“To force the bond. To make you desperate enough to mate before you were ready.” Another step forward. “I underestimated how much the mating would change you both. That was my error. I will correct it now.”
It moves.
One second, it’s twenty feet away. The next, it’s on us—a massive arm swinging toward Tyr with killing force. He shoves me sideways, takes the blow on his forearm. The impact sounds like breaking stone.
He doesn’t fall. But his boots scrape backward across the ice.
“Move!” He roars it while catching the Arbiter’s next strike, the collision driving him to one knee.
I run. Not away—around. Circling the fight, searching for an opening, watching how the Arbiter moves. It’s fast. Too fast for its size. And here, in its own territory, every advantage belongs to it.
Tyr fights like a force of nature. His power splinters the ice beneath their feet, forces the divine magic to hesitate. Every punch he throws sends shockwaves through the chamber. Every block makes the walls shake.
But the Arbiter is relentless.
Its fist catches Tyr in the ribs. I hear bones crack—the sound cutting through the chaos like a gunshot. He staggers. Blood sprays from his mouth, dark against the pale ice.
“Tyr!”
“Stay back!” He catches the Arbiter’s next blow on crossed arms, the impact driving him to his knees. “Find the weakness! I can’t hold it forever!”
The crown-heart. That’s the weakness. It has to be.
I push my sight deeper, ignore the screaming pressure in my skull, force myself to look past the blinding golden light.
If I can break that belief?—
The Arbiter hits Tyr again. And again. Each blow drives him farther back, closer to the ground. Blood streams from his nose, his mouth, a gash on his forehead. He’s losing.
No. Not losing. Buying time.
He’s letting the Arbiter beat him so I can find the weakness.
Tyr screams.
TWENTY-NINE
ZEPHYRA
The sound yanks my attention back to the fight. The Arbiter has him pinned, one massive hand wrapped around his throat, lifting him off the ground. Golden light pours from the crown-heart into his body—bright and terrible and wrong.
It’s trying to make him one of its weapons.
I see it happening. The light sinking into Tyr like poison, trying to wrap around his will, trying to force a crown onto his mind. His body convulses. His power flares wildly, cracking ice in all directions, but the Arbiter’s grip doesn’t break.
The golden light spreads through him. I see it racing through his veins, trying to reach his heart, trying to plant a crown where his soul should be. He’s fighting it—his whole body rigid with resistance—but the Arbiter is stronger here.
“You will serve.” The Arbiter’s voice is calm. Patient. “Your power will be mine to command.”
Tyr’s gaze locks onto me through the chaos. Not pleading. Not desperate.
Trusting.
I run straight at them.
The Arbiter tracks my approach but doesn’t let go of Tyr. Doesn’t see me as a threat worth releasing its prize for.
Mistake.
