Page 140 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
Xaphoron—
Xaphoron was ashapeshifter.
His grin stretched even wider. “I’ve disposed of my pathetic kalator before entering the arena, so it’s only you and me, Zarathos.”
This made no sense. His father had killed all the shapeshifters. Zarathos’s father had told him so himself. “Who are you?”
“I am the faceless.”
“Shapeshifters are banned—”
“Yes, you and your father ensured we had no other choice but to live in terror of being found. Even our scent gave us away. We were forced to hide among the humans for survival.” His eyes flashed with a menacing hatred. “At least until Casiel came along after your betrayal.”
An icy dread pulled through Zarathos. “Who are you?”
“Casiel was my brother. Well, half-brother. You want to know what happened to him after you turned on him? He died tryingto save our people from more horrible deaths, like you gave to our parents.”
Zarathos didn’t move. He’d thought Casiel’s parents were hiding rebels—those dangerous to the crown—but they were really only part of a gathering of shapeshifters struggling to exist. But then, according to his father, there was no difference since shapeshifters were considered a threat to the united kingdoms simply by existing.
“Casiel—”
“He trusted you, and you fed our family to the wolves,” he snarled, “just like every other demon would have done in these worthless kingdoms.” His bloody hands clenched into tight fists, hate and anger swirling in his gaze. “It doesn’t matter because when I am king,everythingwill change.”
Zarathos had only been trying to survive. But in doing so, he’d hidden not just himself, he’d forced others into the shadows, too. All he’d done to suppress Casiel’s parents, to silence the rebels, he now saw as a reflection of the prison he’d built around his own soul.
He thought of Aryana, and his heart swelled. Perhaps there was more to life than surviving, more than constant apprehension. She had shown him that. And maybe, just maybe, he could help his people see it too.
Zarathos was done living in fear of himself when others needed him. “Forgive me for my past. Let’s strike a bargain. A new one, where your kind, every kind of demon, will be protected.”
Xaphoron let out a sardonic laugh. “You think you have a chance of surviving this?” He took a threatening step forward. “No, I’ll be king and all the pain, and terror and endlessnights of torture that you have inflicted on my kind will be inflicted on your kind, both kingdom Aeria and incubi alike.”
Zarathos’s nails dug into the branches, his knees shaking from the strain of standing as he stared at Xaphoron in disbelief. “Incubi are extinct.” Other than Zarathos, his father had been certain none remained alive.
A cruel smile spread across his lips. “You believe they are but they will soon all be my slaves.”
Xaphoron’s wings flared behind him. Zarathos was no match in this state. He unfurled his own wings and took to the air, rising above the trees.
“A flier,” someone shouted and suddenly flaming arrows were soaring toward him from the edge of the arena.
Zarathos tried to dodge and stay aloft, but an arrow embedded itself in his right wing. He released a roar as searing heat sliced through the delicate skin. Another struck his left wing and yet another one lodged in his right.
He fell from the sky, hitting the ground with a grating force. He moaned, clutching his side, as if his wings had been torn to pieces. The wound in his abdomen had closed over, but the pain definitely remained. And his wings. He whisked them away, and that lessened the agony, but the constant ache lingered, a weight on his back, reminding him that he was injured.
Xaphoron stalked through the trees toward him, a sneer on his face. “You missed the instructions that forbids flying.”
Yes, because his mind had been drugged. Despite his weak body, Zarathos shoved his palms into the ground and forced himself torise. The one thing he couldn’t do was die. If he died, then Aryana died.
Zarathos had to win, if for no other reason. “Give it up, Xaphoron. There is no way the council will approve you, a shapeshifter, as the winner of the Demon Trials.”
“And they will approve of you? An incubus who carries the making of my kind in your very loins?” He laughed. “Neither of us is what the council wants. Lucky for me, they are now irrelevant.” He bared his teeth, a harsh gleam of delightful vengeance in his gaze. “Come on, Zarathos. There are no more bargains, no more tricks. It’s you and me on the battlefield.”
Xaphoron’s skin became a dark, cracked obsidian, veins pulsing with a fiery red glow. His bat-like wings reached upward, expanding, each membrane stretched thin and jagged resembling the remnants of a fallen storm. Muscles rippling, his body contorted and elongated, morphing into scales that shimmered with an ethereal, fiery hue. His head morphed into the fierce visage of a dragon, eyes glowing with a molten, otherworldly fire, while claws reminiscent of blackened volcanic stone tore into the earth beneath it. The surrounding air crackled with ominous energy, causing the ground to shake under his immense power.
Shit.
He turned on Zarathos, who was no more than a bug in comparison. The beast’s throat glowed with heat. Zarathos stumbled back. He had to live. For Aryana.
Reaching out, he caught the shadow of a nearby tree and shut his eyes. He’d hidden this power for so long, afraid others might recognize what he truly was. But that fear belonged to the past.
