring the view for the spectators above. A curtain of black clouds envelops us as our weapons clash, sparks flying like shooting stars. Fire.
“I know what my father’s planning,” I hiss through the pain shooting down my arm from the impact, exhaustion already taking hold as I maintain my stance, Thatcher’s sword pushing against the head of my axe.
“Oh, Princess. You have no idea what he’s planning, and it’s been so fun watching you struggle,” Thatcher laughs, his voice teetering on the brink of insanity.
We strain against each other, separating only for a moment. I grit my teeth and scream, lunging again at his imposing figure. “I may not know everything, Thatcher, but I do know that your life ends tonight,” I declare, staring into his malevolent eyes—my words a promise.
His sword raises over his head as he leaps toward me, his teeth bared. I block the strike, rolling to the side and quickly regaining my composure. My entire body aches from the relentless impacts with the hard ground.
“Someone’s been practicing,” he growls. “If only we had more time to roll around on the roof that day.”
Thunder continues to roll above us, like bombs detonating in the distance, as our fight rages on. The gasps from the crowd are my only cue that they remain engrossed.
“I’ve been waiting for my chance to kill you, Thatcher—to avenge what you’ve done to my family, your sister. Once you are dead and forgotten, he’s next,” I gesture skyward, indicating my father.
Thatcher's focus falters at my movement, and I seize the opportunity to strike. I move through the shadows as if I am a specter, a being intertwined with death itself. I dart around him three times as he frantically searches for me. I position myself behind him and, with all my strength, swing my axe toward the back of his head, ready to end this, when I abruptly stop.
A shadow moves toward an opening in the arena I hadn’t noticed before—a small cave leading directly to the wild forest around us, providing a hidden exit within the arena walls. Thatcher freezes, unaware of the movement but acutely aware of the shift in the atmosphere.
My father's voice echoes ominously from above, “I told you to prepare for anything, and as a warning, I’d prepare now if I were you. Or don’t—that will make this much more exciting.”
His wide grin is visible even from here.
Thatcher, catching on to the cryptic announcement, slowly turns toward me. “Ready for the main event, Briar? I know someone who’s beendyingto see you.”
My brows furrow in confusion. “What?” I stand frozen.
A crash to my right breaks my concentration, but I’m too frightened to look. A heavy sense of dread washes over me as the crowd above falls silent—the eerie stillness causing a ringing in my ears. Thatcher steps back, allowing me space to see what he’s referring to. A low growl emanates from the darkness, enveloping us like thick smoke. At this moment, I realize we are not alone. Every instinct screams at me to run, but I am rooted to the spot.
A creature emerges from the darkness, its large head rearing back with a scream that sounds anything but natural. Its movements are awkward and propulsive as it nears Thatcher and me. The crowd gasps, recoiling as if the mere sight of the creature is too much to bear. I take a step back to gain a clearer view of the figure advancing toward us—steam rises from the rocks, creating a dense fog that veils the atmosphere and obscures our vision.
Thatcher steps aside, giving me an unobstructed view of what—or who—approaches. My knees buckle as the creature steps into view, human yet not. Its body ripples with muscles—boasting unnatural strength—and long, flowing black hair cascades down its bare back. Rows of razor-sharp teeth fill its unnaturally wide mouth as smoke puffs—swallowing black flames darker than any shadow I’ve ever seen.
Finally, my gaze meets its face and its eyes—bright green, glowing like my favorite part of the forest floor at sunrise. Eyes Icould never forget, even after all this time apart. Eyes that once offered comfort and love but now reveal only emptiness and malice. Tears sting my eyes as I stare at the creature before me.
A creature that was once my brother.
Barlowe.
My axes crash to the ground, sounding like a thousand glasses shattering simultaneously. The crowd erupts, not realizing that their once-beloved Chief Officer stands before them again, altered and monstrous. A shockwave hits me hard enough to physically jolt me backward. My father has successfully used the crystal, and my brother stands before me, resurrected as a nightmare in the flesh.
A memory flickers in my mind—those resurrected are never the same. The closer to the time of death, the easier it is to bring someone back with the stone.
A true warrior, now a prisoner of a resurrection ritual. I realize with horror that my father is responsible. Barlowe tips his head back, inhaling the night air as if he’s been confined for far too long. Slowly lowering his head, he grins broadly, displaying all his teeth. I watch as he takes a deep breath, and a red light forms on his chest, traveling to his throat as he opens his mouth.
Flames pour forth like a raging river of fire. I scream and leap behind a stone as the fire engulfs the area around me, singeing the ends of my braid. The fire element—it’s my brother. Thatcher has vanished, likely seizing this chaos to complete the final ritual.
Panic sets in. I may not be able to stop him. My eyes snap shut as intense pain shoots through my head.
Thatcher barely comes into view as I crane my neck around the stone that shields me from the flames. In a corner of the arena, he works with precision, placing crystals in a circle and using the ash from my brother’s flames to draw Rigil's symbolsaround the small ritual site. This distraction with my brother is designed to keep me from interrupting the ritual.
