Page 97 of Forging Darkness

At last, we reach the top of our climb. Only a door separates us from the open arena. The shouts and stomping of the Fallen and Forsaken beyond are hardly muffled, sending wild ripples flying throughout the air. The lead Forsaken yanks the door open, and I’m slapped by a rush of light and sound strong enough to make me turn my face away. I’m prodded in the back by one of the guards, my eyes watering as I’m pushed out into the open. The end of the Forsaken’s spear pokes me again between my shoulder blades and I whirl, grabbing the shaft and yanking it from their hands. I twist the wooden rod, slamming the blunted end into the guard’s stomach before the other three restrain me.

The injured guard wheezes out a few breaths from his hunched position before snapping his face up. Murder churns in his eyes as he bares fanged teeth. I don’t bother fighting against my captors as they muscle me away.

A horn sounds, and just like before, the ripples obscuring the spectrum air clear from the coliseum. Fifty feet to my left, Seraphim reclines on a cushioned lounge, looking like a Roman empress swathed in a flowing white gown. Her midnight wings brush the stones of the balcony behind the chaise, and opaque fabric hangs above, shielding her skin from the gilded rays of spectrum sun. All she needs to complete the image is a servant feeding her peeled grapes.

I look down at my mostly white ensemble. Now I know who made all my original wardrobe choices.

Four Fallen stand at attention on each corner of the balcony, but appear to be more for decoration than anything else; they’re practically buried in armor too cumbersome for actual combat.

I frantically search for Steel. I can’t quell the anxiety that roils in my gut and spreads up into my chest, but I don’t let it show on my face.

The arena floor is clear except for a raised platform set up in the middle. It’s round and draped in red like a giant tablecloth with two wood poles shooting out of the center. Manacles attached to thick chains are fastened to both—a His and Hers matching set. Cute.

When her minions quiet, Seraphim smoothly rises and takes several measured steps toward the front edge where she can see, and be seen by, the crowd.

She shouts something in guttural Enochian that sounds a bit like “Sh-gra-nite-gu frag-ka,” before sliding over to English. “Today is a special occasion.” Her melodious voice carries, echoing off the massive structure as she speaks. “After millennia of searching, I’ve finally found a worthy vessel.”

The coliseum erupts again. A small smile curves on her profiled face. She allows the ruckus for a short time, then lifts a graceful arm and the crowd instantly quiets. With a barely visible tilt of her head, she signals to bring me forward.

My gaze levels on her face as I’m led toward her. Her eyes sweep over me, familiar desire shining within. It’s the same look I’ve received from Fallen all week as they sized me up.

“Where’s Thorne?” I demand. His betrayal sits sour on my tongue, but there’s a small hope I might still be able to appeal to him. This isn’t what he wanted.

She lets out a low chuckle. “Not here to help you, if that’s what you are thinking. He left an hour ago.”

I ignore the dip of disappointment in my gut. It was a long shot anyway, and Thorne made it clear he wasn’t on my side. I curl my lips into something very close to a snarl.

I’m still unbound, so when I reach her I consider striking out. How far would I get in a fair fight? Something heated circles my wrist, startling me from my stare-down with Seraphim. Another cuff has been snapped in place. This stone is ruby red and glowing.

“In case you get any ideas about morphing.”

My fingers wrap around the metal, tugging and pulling as I search for a way to remove the band, feeling like a complete and utter idiot for giving her an opportunity to trap me when I was doing something as stupid as trying to murder her with my eyes.

Turning away from me, she addresses her subjects once again. “As tradition dictates, the ceremony will begin at nightfall. But before that we will all have the pleasure of a tournament. The victor will claim a rare Nephilim as their vessel—a Cherubim with the power of three beasts rather than one.”

Her gaze slides toward me as she assesses my response. Gritting my teeth behind closed lips, I don’t give her the satisfaction of anything beyond a cool glare. This isn’t a surprise, but my heart still pounds behind my fitted breastplate.

“Bring in the vessel!” she shouts.

Chains clink and groan as a single grated door on the arena floor begins to open. I can’t see anything but darkness beyond the flattened iron bars as the door rises. When it docks with a clank, figures emerge from the shadows.

As much as I mentally prepared, I can’t stop myself from lurching forward when Steel steps into the light. I’m immediately hauled back by two sets of hands. I strain against their hold as I take Steel in.

Scruff shades his jaw and the hollows of his cheeks. He squints, lifting a chained arm to block the light and survey his surroundings. I’m too far away to pick up the slight nuances of his facial expressions, but he’s most likely doing his best to not show emotion.

Prodded in the back by a spear, he throws an angry glare over his shoulder before moving. He strides forward, head held high as he scans for something.

I know he’s found what he’s looking for when his gaze lands on me.

Even from this distance I can see the physical effect I have on him. Muscles bunch under his torn, dirty shirt and jeans. His hands fist and strides lengthen. He advances toward me, ignoring the red platform in the middle of the arena floor completely.

As expected, Steel looks a bit worse for wear. They didn’t bother fancying him up, like they did for me. His hair juts in all directions. Blood stains his clothing where he was wounded. There doesn’t appear to be a single spot on him that’s clean.

But he’s never looked better. Dirty or not, I still want to run and throw my arms around him.

As he nears, the intensity of his gaze sharpens. I jerk against the hands holding me in place, but they don’t slacken. His eyes flare when he notices the Forsaken restraining me. His arm muscles constrict and I know he’s dying to transform and rip through a couple of Fallen or Forsaken. The spirit gem on his wrist catches the spectrum sun and winks red.

It isn’t until he’s traversed to our side of the arena that any of his Forsaken guards attempt to restrain him. Shock squeezes the breath from my lungs when a rope lassos Steel’s neck and pulls tight. The arena erupts in cheers.

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