Page 192 of The Blood Rites

Atheron breaks the stillness by seating himself on a low outcropping, as if he has all the time in the world. He’s so sure of himself, so confident in his victory. I hate him for it.

I hold his gaze for a one heartbeat. Then, on impulse, I break the rules.

I cup my hands to my mouth and shout, “Kael!”

The sound tears the air, the ocean swallowing it and spitting it back louder.

Atheron’s smile widens as he stands, unhurried and pleased. Then, in one fluid motion, he raises his hand and launches a jet of fire straight at me.

It isn’t elegant. It’s designed to maim, and to flare bright enough to draw out Kael.

I don’t think, just react. My Mana comes alive, light snapping up around me in a shield, bright and precise. The fire hits and recoils, licking at the ground and dying in steam.

He wasn’t expecting me to block that so easily. He had forgotten I could be a threat all my own. And now he’s curious.

He opens his mouth, maybe to say something cutting, but Kael is here.

He doesn’t walk in. He doesn’t run.

He just is—mid-stride, as if the world forgot to render him and then inked him in at the last second. His eyes are solid black, hair plastered to his skull with sweat, a gash across his cheek leaking blood.

He says nothing. There’s nothing to say.

He moves straight for Atheron.

The Fireborn is ready, but he’s not quick enough. Kael moves like a wraith, shadows pouring from his hands in arcs that slice through the air. The two of them collide, and it’s like watching two storms meet, elemental and raw. Fire and shadow crashing together, each trying to smother the other.

The sound is overwhelming. Atheron roars, flames twisting off his arms, his hands ablaze. Kael’s shadows absorb some, but not all—each hit burns, and Kael’s jacket is alight in places. He doesn’t care. He lets the fire eat at him, gets inside Atheron’s guard, and drives a fist into the hollow beneath his ribs.

Atheron staggers back, winded, as Kael rolls in the sand to douse the flames.

Atheron recovers, grinning, his teeth orange in the firelight. “Give it up, Prince,” he says. “You’re not fit to be Crown.”

Kael spits a mouthful of blood onto the sand.

“And you’re not fit to be alive,” he says. “Let me do something about that.”

They slam together again, and this time, I see what Atheron is doing. He’s forcing Kael to use his Mana. Every strike is a calculated drain, every feint a test. He’s not fighting to win—he’s fighting to tire Kael out, to make him killable.

I want to help, but I don’t know how.

I circle them, staying just outside the radius of their violence. The sand is scalding, the air too hot to breathe. My arms are up, ready to shield.

Atheron feints left, then swings wide, hurling a wave of fire at my head. I duck, but the edge of it catches my shoulder, singeing through my shirt. The smell is disgusting, sweet and burnt, and my stomach lurches.

Kael sees it, and the last of his restraint snaps. He turns all his focus on Atheron, nothing left in him but hatred.

Their speed increases, no longer people but impressions, flashes in the dark, sometimes only visible when a stray fire blast lights them up. The sand is glassing under their feet, shadows burrowing into the earth.

Shadow and fire meet in a vortex between them as dark veins pulse at Kael’s temples. Atheron looks almost giddy, his flames wrestling with the shadows.

A slow smile spreads over his face, and then he laughs.

“Now,” he says.

I don’t know who he’s talking to. There’s no one left.

From the black, another shape bursts forward—fire wearing the outline of a man. For one disorienting second, I think there are two Atherons.