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The severed neck pumps blood in a gory fountain, painting his body and the black sand around us red. I pant and heave, arms and sword extended, bloody wings splayed behind me.
Then nothing.
Even the crowd falls silent after one collective gasp.
Fall, you bastard.
The Onyx Knight bends over. One gauntleted hand reaches down, patting the ground until it locates the helm lying in the sand and lifts it.
Horror floods me, along with the terrifying realization that the fight will begin again, the Onyx Knight as fresh as I am injured.
No. No, that’s not—
The Knight places his head back on his neck. The flow of blood slows, then stops.
A strange grinding reverberates from within his armor as whatever dark magic he possesses knits him back together.
Shock locks me in place, forcing me to watch even though I want to look away.
Someone in the crowd vomits. Others follow, enough that the smell of sickness drifts across the arena. I clench my jaw, determined not to join them in case he attacks again.
The Knight’s eyes find me, his head and neck one again. Blood trickles off his armor and onto the sand. “A blow for a blow. Eventually, we’ll meet again. What you dealt, I shall return.”
I stick out my hand to shake his. “Actually, I’m good with ending things this way.”
The Knight stares at my extended hand for three heartbeats. Then he pivots and walks away. “Until we meet again.” He doesn’t glance back, thank the gods. That would be fucking disturbing.
The referee stumbles toward me. He’s young, his face currently the color of old cheese, and I smell vomit on his robes. His hands quivers as he reaches for my arm. “The victor is…Garrett Stone of the Free Holds.”
The crowd erupts. Stomping feet rock the stands, and a roar from hundreds of voices rises as one enormous sound.
Somehow, someway, I’ve won.
At least for now.
Chapter Forty-Three
Agnar
Someone is talking. Words pour over me like water over stone, sliding off without sticking. In front of the banner-draped stands filled with cushioned chairs, a man with long brown hair holds his arm tight to his body. He rotates as he uses the flowery words of a person who’s never seen his blood on the battlefield but thinks he can speak of “the dance of steel and men.”
I catch maybe one word in five as every cell in my body focuses on not collapsing. I lock my knees to remain upright as pain radiates through me, spiking through my ravaged wing. After not sleeping last night and using my body as a gong for their entertainment, I don’t much care what any of these people think. I only want to sink into a soft bed, preferably with Esme beside me.
So, of course, once the man finishes, someone else begins to speak, their voice an endless drone.
The crowd roars approval at something. I have no idea what, and I don’t particularly want to find out.
A guard wearing ceremonial armor that’s never seen real combat enters my line of sight. He cradles an item on a velvet cushion like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
I don’t disagree.
The Everhand.
He lifts the dagger toward me, the metal and crystal gleaming in the sunlight. I reach out with trembling fingers that barely respond to commands.
Every strike and parry rattled my hands, leaving bruises, and now, my joints are starting to swell, so I struggle to grasp the artifact. The Everhand pulses with a strange kind of magic. Or maybe that’s just my blood pounding in my ears.
Esme sprints across the sand, straight toward me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
