Page 89 of Tempest Blazing
Mason's thumb brushed across my knuckles. "But you weren't. You fought smart. You trusted your partner. You won." His free hand came up to cup my cheek, gentle despite the calluses. "That's what matters."
I let my head rest briefly against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent—earth and stone and something indefinablysafe. His heartbeat was steady under my ear, a counterpoint to my own still-racing pulse. For a moment, the arena faded. The crowd, the noise, the lingering ache in my ribs—all of it distant compared to this anchor, this reminder that I wasn't alone.
"Hey." Draven's voice cut through the moment, silk and edge wrapped around casual amusement. He was leaning against the stone railing like he'd been there all along, but his hazel eyes flickered with something that made my stomach do complicated things. "Bold strategy with the boulder, love. Risky, but it worked."
I huffed a laugh, then immediately winced as my ribs reminded me they'd taken a beating. "Messy seems to be my specialty lately."
"Nothing messy about what I saw down there." His gaze traveled over me slowly, cataloging injuries with the precision of someone who'd done his share of field medicine. "You adapted. Used what you had. That's not luck—that's skill."
The heat in his voice made my skin prickle. Even exhausted, even aching, my body responded to that tone like it was hardwired to. I caught myself straightening, meeting his eyes despite the way it made my pulse skip.
"You were watching?"
"Hard not to." The admission was quiet, but it carried weight. "You have this way of commanding attention, whether you realize it or not."
Kane's approach cut through whatever was building between us, his arms crossed and expression unreadable as ever. "You relied on instinct," he said without preamble, then paused like he was choosing his next words carefully. "It worked. But don't assume instinct will save you tomorrow."
I raised an eyebrow, waiting for the criticism, but it didn't come. Instead, there was something else in his voice—concern buried under all that precision, worry disguised as tactical assessment.
"So what would you have done differently?" I asked, genuinely curious.
Kane's blue-violet eyes flicked to the arena floor, where maintenance crews were already resetting for the next bout. "Nothing," he said finally. "That's the problem. You made the right choices under pressure. That's... not something that can be taught."
Coming from Kane, it felt like the highest praise possible. I sank down onto the stone bench, suddenly too tired to keep standing. My heartbeat still hadn't slowed completely, adrenaline and magic leaving me jittery and oversensitive.
"You fought with intelligence and strength,"Thalon's voice stirred in my mind, carrying a pride so fierce it made my throat tighten. "I have never been more proud to call you mine."
The words hit me harder than any physical blow could have. I'd never had someone speak to me like that—with such unwavering belief, such genuine pride. Not my parents, not my instructors, not anyone who mattered. But here was Thalon, this ancient, powerful being, and he was proud of me. The warmth of it spread through my chest, settling into places I hadn't realized were cold and empty.
I exhaled slowly, feeling the bond stretch between us—that golden thread that connected my soul to his, stronger now than ever before.
The arena floor below us was already being cleared, teams of workers hauling away broken stone and smoothing the sand for whatever came next. The crowd's energy was shifting too—that post-fight buzz giving way to anticipation for the next match. "Anya Ravenspell and Mason Sharpe," Silvius's voice boomed across the arena, cutting through my moment of connection with Thalon.
I straightened, watching as Anya stepped forward when her name was called. Her dark robes trailed behind her like smoke, and there was something almost regal in the way she moved—like she was walking to a coronation instead of a trial that could kill her. Mason fell into step beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and I felt a rush of fierce protectiveness watching them descend into the arena together.
They moved like a single unit from the moment the trial began. Anya raised her hands, violet magic crackling between her fingers as she conjured skeletal warriors from the dust of the arena floor. The bones assembled themselves with clicking efficiency, empty sockets glowing with purple fire as they rushed forward to engage the other candidates.
Mason didn't bother with subtlety. His fist connected with the first opponent who got too close, sending them sailing across the field in a graceful arc that ended with a very ungraceful crash. His protective wards shimmered around Anya like a second skin, deflecting attacks before they could even reach her.
A wave of violet magic whipped through the air as Anya raised her hand higher, commanding a spectral wolf to materialize from shadow and starlight. The creature's eyes burned like amethysts as it pinned a fleeing opponent, teeth bared in a soundless snarl that somehow carried more menace than any roar.
"Damn," Draven murmured appreciatively. "Remind me never to get on her bad side."
"Too late for that," Kane said dryly. "She already doesn't like you."
"She doesn't like anyone," I pointed out, but there was fondness in my voice. Watching Anya fight was like watching deadly poetry in motion—beautiful and terrifying and absolutely captivating.
Mason's next punch sent another opponent crashing into the arena wall hard enough to crack stone. Dust rained down as the candidate slumped, unconscious but breathing. Anya's skeletal warriors dissolved back into shadow, their purpose served.
That's my family,I thought, pride swelling in my chest until it almost hurt. These fierce, complicated, dangerous people who'd somehow become the most important thing in my world.
As the match ended—victory declared in under five minutes—Mason helped Anya down from a crumbled platform where she'd been directing her spectral army. His big hands were gentle as he brushed dust from her shoulder, the kind of tenderness that made my heart squeeze. Anya nodded once, her expression unreadable but her posture relaxed in a way that spoke of trust.
She caught my eye as they climbed back toward the stands, and for just a moment, that carefully controlled mask slipped. A small, rare smile curved her lips—genuine approval that meant more than any cheering crowd.
The arena crews moved with practiced efficiency, their magic washing away the scorch marks and bone dust from Anya's necromantic display. Fresh sand was spread across the fighting ground, and the protective barriers were recharged with crackling energy. The crowd's murmur of appreciation for the previous match gradually gave way to a different kind of tension—the anticipation that came with knowing each fight would be more dangerous than the last.
"Kane Ellesar," Silvius called his son's name to join the next group of applicants.
