Page 32 of The Ascended
"Get on with it, Drakor," Xül's bored voice cut through the arena.
Drakor turned toward him, his expression darkening. "Investigations require proper handling. Something of which you’d know very little."
Xül's shoulders tensed, but he said nothing more.
Drakor moved to stand behind Thatcher, and every instinct I possessed screamed danger. "Sometimes," he said conversationally, "all it takes is the right catalyst."
I opened my mouth to protest, to beg, to do something, but shadows erupted from the arena floor. They wrapped around me, yanking me backward, forcing my hands behind my back as darkness held me immobile.
"No!" The scream tore from my throat as Drakor placed his hand on Thatcher's shoulder. "Don't touch him!"
Pain exploded across Thatcher's face. He collapsed to his knees, his back arching as agony wracked his body.
I fought against the shadows holding me, struggling with everything I had. I reached desperately for my power, but I was empty, drained from my earlier display. The well that usually burned in my chest felt cold and distant.
"Stop!" I screamed.
But Drakor didn't stop. If anything, he was enjoying himself, watching Thatcher writhe on the bloodstained floor with detached interest.
"Enough, Drakor," Miria said. "You've proved your point."
"No," Drakor insisted, crouching down beside Thatcher. "We're not there yet."
Blood dripped from Thatcher's ears and nose. His screams became hoarse, ragged things that tore at my heart with every breath.
"You're killing him!" I threw myself against my bonds until the shadows cut into my wrists, until I could feel blood running down my arms. "Stop it!"
The torture continued. Minutes that felt like hours, watching Thatcher convulse while I stood helpless. His pain was my pain, transmitted through our bond. I could feel it eating away at him, consuming him from the inside out.
"A pity." Drakor finally sighed. A new wave of pain lanced through my brother.
Thatcher's eyes snapped open.
The pressure in the arena changed, like we’d been dragged to the bottom of the ocean. My ears popped. The smell of rain and storms and earth flooded my senses, so thick I could taste it.
Thatcher's head snapped toward Drakor, and I saw a flash of silver cross his eyes. They looked ancient and terrible and utterly feral. A beast wearing my brother's face.
He screamed.
It was fury itself, compressed into a single, devastating note that rang in from all sides.
"What do we have here?" Drakor cocked an eyebrow, his voice feigning intrigue. "Did someone finally decide to play along? I was beginning to–"
And then Drakor’s body caved in on itself.
The sound hit me first—a wet, horrible tearing that echoed through the arena. His body imploded, pieces flying in alldirections. Blood sprayed across the white stone in wide arcs, and a metallic smell crawled up my nose.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stare at the space where a Legend had been and now wasn't.
The shadows holding me evaporated. I stumbled forward, nearly falling in my haste to reach Thatcher. He was still on his knees, coughing up blood, his body trembling from whatever had just torn through him.
"Thatcher," I whispered, gathering him into my arms. "Thatcher, look at me."
"What did I do?" he croaked.
I didn't have an answer. Couldn't find words for what had just happened.
Instead, I turned toward the thrones, my body shaking with adrenaline and terror and perhaps the darkest form of satisfaction.
