Melancholy flashed across Kit’s face, but she nodded all the same.
The maze’s path continued to slope down—gradually at first, then in a steep decline. It made the iridescent stone walls on either side seem like they were growing taller, the treetops and outside world disappearing as the walls curved over their heads, creating a tall, arched ceiling.
A tunnel.
They could very well have been deep underground, the opalescent walls emitting an ambient glow strong enough to light the passage before them. It guided them—whenever they came across a split in the tunnel, whenever a wall shifted or they got turned around, the light would glow, would shimmer, beckon.
The faint noise of clashing steel and shouting drew their attention.
Faster,Elyria thought, exchanging a look with Kit as clangs reverberated off the tunnel walls and the heady scent of magic stung her nose. They chased the sound, rounding a corner and?—
Elyria’s eyes widened at the scene before her. Thebattletaking place. Not just between Cyren and Belien, who were weaving around each other like dueling serpents, hurling attack after venomous attack, but between the champions and the labyrinth itself, which seemed to have come alive around them.
The walls pulsed with energy. The smooth panels of stone shook and rumbled, vibrating as if irritated with the fight that had unfolded. With this blatant display of disunity—ofenmity.
As if the labyrinth—the trial itself—was itching to join the fight.
They were in a dead-ended section of the tunnel, wide and empty. A cavernous room that stretched overhead, moonlight flowing through a perfect circle cut from the stone ceiling.
Had they really been traversing the labyrinth that long? Or was this the Sanctum’s uncanny magic at work again? Elyria couldn’t dwell long on the thought as a blur of blue and silver darted in front of her.
Cyren moved almost too quickly to see, a dagger in his right hand, his left conjuring gusts of wind that boosted him forward, sideways, back, allowing him to dodge Belien’s attacks. An ornate, needle-pointed rapier flew through the air as Belien used his magic to wield it from afar, keeping himself out of the stormbender’s reach.
Kit ran forward, her hands already weaving patterns in the air, calling upon her magic. But before she could reach Cyren, could aid him, the shimmering walls pulsed, a shockwave ripping through the room. Kit stumbled, her magic faltering as she fought to keep her balance—as if the labyrinth was blocking her attempt to interfere.
And where was Leona? Elyria’s eyes darted around the room until they landed on the sorcerer leaning against the wall on one side, clutching her arm. Blood stained her sleeve, Elyria noted with grim satisfaction.
It wasn’t enough to keep her from rejoining the fight though. Leona’s eyes narrowed on Kit, and Elyria found herself moving forward at the same time as the sorcerer. Gripping her staff tightly, Elyria thrust it into Leona’s path, tripping her.
Leona stumbled forward, then whirled on Elyria. “You!”
Elyria wiggled her fingers in greeting. “Me.”
With a furious sneer on her face and a dagger Elyria hadn’t noticed suddenly in her hand, Leona lunged.
Slamming the end of her staff into the ground, Elyria spun herself on the shaft, pivoting her body out of harm’s way and rounding on Leona from behind. With a swift kick, she planted her boot on Leona’s ass and shoved. Leona plummeted toward the nearest wall, crying out as she caught herself with her injured arm.
The air around them crackled with magic, the ground beneath their feet gently rumbling. Leona flipped her dagger to the other hand, releasing her token for a moment. Elyria noted the way the gem at its center looked dull, its light waning. Leona was almost out of mana. Which meant this fight was all but over.
“Enough, Leona.” Magic crackled at Elyria’s fingertips. “This is insane. You have no reason to fight us.”
“You would say that,” Leona snarled. “You truly have no idea, do you? You selfish,spoiledArcanians. We aren’t the ones fighting! Youhave all that magic, have centuries upon centuries to learn and grow, to live andlet us live, yet you make it your priority to fight, to keep us from that which you don’t even need.
“The crown is our chance to change things, to take back what should be ours. To ensure we no longer live under the shadow of your kind, at the mercy of those like you.” Her voice shook, a crazed look in her eyes. “So, no, Revenant. You do not say when it’s enough. I do.” She lunged forward and levied a vicious swipe at Elyria with the dagger.
Elyria stepped back and swung her staff wide. Leona cried out as the wood connected with her injured arm, the sound reverberating off the labyrinth’s shuddering walls.
“You’re running out of time,” Elyria said, her tone even. “You’re injured, your mana is almost gone. You won’t walk away from this if you keep this up. Stop fighting and work with us. We might still be able to get out of the Crucible alive.”
Leona panted, her ruined arm clutched against her chest, bloody fingers wrapped around her token. The dagger she had been holding moments before hovered threateningly in the air between them.
“What point is there in leaving the Crucible alive without the crown in hand?” Leona’s voice was raw, her eyes wild. With a furious shout and a burst of mana, the dagger went flying.
Elyria sidestepped the attack. The dagger flew into the wall at her back, embedding deep in the stone. Tossing her staff aside, she curled both her hands into fists, grabbing onto the tendrils of shadow she could feel simmering under her skin.
She shot them at Leona.
But these were not the razor-sharp ribbons that had sliced Gael’s wing. They were soft wisps of dark smoke that wrapped around Leona’s ankles and good arm, pinning her in place.
