Page 31 of Tempest Rising

Chapter 13

Kane

The moment I stepped out of Tess’s office, the tension in my shoulders eased, but only slightly. The tight knot that had formed during our conversation was still there, coiled and waiting. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to breathe, to stay in control.

"You’re not ready."

It wasn’t an insult. It was the truth. She wasn’t ready for Kreel, for the Guild Trials, or any of it.

The words had come out harsher than I intended, though I meant every syllable. She didn’t understand how dangerous this world was—not fully. And every step she took deeper into it made the ground shift beneath us both. One wrong move, and she’d be caught in the crossfire.

But it wasn’t just about her being unprepared for the meeting. It was everything. Kreel. The Guild. The Dragon Riders.

My father.

Lord Protector Ellesar.The name alone was enough to set my teeth on edge. Tess had no idea what kind of man he was, what he was capable of. And now that bastard was overseeing the Trials personally? It was a calculated move—one that hadnothing to do with ensuring the Trials were “appropriately challenging” and everything to do with his twisted games.

What was he up to this time? I had a feeling it wasn’t good, whatever it was. I’d need to put some feelers out, talk to a few people. Maybe catch wind of what his real agenda was before it was too late.

For some reason, I didn’t want her caught up in it.

She reallywasn’tready.

And Kreel... I shouldn’t have suggested she meet with him in the first place. I knew that now. Tess was vulnerable, though she didn’t even realize how much so. Kreel wasn’t some Guild bureaucrat. He was dangerous—ruthless. I hadn’t known how stubborn she could be, how fearlessly she would throw herself into something she cared about.

A bitter laugh escaped me. That was part of what drew me to her, wasn't it? That fire. That determination. And now those same qualities were leading her straight into danger.

As I rounded a corner, the hallway dimmed, shadows stretching across the walls. The flickering candlelight cast uneven patterns on the stone as if the very world were trying to warn me. But it wasn’t the shadows I was worried about. It was the memories.

I couldn’t stop them from surfacing.

My fists clenched as memories surged forward, dragging me back.

The roar of the crowd echoed in my ears, a cacophony of jeers and cheers that rattled through the underground arena like a living, breathing entity. The stench of blood and sweathung thick in the air, mingling with the scent of magic—dark, forbidden, and ancient.

I didn’t come here for the thrill of the fight. I came to escape. To forget.

Every day, the weight of my father’s expectations threatened to crush me. Lord Protector Ellesar, the man who demanded perfection, who saw failure as weakness. His cold, calculating eyes followed my every move, a constant reminder that I could never be anything less than flawless. And the consequences if I didn’t meet his standards? Unthinkable. Unforgivable.

For years, I tried to find ways to cope with the pressure. Tried numbing myself with work, with distractions, with anything that would keep me from feeling like I was suffocating under his scrutiny. But nothing worked. Nothing, except this.

Fighting became my release. The more dangerous, the better. The adrenaline and pain drowned out everything else. It quieted the storm in my head, the constant hum of expectations that never ceased. I started small—fights that barely drew blood—but they weren’t enough. I needed more. Needed the stakes to be higher. That’s how I ended up here, in this pit of monsters and killers.

I stood at the edge of the fighting pit, my muscles taut, senses on high alert. The arena was a nightmare: an obsidian pit surrounded by tiers of seats filled with supernatural beings, all there to watch the carnage. Vampires, fae, demons, and more, hungry for blood, for the thrill of the fight. I glanced up, noting the eager faces, but also the exchange of whispered conversations and the flash of coins being passed between hands. Bets were being placed—big ones. Someone, somewhere, was making a fortune off this brutality.

Mason stood across from me, fists clenched, his massive frame casting a long shadow under the flickering lights. The crowd around us buzzed with anticipation, eager for blood, their voices merging into a chaotic hum. I shifted on my feet, rolling my shoulders, trying to focus. But something nagged at me, an edge of discomfort that cut deeper than the usual pre-fight tension.

I’d faced off in this underground ring plenty of times—but never against someone like Mason.

He was an immovable force, all rippling muscle and stone-hewn determination. The other fights I’d watched from the sidelines had proven that much. Unbeaten. Unbreakable. The kind of fighter who didn’t bend, didn’t falter. His strikes were like thunder, each hit capable of reshaping the very air around him. A part of me had been curious—eager, even—to pit myself against him, to measure my limits against his raw strength.

But now that he stood there, squaring up, that excitement slipped out of my reach, fading under something darker, something that made my skin prickle.

The fight began.

He lunged first, fists swinging with brutal precision. I barely had time to dodge, stepping back as his punch sliced through the space where I’d just been. His movements were like the crackle of lightning, faster than anyone his size should’ve been, yet something about the way he came at me felt off. There was no hesitation, no holdback—just unyielding, mechanical force.

Then I saw it.

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