Page 12 of Court of Twisted Angels

A blade materializes from the darkness, its edge gleaming with an otherworldly blue light. The metal seems to drink in the surrounding void, making it appear almost alive. I push off with my back foot, spinning away as the weapon arcs down where I'd been crouching.

Magic crackles around me, raising the fine hairs on my arms. The void shifts, reality bending as the ground starts to crack and separate. A chasm yawns open, the edges crumbling away into nothingness. I can feel it more than anything, though it's a disorienting sensation.

The blade swings again, forcing me toward the widening gap. I take two quick steps back, my heart hammering against my ribs. The edge of the chasm creeps closer, pieces of stone dropping into infinite blackness. No time to find another path. No room to retreat.

Drawing in a sharp breath, I gather my strength and sprint forward. The blade whistles past again as I launch myself into the air. For one terrifying moment, I'm suspended over the void, nothing but emptiness below. The magical currents swirl aroundme, some trying to push me down, others lifting me up like invisible wings.

My fingers stretch out, searching for purchase. The rough stone of the far edge scrapes against my palms. I grab hold, my shoulders screaming as they absorb the impact. My legs dangle in empty space as pieces of rock break away under my grip. Now that there is nothing beneath my feet, I can tell the distinct difference.

Sweat trickles down my spine as I crawl up onto the rock, refusing to slow. Instead, I push forward through the void. Each step feels heavier than the last, my muscles burning from constant tension. The magical currents grow more chaotic, swirling in unpredictable patterns that set my teeth on edge.

A whisper of movement brushes past my consciousness - different from the magical predators. This presence feels solid, alive. My hand drops to the twin blades at my hips, fingers curling around familiar leather-wrapped hilts.

The attack comes without warning. A body slams into mine from the side, driving the air from my lungs. We hit the ground hard, rolling across the invisible surface. My attacker's weight pins me down, but years of training kick in. I buck my hips, creating space to bring my knee up between us.

Steel flashes in the darkness. I twist away, feeling the blade slice across my shoulder. Hot blood trickles down my arm. Drawing my twin blades, I spring back to my feet.

Another strike comes at my head. I cross my blades, catching the attack. The impact sends shockwaves up my arms. My opponent's strength is incredible, inhuman. Magic crackles between our locked weapons.

Pain explodes in my side - a second blade I didn't sense. I stumble backward, warm blood soaking my tunic. The void spins around me as my attacker presses their advantage. Their blade whips past my face, cutting strands of hair.

I drop low, letting instinct guide my movements. My right blade finds flesh, drawing a hiss from my opponent. Their magic flares in response, sending waves of burning energy through my body.

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I drive forward. Our weapons clash in a deadly dance, neither of us able to see clearly in the absolute darkness. Blood loss makes my head spin, but I force myself to focus on the subtle shifts in air pressure that betray my opponent's movements.

My left blade slides between their ribs. Their magic surges one final time, wild and uncontrolled. The ground beneath my feet dissolves like sand washing away in a tide.

I fall. The void rushes past as gravity claims me, my opponent's body disappearing into the darkness above. My stomach lurches into my throat as I plummet through nothingness, unable to tell up from down in the absolute darkness.

The impact knocks the remaining air from my lungs as I slam onto solid ground. My knees buckle, hands splaying against cool marble to catch myself. Sensation floods back - the weight of my clothes, the sting of cuts, the throb of bruises forming beneath my skin.

Light pierces my vision in fragments, like shards of stained glass piecing themselves back together. The grand arena of New Solas materializes around me, its white stone pillars stretching toward a twilight sky. Golden magic still crackles in the air, remnants of the trial's power dissipating like morning mist.

My chest heaves as I draw in desperate breaths. The twin blades at my hips pulse with residual energy, their steel singing with echoes of the void. Blood trickles down my arm, staining the pristine floor beneath me.

The crowd's murmurs fade into focus. Hundreds of xaphan fill the viewing galleries, their wings creating a tapestry of whitesand golds against the darkening sky. Their whispers carry on the evening breeze - surprise, speculation, perhaps even respect.

Movement draws my gaze up at the edge of the arena. Azrael stands motionless, his black hair stark against his white tunic and pants, as he waits on an obsidian platform. Those ice-blue eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. His wings - pure white, which makes him being a trainer all too surprising - remain perfectly still, not betraying a single emotion.

The weight of his stare pins me in place. There's something in his expression I can't decipher - not quite approval, not quite disdain. His jaw clenches slightly as his gaze tracks over my injuries, lingering on the blood seeping through my tunic.

Magic still dances between us, invisible currents that make the air feel thick and heavy. The power radiating from him is different from the void's savage energy - controlled, refined, but no less dangerous. His presence commands attention, demanding acknowledgment even in silence.

I force myself to stand straighter despite my body's protests. His expression remains unreadable, but something shifts in those cold eyes - a flash of... interest? Curiosity? It's gone before I can be sure, leaving me wondering if I imagined it.

I stumble to the edge of the arena where a small group of xaphan are watching. "What is your name?" one asks.

"Kyrie," I pant, still so disoriented. "Kyrie Kael."

"Congratulations, Kyrie," another says with a malicious grin. "You are now a contestant in the wing trials."

8

AZRAEL

The polished obsidian beneath my boots gleams with an otherworldly sheen as I stand at the edge of the viewing platform. Below, a vast expanse of magical darkness churns like a living thing, its inky tendrils reaching upward before dissipating into wisps. The darkness isn't just absence of light—it's a tangible force that devours illumination, crushing the senses of those trapped within.

While the contestants can't see down there, the void splays out like a body of water in the arena for the rest of us to be able to view easily. It allows me to watch as a blade is thrown through the void, followed by an agonized scream that echoes off the arena's towering walls. Another contestant eliminated. Their life force drains away, feeding the very darkness that claimed them.

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