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Zyair’s laugh was harsh. “Why would I trust you? Your people are liars. Evil. Your grandfather promised a treaty, and instead, my people were imprisoned indefinitely. I committed no crime, and yet I was born into imprisonment, a virtual slave to the whims of Vanguard’s warden.”
His words stopped me in my tracks.
Grankle it all to the Benc hells. What had my people done? He was right—no matter what he had done during these games, no matter how often he’d used the olde magick, it was not right for him to have been imprisoned for the crimes of his forebears.
My shield flickered, and a fireball almost got through, barely missing my head.
I swallowed hard, focusing my concentration again.
I will deal with the descendants still in Vanguard once I survive this battle, I promised myself.
But I would not kill Zyair. He needed to be incapacitated, and I would do that, but I could not bring myself to kill him in fiery blood, without remorse, without consideration of his words.
I simply had to get to him first.
By that point, I was almost three-quarters of the way across the floor of the ice quarry, but my magick was growing weaker—not only with the erasure of the sigils, but because my anger at Zyair was beginning to dissipate.
I tried to rekindle it, but I kept flashing to an image of a young Orendan, one who looked like me, growing up in what was widely considered the worst prison in the entire galaxy.
My hearts ached for him, and for all like him.
Through the haze of my shield, I watched as the illusion of ice in front of Zyair melted away—or had it been real along? Had he used the elements around him to actually construct a barrier? Was that even possible?
I knew so little about the ancient ways of my own people, despite J’onn’s teachings and the materials left by my father.
Gwen’s voice echoed in my mind, and for a moment, I wondered if I was imagining it. Use the magick, Kaio. You have to.
But if it was real, I needed to respond.
Please, Kaio, she continued, and this time I was certain I truly heard her. Using it doesn’t make you bad. And I’m here, here to remind you what a good person you are. What a good king you are. Save yourself. Please!
Gwen, I replied, If I do this intentionally, I fear there’s no going back.
But you’ll be alive, Kaio! Your people need you! I need you!
And I needed her.
Gwen, I love you.
I love you too. So live! Live so we can be together.
Yes. I would fight back—but only to take Zyair out of the games. Not to kill him. I could do that; I could incapacitate him and end this.
Because Gwen was right. There was no shame in using magick to care for those around you. To protect them. To save them.
It was time my people accepted that.
I came to these games to erase a debt incurred by my grandfather, but I had now learned that there was an even greater debt to be paid. A generational debt. Magick could exist on Orenda. It had always existed. Yet, we’d watered it down for our safety, for our comfort. And because of that, highly gifted citizens had turned to dark ways. All they’d wanted was to grow, to be accepted for who they were. Denying them had fostered anger. And they’d wanted to burn the world.
We’d called them The Incendiaries. We’d branded them as outsiders, banished them as outcasts.
Zyair stood a short distance away, bright yellow streaks like warpaint slashed across his face.
Orendans came in a variety of shades, but Zyair could be a member of my own family, with his midnight skin and hair. I hated to see how short his hair was—he carried the mark of a Vanguard childhood with him.
We could have been brothers.
My shield flickered, growing fainter as my anger bled away from me, swirling into the water at my feet.
“Erasing the sigils only hurts you,” Zyair called out. “You don’t have my training or my skill in magick.” A dark smile curved across his face. “And today, you’re going to die learning that truth.”
I managed to pull together enough power to send a weak firebolt toward Zyair. I was sure it would prove a fruitless effort, but he was distracted, and it grazed his side as he ducked away at the last minute.
