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Flames licked at the woman’s body suit, yet the material refused to ignite. He pushed more magick toward her until his body became a raging inferno. A blaze flamed toward the sky, his hair somehow impervious to burning.
Finally the power found the openings at her neck and wrists. It pushed against her skin, tracing up her body beneath the uniform. She screamed in horror as fire consumed, charring every inch of her pale skin. Zyair pulled the magick back from her chin, leaving her face untouched. He did not know why…or maybe he did. The orange hair that shone like copper in the sunlight was like his power, and for that he found it precious and worthy of saving.
The same could not be said, of course, for the human who begged for mercy until the pain became too unbearable.
She fell to the ground, fire smoldering inside her clothing. Zyair watched in fascination as her skin began to flake, brittle scales floating into the air where the suit didn’t trap them. He had to keep the magick fresh and burning, pulsing oxygen into it, feeding the destruction.
Only when he could no longer see her chest rising and falling, struggling to catch a breath, did Zyair calm himself. Slowly, the flames receded, working a slow path across his hands, back up his arms, and toward the dying storm at his back.
He stared at the dead corpse for a long time, marveling at how perfect her face and hair had remained. He had learned to control his power, practicing at night when the guards were lazy, hiding the evidence of burned blankets and food in his room. But he had never fully mastered it.
Not then.
His grandfather had not lived to see him become a true Incendiary.
He had earned that title now.
The rage tried to bloom again but killing the woman had well and truly zapped Zyair’s irrational anger. He could think clearly now. He could plan.
And the first thing he had to do was make sure no one knew that his bond mate, with her incessant, jarring thoughts, was dead. Even if he was allowed to continue, perhaps with an alternate mate, he did not want the impediment of another weak creature mind-melded to him. But, also, he was fairly sure that gladiators were prohibited from killing their partners. If she had died by another’s hand, then he would not have an issue. But he had taken out his pain on her frail form.
Plodding over to the supplies, Zyair squatted down and rifled through the bags until he found several lengths of sturdy cord and a pair of small gloves. He tossed the rope over his shoulder and then went back and surveyed the body again, making quick work of sliding her burned hands into the leather gloves. Aside from the blackening bits of skin peeking out from beneath the collar of the suit, there were no telltale marks to be seen now. The boots covered her feet, the gloves her hands, and the suit that was created to protect the weaklings from volcanic heat and subzero weather did a marvelous job of hiding his death blow.
He snaked some of the rope beneath her body, not being careful, not caring to protect her from further offense—aside from ensuring her unmarred face remained presentable—and secured knots around her knees, waist and breastbone. He lifted her, testing out his makeshift hammock. Satisfied she wasn’t going to slip out, he hoisted her around his body and cradled her against his back. He positioned her in the way a mother or father might carry a small child. In fact, he’d learned the rope sling from his own mother when he was a boy. On the rare occasions she was allowed to walk with him around Vanguard, she’d strapped him against her body. He’d even seen the sky once or twice, thanks to a sympathetic guard or two.
The woman’s legs wrapped around his hips, her lifeless arms looped around his shoulders, and her head lolled against his back. Hopefully, she looked unconscious or asleep. Eventually, someone would get suspicious, but he only needed to convince the GGG and its viewers long enough to make it into the final fray.
And in that end battle…
Zyair would kill Kaio Targen, Son of Ramzen, with every ounce of the olde magick he could wield.
He held his breath as he exited the cave’s gloomy interior. The brilliant sun above should be melting the bright white snow upon the ground, but in this artificial landscape, even the fire above could not touch the coldness below.
That was an untruth though, that heat does not melt cold, and like most untruths, it would be dismantled soon. Just as Zyair planned to dismantle the fairytales that placed Kaio on a pedestal and himself in a cage.
In the distance, he spotted a gladiator and human woman running through waist deep snow. She moved slowly, falling behind. The plump Biho warrior stopped quickly, shifting his wide girth sideways to grab her with one of six hands. He tossed her like a doll over his shoulder, her legs kicking wildly in front of him as he began to run again.
Zyair did not envy her position; he knew what the backside of a Biho smelled like—the most loathsome Vanguard worker had been a Biho who’d had two of his six arms ripped off by a Uuvir. The experience had left the Biho scarred, miserable, and unable to properly scrub his large body.
But seeing the gladiator carry his bond-mate made Zyair feel confident that no one would question him carrying his own.
He began to walk, carefully at first to make sure the weight of his dead mate’s body wouldn’t shift uncomfortably. When he was sure she was secure, he picked up the pace, racing through the powdery paleness toward his goal.
I’m coming for you, Kaio. I’m coming for you and your little human too.
You will rue the day you used the olde powers.
