Page 14 of Between Smoke and Shadow

An elite male screams and sprints from the room. Despite Sorace’s promise of safety, two others are close behind.

I stare, transfixed, as the beast charges with impossible speed.

It isn’t real, I tell myself.

Except it is, in all the ways that count. The creature may be born of magic, but it moves as if it belongs here. It roars, bodyundefined and shifting, translucent in certain angles. It reaches the guards in three strides, striking its first victim before he fully lifts his sword.

With a sweep of its leg, the creature launches the guard across the room. The man crunches against the wall of weapons, spears and arrows clattering over him.

Malek gleams behind the beast as it turns on its haunches. The scarlet magic stretches from his hands, pulsing life into his creation. Creeping with predatory slowness, the beast faces the guard. And then, it lunges. With a jolting kick, it punches a hole through the guard’s stomach, clear through to the other side.

I scream before I can think better of it, but no one scolds me. They’re too busy screaming themselves, too busy watching a man die before their own eyes. Because surely there’s no saving him. Dark blood spills around him, creating a shallow pool of red.

I dig my fingers into my coveralls, trying to keep a level head. I can’t afford to lose focus here, to draw any more attention to myself.

“Malek!” Princess Tora screams. It isn’t until she’s yelled that I realize she and Harrick have moved. They remain near each other, with Tora straining to see the beast’s victim within the chaos. She twists back toward Malek, grimacing. “No killing blows!”

Her voice is too casual to my ears. As if she’s scolding Malek for cheating their game, not for murdering a man.

I force my gaze back to the remaining guards. They break from formation like a cluster of frightened insects. A few challenge the beast, hacking at the meatiest part of its legs, swinging for its underbelly. Most guards, however, retreat to the opposite side of the room. I wonder if they knew the man, now corpse. They must be terrified they’ll be next, and for this, a stupid show of bravado.

The beast spins, stabbing through a guard’s foot as it faces Tora. Harrick wrenches the princess behind his back and lifts his hands. They’re brighter and sharper than Malek’s, not like burning coals, but like fire itself.

I tell myself to remain still, emotionless from the show that isn’t meant for me. But when Harrick screams, I flinch. It’s a strangled, pained cry, like he’s being tortured.

His magic strikes three guards at once, ripping them away from the beast. The pinned guard screams as she’s pulled across the mat, the beast’s foot slicing through the side of her ankle.

“That’s three for Harrick,” Viana says without flinching. She lowers her voice, forcing Saskia to lean closer. “Smart to take the guards nearest Malek’s magic. Claim the points for himself.”

I ignore Saskia’s reply and squint at Harrick’s magic. It’s almost too fast to track, snapping left then right and breaking into multiple strands. It is only as it curls around his victims that I realize his magic has taken the shape of vines. The Reaping Grounds. They weave over the three guards’ bodies, mummifying them as they strain against his hold. Only the fronts of their masks remain exposed.

“Wyhel,” Saskia says, words trembling. “Three at once. That’s terrifying.”

“What did you expect? He’s our king. Of course he’s powerful.” Viana sounds anything but frightened.

“Still,” Saskia murmurs.

I silently agree.

More and more guards collapse. I count twenty-one, and according to Viana, Harrick is far in the lead. I’m not so sure. My head spins with the endless blasts of magic. Vines and branches from Harrick. The spiky-legged beast from Malek. Nothing at all from Tora.

“That’s sixteen for Harrick,” Viana says, her voice echoing through the viewing room. “Sixteen for Harrick. Five for Malek.”

“I’ve got eleven for Harrick and ten for Malek,” an elite woman says down the line. She leans forward, raising an eyebrow at Viana. “It’s okay, V. Counting is hard.”

“I think Malek is going to take it,” another woman says.

“No way. Harrick will get the last three,” a man says.

The others pitch in, drowning out Viana’s insistence that Harrick has already won.

I scan the arena. I’m better at counting than reading, and I decide the other elites are right. There are eleven mounds of calcified vines to nine surrendered guards and one dead. The latter are curled on the floor, incapacitated in one way or another. Blood seeps around them, and something tells me the first victim will not be alone in the burning room tonight.

Malek’s creature lunges at one of the final three guards. Before its strike lands, however, the guard drops to his knees. I lean forward, shadowing the line of elites before me. The beast lowers, growling and exposing hooked fangs. It roars as water spills from the bottom of the guard’s mask.

“Well finally,” one of the elite women calls. “Tora decided she wanted to play after all.”

The princess doesn’t acknowledge the heckler. I’m not sure if they can hear us, or if only we can hear them. I’m surprised anyone, even an elite, would be so bold. But she’s right. Of the twenty-two fallen guards, this is the only one Tora has claimed.

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