Eragon’s dark world detonates. The ensuing blast is deafening as his construct implodes inward. Every unstable thread of power tears itself apart at once and the entire mass collapses in a catastrophic surge of backlash that rips through the cathedral.
Eragon screams in pain. But the sound is cut short as the backlash hurls his body through the air like a broken doll. He crashes hard enough to crater the marble.
I land on my knees not too far away from him. I’m breathing hard as I also feel some of the effects of the recoil. My bones feel as though they’re one poke away from shattering.
Eragon is still alive, but barely. He drags himself upward, choking on his own blood. One arm hangs uselessly at his side, broken in a myriad pieces. HIs left leg is cut at the knee, laying in a pool of blood a few steps behind him.
“No,” he rasps, barely able to speak. Based on his slowed healing, I’d wager his spiritual energy is standing on its last leg—pun intended.
With both of us in wretched conditions, now it’s just a matter of who can muster enough strength to deliver the last blow.
Moe’s face is at the forefront of my mind as I will my legs to move. Blood continues to pour from my wounds, leaving a red trail in my wake.
Eragon’s eyes widen and for the first time, I see pure fear reflected in his expression. He drags himself back while he tries to gather some shadow. But they fail to respond to him—he has no more energy to control anything.
There’s only one way to end this—and ensure he dies for good.
I drive my hand through his chest, wrapping my fingers around his heart and squeezing until it explodes within my palm.
His body jerks violently. Blood spills over my wrist, hot and thick.
For one suspended second, we stare at one another, the disbelief still potent in his eyes. Then, the light fades from them and he slumps against me. I pull my arm back. He falls to the ground—the only sound in the now completely silent cathedral.
No one in the audience cheers, nor do they speak. They simply stare in shock at us—at the outcome of this battle that no one could have ever foreseen.
Eragon’s corpse begins to disintegrate before me, dissolving into ash and pale luminous particles. A few of them make their way toward me, sinking into my body.
I barely remain standing as this makeshift world begins to collapse. One blink and the obelisk stands before me, the results of the battle flickering in and out on its surface.
Winner: Nykander v’Kyro; +50 Ascension Points; Total Ascension Points: 609
Moe rushes towards me, jumping in my arms. All around us, the crowd starts dispersing, but not without making their disappointment known at the outcome of the battle—and at the loss of alotof wagered tokens on my defeat.
“You did it. Oh, Nyk. You did it,” she repeats, tears running down her cheeks. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy before. You’re alive… You’re fine…”
I open my mouth to speak, but I suddenly start coughing blood.
Moe’s eyes widen and she lets out a loud gasp. Grabbing my cheeks with both hands, she stares into my eyes as she bites her lip as hard as she can until she draws blood, then kisses me. Her blood immediately transfers to me, slowly filling me with fresh new energy.
Within moments, I am well enough to stand on my own two feet and my wounds have started closing.
“Better?” She whispers against my lips. I smile and press another kiss to her mouth.
“Much better.”
Someone clears their throat behind Moe. We both turn to look at Lis. Her arms are crossed over her chest as she shakes herhead at our public display of affection. As she steps closer, her eyes lock on mine with a frightening intensity.
Then she says, “We need to talk.”
This time,instead of the empty fields at the edge of Aimaxion where people rarely dwell in, Lis invites us to her accommodation. It’s the first time since knowing her that she’s welcoming us into her home, and the moment we step inside it’s quite clear why.
This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen in Aimaxion—so much so that our small, little room seems a shoe box in contrast.
As we enter, the floors are a polished black marble covered with thick, expensive rugs. There’s a massive hearth in the main room and shelves of pristine books line the walls beside fine furniture and paintings. The kitchen holds more food than I have seen in one place since arriving here, and upstairs the beds are piled with silk sheets and heavy blankets instead of the thin, worn fabric we inherited from the previous tenants.
She invites us to take a sit in the living room on a dark blue velvet sofa so plush it swallows us whole. Moe keeps running her hand over the material.
“I’ve never seen something so fine in my life,” she whispers to me.
