I saw it happen through the grate. I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve been faster.
Damn you, Leo.
He lunged at the guards like a beast unchained—claws flashing, rage pouring off him like heat. I swore under my breath and started to rise, but Slade caught my arm and yanked me back into the shadows.
“There are too many,” he growled. “We need a plan.”
“We can’t leave him!”
“We have to. They'll take us all if we charge in now.”
I didn’t want to leave him. Gods, I didn’t. But Slade was right. Charging in blind would get us killed—and Leo wouldn’t forgive us for that.
So I watched.
Through the slats, I saw them swarm. First three guards—then five. They brought him down hard, boots and fists slamming into him. He fought like hell, but he was off-balance, outnumbered. Caught at the worst possible moment.
Two of them dragged him away. Blood streaked behind him like a trail. He didn’t even look back.
My fists clenched. Fire surged under my skin, begging to be released.
“Phoenix,” Slade warned. “Not yet.”
I nodded tightly, but my jaw locked, and my breath shook with the effort to stay still.
We slipped deeper into the tunnels, ducking low beneath the thunder of the crowd. Slade kept his eyes on the path ahead. I leaned against a crate, trying to calm myself.
It didn’t work.
“He’s alive,” Slade said quietly. “They won’t kill him. Not yet.”
“No,” I muttered. “Not before they make an example of him.”
“They’ll make him fight. That’s what this is.” Slade’s voice was like a blade. “We’ll get him back.”
“How do you know that?”
He was silent for a beat. Then: “Because we have to.”
Above us, the crowd roared again—louder this time. The thuds, the shouts. Another fight in the Pit.
Of course I knew what this was. Everyone did. An illegal fighting ring, kept quiet only because it served Ashton’s twisted sense of order. Fewer mouths to feed, more blood for sport. He let it thrive.
There was a sickness in the way he viewed the world.
And we were in the heart of it now.
Then the air shifted.
Something was wrong.
The crowd murmured louder, movements shifting like a tide turning. And then I saw them—shadowy figures filtering in through the outer edges, weaving unnoticed through the mass of spectators. At first glance, they looked like civilians. But then I caught it—the swathes of royal blue wrapped around their arms, legs, necks. Small marks, easy to miss.
But unmistakable.
“Fuck,” I hissed under my breath.
The Shattered Crown. Vael’s people. Gods.
