Another spray of water smacked Elyria in the face. She sputtered, flipping her now-soaked periwinkle braid to her back. Perhaps the magical contract only applied to brawls between humans and Arcanians. Perhaps the celestials found infighting amusing.
Perhaps they just liked torturing Elyria.
She scrambled back to her feet, wet wings flaring out for balance. “You need to stop right this instant, Katerina.”
Kit laughed—a hollow, empty sound. “Did you truly track me down after decades of silence only to scold me like a child?”
“When you stop behaving like a child, I shall stop treating you like one.”
Scoffing, Kit advanced toward Elyria, each step a threat. Her hands wove intricate patterns in the air as she called upon more magic. Elyria narrowly avoided a waterspout that burst from the ground with such force it would have launched her into the sky had it hit her.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Elyria said, even as she felt her wild magic gathering in her hands. There was so much nature here. The grass below her feet, the trees surrounding the camp. Elyria could feel it all.
“You want me to turn back because you agree with my mother that I am not strong enough to best the Crucible,” Kit said. “Let me show you how wrong you are.”
She didn’t give Elyria the chance to deny the claim. Kit thrust herhands forward, a torrent of water surging toward Elyria, who raised her arms in defense. Roots erupted from the ground, quickly weaving together into a shield that absorbed the majority of the water’s impact.
Kit let out a frustrated screech as a vine snaked up her left leg, wrapping around her wrist and pinning her in place. But it was clear Kit had been training for the Crucible. Training hard. One by one, she curled the fingers of her free hand in toward her palm until they formed a fist. A massive sphere of water appeared, the surface roiling as it advanced on Elyria. She knew that Kit didn’t truly want to hurt her. She also knew if she let herself get trapped inside that bloated bubble, there was a very high possibility it would drown her.
Darkness stirred from somewhere deep in Elyria’s core, displeased at the thought. She pushed it back down.
“Kit, please,” Elyria shouted over the tidal roar. The ground started to rumble, her magic reacting reflexively to the threat. “I loved him too.”
“I lovedyou!” Kit cried, her voice breaking. “I needed you. And you weren’t there!”
Just like that, the fight in Elyria died. She dropped her arms. The vines caging Kit slithered away. The earth stilled. The sphere burst, water spreading over the grass, a tiny tide that lapped at Elyria’s boots.
Kit and Elyria stared at each other, their eyes ablaze with anger and pain, fury and guilt. Elyria’s heightened hearing picked up the whispers of onlookers, hoofbeats plodding along the road, excited shouts echoing from the human camp. She blocked it all out as she opened her mouth to speak—then closed it. What could she say? Twenty-five years ago, she had left the grieving sister of the man she loved—hersister—to mourn alone. To pick up the pieces of her shattered life, alone, while Elyria sought solace at the bottom of a bottle and in the bed of some meaningless distraction or another, night after night.
No, Kit was not a fool. Laeliana was, for asking Elyria to do this.
Elyria was, for actually thinking she could.
Her mouth opened again. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t pretend you care,” Kit spat. Then, without so much as another glance, she stalked away.
Elyria felt heavy as she watched her go. She was soaked and exhausted, her back still aching from the flight and the added strain ofthe unexpected fight. And then there was the matter of the weight on her heart.
She had come all this way. She had failed.
She could not fail.
Evander would never forgive her if she let his sister walk through the Gate, knowing what was sure to happen.
Elyria approached a burgeoning campfire, ignoring the wary stares of the travelers around her. Using a flicker of magic to dry her wings before cloaking them from view, she squatted next to the fire. The woman next to her stiffened, a bottle dangling precariously from her hands as she deliberately avoided making eye contact.
“Are you going to finish that?” Elyria asked.
The woman met Elyria’s eye for a single heartbeat before thrusting the bottle into her hands and scurrying off, dragging along a young boy who had been gaping at Elyria.
Dubious, Elyria eyed the contents of the bottle, then shrugged and took a swig. It burned as it went down. Though she shuddered at the bitter taste, it did more to chase away the chill that had settled in her bones than the fire did. She sighed, looking to the sky where the vivid colors of the aurora blended with the orange hues of sunset. She was running out of time. Soon, the aurora would vanish in a burst of brilliant light, and the Gate to the Celestial Sanctum would open.
Slowly, conversations resumed between the travelers surrounding Elyria. Friends, family, and supporters of the champions who would be attempting the Crucible. Others who made the trek to the Lost City in order to say they bore witness to the occasion—should this attempt finally be the one to become historic. Elyria wondered who amongst them were here in support of Kit—or if any of them were at all. The duchess wouldn’t be coming. Wouldn’t be able to face the sight of her daughter walking through the Gate, never to be seen again.
Elyria didn’t know if she could face it, either.
But until that moment came, she would try. She would give Kit time to calm down, give her room to breathe after this ambush.
