Page 79 of The Midnight Death Match

“I won’t,” I breathe, deflecting a strike meant for my heart. The curse pulses between us, ancient and greedy, and I feel it tasting our desperation.

He doesn’t give me time to think. His sword comes down in a vicious overhead strike that would cleave me in two. I bring my blade up to catch it, and the collision sends shockwaves through both our arms. We’re locked there for a moment, sword to sword, face to face, close enough that I can see the unshed tears he’s holding back.

“Then you’ll die with me,” he growls, pushing harder. “Is that what you want? To let the curse claim us both because you’re too stubborn to choose?”

I twist away, breaking the lock, and his blade crashes into the stone where I stood. Sparks fly like the oblivious stars above.

He slashes low. I leap back, stumbling on broken ground. Pain blooms in my leg, shallow but sharp. First blood is drawn, and the curse hums at the taste of it. The wound throbs in time with my heartbeat, each pulse sending heat racing up my spine.

“You think this is mercy?” he shouts, advancing with renewed fury. His strikes come faster now, a blur of steel and desperation. “Letting the curse continue, letting it choose for you?”

I parry desperately, my blade ringing against his in a staccato rhythm of denial. “You’re my only remaining parent,” I cry, backing toward the altar steps. “You think I’ll survive this? You think I want to?”

The words tear from my throat like claws, raw and bleeding. Because it’s true. What would victory be without him? What would freedom taste like with his blood on my hands?

He falters, just a breath, his next strike coming a fraction slower. But I don’t take the opening. My sword wavers in the air, pointed at his chest, and I can’t make it move forward. The wolf in me howls in frustration.

Ican’t.

We circle again, slower now. The sanctuary feels smaller with each step, the walls pressing in like a closing fist. Every strike is duller, every breath heavier. My limbs feel weighted with lead, and I can see the same exhaustion creeping into Einar’s movements. But it’s not physical fatigue—it’s the weight of what we’re trying to do to each other. Or tryingnotto do.

Neither of us wants this. We would both rather sacrifice ourselves than the other. This is going to be a long night. Wemight have to start again tomorrow if nothing comes of this. No matter how this plays out, it’s going to be unprecedented.

The air itself seems to thicken around us, magic crackling along the broken stones. The sanctuary sings with power, its ancient magic echoing with strength neither of us can command. The curse writhes between us like a living thing, feeding on our conflict, growing stronger with each clash of steel.

It wants blood. Doesn’t care whose it takes.

Einar’s next attack is different—not aimed at me, but at the pillar beside my head. Stone chips explode outward, one catching my cheek and drawing a thin line of blood. He’s trying to corner me, force me into a position where I’ll have to fight back properly.

“Stop holding back!” he roars, bringing his sword around in a wide arc that I barely duck under. “Honor me enough to give me a real fight!”

“I can’t!” The words rip from my chest like a sob. “Don’t you understand? I can’t!”

But even as I say it, I feel the change beginning. The wolf stirs deeper in my bones, not just hungry now but furious. How dare my father try to die? How dare he try to leave me?

The curse feeds on that rage, amplifies it, twists it into something sharp and deadly.

My sword pulls toward him—not by my will, but seemingly by its own will. This very weapon was used by other hunters before me. It knows what must be done.

The blade seems to develop its own gravity, dragging my arm forward with inexorable force. My wolf side snarls with hunger, the hunter curse roars for blood. Suddenly I’m not just fighting Einar. I’m fighting myself.

The curse has found its opening.

I fight it with everything I have. My muscles strain against the compulsion, tendons standing out like cables under my skin. But it’s like trying to hold back the tide with bare hands.

My arms move anyway.

The sword comes up in a perfect thrust, aimed straight for his heart. My body moves with deadly precision while my mind screams in horror.

“No!” I gasp, wrenching the blade back with all my strength.

But Einar steps into it.

Straight into the arc I couldn’t stop.

I stare in horror, hardly able to believe my eyes.

My father moves like he’s been waiting for this moment, like he’s been planning it from the first strike. His hand guides my blade between his ribs, under his guard, straight to his heart. I feel the resistance of leather, then mail, then the soft give of flesh.

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