I stop breathing. The mechanical monster has creaking tentacles like an octopus. As it emerges, the arms slowly begin to move, gaining speed as it warms up, screeching and groaning, until finally they whip around in the air at a terrifying pace. On the ends of the tentacles, something else begins to spin, adding a loud whirring noise. Blades.
Eban’s still holding my hand, briefly caressing my fingers, a fleeting, comforting gesture. “You can do this,” he says. “You have more power in you than anyone else in the world.”
The automaton lift shudders to a halt and clicks, locking it into place. The crowd cheers louder. Because its platform starts to move. It’s coming straight for us.
-Tadhana!I call out in my mind.Are you with me?
Yes.
-Are you ready?
Then she says something I don’t expect.
Gin, I’m afraid I must caution you against this line of action. If you reveal yourself now, we may never make it to the vault. I sense another bonded spirit on the premises. We might be exposing ourselves too early.
The heavy automaton inches slowly toward us, but it’s still coming, and the closer it gets, the more horrifying its flying saws are.
-Well, I’ve got bad news for you, Tadhana. If we don’t get out of this arena, we won’t make it to the vault to retrieve the relics.
Okay, fine. I see your point. But here’s mine. Use caution, and be sure to direct your power, else you inadvertently harm the very ones you hope to protect. Should you lose control, you won’t make it to your desired destination, either.
Tadhana is right. I need to be careful. Except I’ve never done this before, try to control my power and on such a grand scale. Up until now, each time I’d utilized the power of the relics, I’d done quite a lot of damage.
“Good people of Lacon, let me introduce you to House Dominant’s new invention. The Octoblade!” the announcer declares.
The crowd claps furiously. Some people whistle. Fun and games to them, as the people around me tremble with fear. I’ve seen mechanical weapons before, it’s a Laconian specialty, but none this terrifying.
“Whether we can break last year’s achievement, and eradicate the enemy in record time, remains to be seen! What do you say?” The crowd goes wild, clapping and shouting and stomping their feet.
“Goddess, I call upon your power,” I whisper. I try to drown out everything going on around me, the frantic breaths and pushing, the sounds of the crowd, the announcer’s smug voice, and focus only on summoning the magic I’m supposed to be able to wield.
At first nothing happens. Exactly what I’d feared. I don’t know how to channel my power. I haven’t had enough practice. But neither do I have time to learn. There’s no choice. This has to work.
Try again. Sometimes it takes a while for Yarima to answer.
-You think she could sense we’re in a bit of an emergency?
The gods don’t like it when we are impatient.
I sigh and try again. This time I picture myself kneeling before the goddess’s feet.
-Yarima, goddess of war, answer my call and allow me to slay my enemies as a tribute to your greatness.
A loud raucous cheer erupts from the crowd as the announcer makes one more proclamation: “There is no escape from Liberation Day! Death to Ophir!”
When I open my eyes, I see that the guards on the other platform are marching to stand in formation on the edges of the arena. Prepared to attack those who are running from the Octoblade.
-Yarima, please. Tadhana, call her. Now!
“Come on,” I mutter. What use is the power if I can’t call it in a crisis like this?
I look up and my eye catches a face in the crowd. It’s Rollo. He’s laughing, enjoying himself at the games, a beautiful woman on each arm. Even though I know the truth of why he was kind to me now, it still hurts. He puts down his goblet as if he feels my eyes on him, and turns to look directly at me. His eyes widen, shock and worry written all over his features. My heart lurches. But he does nothing—he’s not going to save me from here. He’s not going to stop my death, not today.
I wrench my gaze away from him. The crowd pounds their feet on the floor. The Octoblade keeps moving closer to our platform. People begin to run. One tries to outsmart the monster and run past it, but the automaton swipes with its arm and slices the man’s torso. He crumples to the ground. Others scream and run in the other direction. The guards rush toward us, keeping us corralled on the platform.
“You bastards,” I whisper, staring at the crowd. They’re eating and drinking, rapt at the spectacle.
“Gin! Duck!” Eban yells as a soldier rushes toward us, holding a cutlass in the air. The soldier’s so close I can see the sigil on his jacket. A tiny water dragon. How strange, I think, that the symbol on the collar of his jacket isn’t that of a Laconian lion. The water dragon silhouette is the sigil of King Alred, the first king of Ophir, whose banners flew all over the Drowned City.
