I blink, dazed. Where Seraphina had stood, black shadows swirl and linger, jagged and curling like the maw of some predatory beast. Kaelzar’s shadows.
I refuse to wonder what Origin they come from, what creatureshaped that darkness.
But Seraphina already spacestepped away, vanishing in a breath.
Then Kaelzar is there, pulling me free from the hands gripping my shoulders too tightly until they finally let go.
I spin to face the man behind me.
He’s probably in his fifth decade. Tall, almost as tall as Kaelzar. The battle-worn slope of his shoulders and the scars etching his skin speak of a man who’s survived more than a dozen fights. But it’s his caramel-colored eyes that strike me hardest.
Something about them feels… familiar. Comforting. And that’s what makes it strange.
Before I realize what I’m doing, my hand lifts toward him, drawn by an instinct I can’t name.
He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t flinch as my blackened fingers brush his arm, breaking whatever invisible hold binds him.
Instead, he simply stares, waiting. For what, I can’t tell.
Kaelzar steps closer. The moment shifts. I realize belatedly that my first assumption was wrong: the man isn’t as tall as I thought. Kaelzar still towers over him, half a head higher.
“Go,” Kaelzar rumbles, his voice low and resonant, vibrating through my bones.
The man studies me a moment longer, as if weighing the cost of disobedience. Then he turns, but pauses just before he leaves.
His gaze flicks back to mine, unreadable. “It wasn’t the gods that ended the Archpriest, girl,” he murmurs. His voice is too soft, so quiet I almost think I imagined it. Then, fainter still, like a whisper slipping through cracks in time: “Though someone tried very hard to make it seem so.”
The words should stop me cold. Should send my mind spiraling.
But—
The clock. I can’t focus on anything else. The grains fall faster, each one a countdown. His eyes dart past me, almost conspiratorial, but my thoughts race ahead, tripping over his warning.
Every second matters. The sand has almost run to its third.
Each falling grain draws me closer to death. Four more lives tosave.
I spin, scanning the faces in the crowd—desperate, pleading, hollow with fear. Their weeping tears at me, pulling me in every direction.
How can I choose? Even if I take six more from Rust Hollow, at least ten will still be left behind. Who am I to decide who lives and who dies?
Who am I to play god?
Kaelzar turns toward me. “You have about three minutes to decide,” he says, his voice calm but razor-sharp. “I won’t be able to stop the leeches. You have to move.”
I scan the arena, praying another Champion will step forward.
They don’t. They stand untouched within their Sanctums—safe, unbothered. My gaze finds Zyrel, watching me from his protected circle. His mouth twists into something between amusement and disgust. “Scum,” he mouths, then spits deliberately onto the sand.
A flash of rage sears through me. I wish I had something to throw straight into his smug face. He can call me whatever he wants, but one thing I am not is someone who abandons others to die.
“Two minutes,” Kaelzar warns, his urgency slicing through the air.
The right thing would be saving them all.
Seraphina’s words echo through me, driving me forward. My arms snap out, reaching for everyone within my grasp.
“Go!” I scream, charging into the crowd, touching anyone I can reach. Chains screech. An ungodly shriek erupts from the Fleshleeches’ maws. The ground trembles.
