I lift my head.
The crowd heaves a collective gasp, murmurs and jeers punching down from the thousands of leering folk packed on the tiered balconies. Given the ilk these fighting pits attract—those loyal to the values of my late pah—I’m unsurprised to see most spectators leaning forward, eyes bulging with hate and sadistic glee.
“IT’S THE SAVAGE KING!”
“KINSLAYER!”
“TRAITOR! KILL HIM!”
In the space between Raeve and me, the swirl of smoke ebbs and flows, thinning enough I’m able to see her clearly. Our gazes clash for a beat that feels like eternity, those glittering black eyes ripe with concern, yet challenging me to shore myself.
I dip my head in a slight nod, and her gaze slits toward a jutted balcony. No doubt where Arkyn’s seated.
Watching.
From somewhere out of view, drums begin to thump so hard the ground shudders—like Bulder’s heart is beating beneath us. The crowd roars,smacking their hands against the balustrades as bits of the rugged terrain begin to blister and bulge.
Those flaming wings unfurl, spreading to the gasps from a besotted crowd; over a thousand folk preparing to feast on the sight of my death. Still ravenous even after watching so many nulls spend their final breath on a gurgling scream for help.
Formercy.
Raeve rolls her head to crack her neck rather than tip it side to side. Another terse reminder that I’m not about to battle the love of my existence, but the ancient being I’ve long believed gave everything so Elluin could return to this world. Somehow.
“KILL HIM!”
“SLIT HIS THROAT!”
“GUT HIM!”
Bulges of magma burst, caved by clawed hands that punch from beneath.
Another wet breath crackles through my throat as something glints in my peripheral; the tip of a metal handle protruding from the rubble. I grab the hilt, drawing the charred blade free. It’s heavier than a sword this size would feel were I not actively bleeding, feeding most of my waning strength into the scaled wall keeping Rygun out.
Over a dozen razah claw free of their molten wombs. They tip their heads to shriek and snarl, gnashing the air as their beady eyes roll about, finding purchase on their chosen target. Mainly, they look ather—vulnerable atop the knoll she’s standing on. Perfectly placed to be surrounded, then preyed on by the pack.
No doubt her intention.
As the heaving, salivating majority begin to prowl in her direction, my upper lip tightens.
I kick forward a step—
She growls, raises a daggered hand, gaze pinned on her approaching foe. Quiet command to keep my back to the wall, focus on my own opponents, and not give her something else to worry about.
With a snarl, I drop to a defensive position. She does the same, spinning as she eyes the beasts now circling her.
At once, the razah stampede,kicking up stones and embers in their nimble haste. My gaze whips between my own approaching foe and Slátra’s converging horde, heart in my throat when the beasts reach Slátra first—too fast.
The crowd roars with fiendish delight as she launches into battle with a snarl on her lips and a savage glint in her eye, moving with the swift, violent stealth of a beast plucked from the top of the food chain.
Time stretches, slowing. Every shift of her body smooth, shadowed by the flaming white wings that swish and flick with her motions.
She doesn’t toss her blades like I’d hoped she would, instead using them like claws, pulling close to the charred monstrosities screeching for blood. Like she relishes in the feel of their dying breaths on her skin.
I almost crush beneath my fear, certain it’s only a matter of heartbeats before a claw swipes out and slits her somewhere she’s not scaled in armor. But the fierce, ravenous beasts that dominated the pit in the previous fights now look almost paltry—yowling as their throats open or their innards spill. Convulsing as their heads roll.
With each swift and messy slaughter, Slátra peels away from their crumpling bodies with only the odd proximity burn that seems to spur her rage.
The remaining razah don’t stand a chance.
