Page 167

The sound drags my attention away from the tempest and toward the edges of the arena. I spin around, scanning the tiers of seating where some of the scattered crowd remain frozen, watching the scene unfold.

My name is called again, and I finally find the source.

Above me, a viewing box is still occupied. The king of the Sorrows and Lord Malis stand close to the edge, their bodies half turned toward the exit though their eyes remain fixed on the vortex. Beyond them, Kallias struggles against the grip of guards as they drag him away. He vanishes, the king and Malis following a moment later.

Promise me…Take care of him.

“How do I get to the docks from here?” I demand, rounding on the group I’ve been left with, barely registering their faces.

A man with dark hair frowns, but he answers quickly. “They’ll probably be heading for the gate.”

I frown. “What gate?”

“I’ll lead you,” a woman says as she steps forward. “Kato, come with us. Silas, stay here in case the others need you.”

Lady Cynna? My jaw drops, but I shake the shock away. Answers will come later. For now, I nod.

I grab a blade from the ground and race after her as she takes off at a sprint. The dark-haired man—Kato—follows, his steps falling swiftly into rhythm with ours as we race from the arena and into the temple.

The storm’s distant roar fades as the stone walls close in, replaced by the heavy, echoing sound of our footsteps. My breathing comes fast, harsh, each inhale tearing through my chest as we run through the winding corridors.

We turn a corner, and another group comes into view.

The king strides ahead of the two guards restraining Kallias. The prince twists against their hold, defiance burning bright in his eyes.

Cynna and Kato surge forward, heading for the guards. The king wrenches Kallias away before my companions reach them, dragging him farther ahead.

And then my gaze lands on him.

The Eagle.

All the fury, all the grief, all the hatred festering in the pit of my stomach ignites. My vision narrows until only he remains, every fiber of me drawn to the loathsome venom of his presence.

Rage urges me toward him before rational thought can hold me back. The Eagle turns as I attack, my blade meeting his in a clash of steel that reverberates through my bones.

“Your fight is wasted, Sparrow,” he taunts, his voice remarkably calm as he catches my blade mid-swing again and shoves me back. I stagger but I regain my footing, teeth clenched as my hands tighten on the hilt of my weapon. “You cannot win against me.”

I lunge again, aiming for his shoulder. Sparks fly as our weapons scrape together.

His counterattack is brutal, precise. He moves with a fluidity only centuries of training could bring about, each step and swing perfectly calculated.

Pain shoots through my thigh as his blade slices me, tearing through skin. I gasp, and in that instant of distraction, he lands a blow to my shoulder with a closed fist, the impact sending a jolt of agony down my arm.

A growl tears from my throat as I feint to the side, angling the blade low before twisting it upward in a desperate attempt to catch him off guard. For a moment, I think I’ve succeeded—his foot pivots with enough hesitation to make my heart leap—but then he recovers, parrying my blow with a flick of his wrist so powerful I nearly lose my grip.

I falter. My footing slips on the glossy stone, and his blade arcs toward my throat.

A shadow flies forward.

It slams into the Eagle with an impact that throws him off-balance. His face twists into a vicious snarl as Raven pins him to the wall.

I surge forward.

The Eagle turns his face from Raven as my blade finds his chest. His expression freezes, shock splintering through the malice. “This,” I hiss, “is for Deke.”

“This.” I pull the dagger out, then drive it in again. “Is for me.”

And then, finally, all the rage, all the heat, tightens into a single, jagged point as I choke on the words. “And this—” I strike again, twisting the blade as anguish floods my chest. “This is for Maxim.”