Page 34 of The Midnight Death Match
“And what will it open to?” I ask.
His gaze is direct, searching. “You.”
My mouth falls open. “Me?”
“You’re the new hunter. Excuse me, huntress. Your father is weakening, and his power is flowing into you. There’s never beena female born to your line before. It’s obvious you’ll do things no one before you has dreamed of. After you gain your full power, of course.” Lysandros eyes Einar.
I grit my teeth. “I’m not killing him.”
“Pity. Then you’ll die instead. Our entire existence could falter with the loss of the world’s only huntress.”
My father starts to say something, but one of the scholars cuts him off.
“We’ve studied the corruption patterns.” She gestures to the map. “Nothing we’ve thrown at it holds. Wards break, talismans fade. It’s not natural magic.”
“It’s emotional.” I move closer, taking a better look.
All heads turn to me.
“It feeds on fear,” I continue. “Like a curse that doesn’t just want to spread. It wants to be felt, to unravel hope. Think about it—that explains everything that’s happened here.”
The silver-tattooed woman frowns. “That’s theory, but you can’t forget this all started when the hunter began weakening.”
“Let’s test the theory,” Einar says. “We walk the streets and face what’s festering.”
A ripple of dissent moves through the chamber.
But it isn’t like we need their permission. We’re the hunters, after all. Nobody controls us.
“You’ll be hunted,” one scholar argues. “The fae who’ve succumbed will remember you.”
“All the more reason.” I square my shoulders. “The sword pulses near the edges. Something’s calling it. We can’t learn more by standing still.”
Another scholar shakes his head. “You’re asking to poke the rot with a stick and hope it doesn’t eat the arm.”
“She’s asking to do what no one else dares,” Lys interjects, his voice smooth as honey. “If that scares you, perhaps she’s exactly what this city needs. With two hunters, they could potentiallyundo the damage done. And we all know we won’t have two hunters for long. One must die soon.”
My breath catches.
He turns to me, measured and calm. “You see what others fear to name. A mind sharp enough to unmake prophecy and bold enough to test it.”
Harek shifts slightly toward me. Heat rolls off him in angry waves. “Eira isn’t a symbol. She’s aperson. One who feels and bleeds.”
Lys doesn’t blink. “So did every warrior worth remembering.”
Silence ripples again, uneasy and taut.
Harek turns to me. There’s concern in his eyes, but also something harder to face.
Doubt. Or maybe fear for what I’m becoming.
I look away.
Thankfully, the council disperses, offering a distraction. Voices trail into side halls and shadowed alcoves as the room slowly empties.
I linger near a case of preserved relics—twisted arrows, a faded blood charm, half a shattered mirror shard.
Lys stands next to me. “You draw a sharp line.”
