Page 29 of The Ascended
Every sense sharpened to painful clarity—I could count the reflections of each star on the mirror-bright floor, could hear hearts stuttering in chests, could taste power and possibility on my tongue.
I should have been incinerated. Should have been reduced to ash and memory. Instead, their light poured into me like molten gold, merging with the magic already burning through my veins.
I looked up at the Aesymar and smiled with every ounce of arrogance I possessed.
The silence that followed was absolute. The Legends themselves had gone motionless on their thrones, and for one perfect moment, I let myself believe I had won.
That this would be enough.
Drakor stepped forward and began to clap. Slow, measured applause that somehow managed to sound mocking.
"What a valiant display of power," he called out, his voice carrying the particular tone one might use to praise a child's finger painting.
Drakor's smile widened, and his expression curdled my relief. It was the kind of smile that preceded very bad things.
"However," he said, letting the word hang in the air, "there’s still no blood on the floor."
Understanding hit, and it was like being gutted with a dull knife.
This wasn’t a simple display of our powers.
This was a culling.
And I—arrogant fool that I was—had just painted the biggest target imaginable on my back.
Well. Fuck.
The god gestured flippantly, as if encouraging us to continue with our little slaughter for his amusement. The other contestantsstood frozen for a heartbeat, processing what he'd just said. What it meant. Then, slowly, inevitably, several pairs of eyes turned toward me.
The first move came before I'd finished processing the new reality. Vines erupted from the arena floor, wrapping around the legs of the closest contestant, and yanking her down. She screamed once before thorns burst from the vines, tearing through flesh and silencing her forever. Thick black sap leaked from her wounds as blood pooled across the floor, staining the white stone in crimson.
The killer turned toward me next, his face twisted with determination. "Sorry," he said, "but I'm not dying here."
Fuck. Need something. Need?—
Power exploded through my palms. Wild. Violent. My bones ached with the force of it. Light poured between my fingers, too bright, too hot. I tried to push it away—shield, blast, anything—but the power gripped back, claiming my hands as its anchor.
It writhed, twisted, condensed, and something solid materialized.
A sword.
Pure starlight given killing form.
Vines shot toward me, these armed with thorns the size of daggers. I stumbled backward, raising my sword instinctively. The blade cut through the plants like they were paper, but more kept coming.
Just as the vines surrounded me, the fire-wielder came at him from the side, flames roaring from her hands. He screamed as the fire consumed him, the smell of burning flesh filling the air.
Screams of agony tore through the arena as one of the other contestants slammed into the marble floor, another scarlet puddle leaking out.
I doubled over, bile rising in my throat. So much blood. So much death. Just like in the cave, just like?—
No. I forced myself upright, hands shaking as I gripped my star-sword. The woman blessed with fire was standing over a burningcorpse, flames still dancing around her fingers. She turned toward me, her face set with grim determination.
We stared at each other across the blood-soaked arena as she took a step towards me.
The energy blast came from nowhere. A concentrated burst of pure force that slammed into the fire-wielder's chest with a wet, terrible sound. She crumpled instantly, her flames guttering out as she hit the marble floor.
I spun around, star-sword raised, and found myself facing the last contestant. Energy crackled around his hands.
