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No Union, no scent. He had only his flagging body to rely on. What could it tell him?
He could hear the anger in the man’s tone of voice. He could feel the savage pleasure in the man’s every blow.
Certainty emboldened Lio. Chrysanthos was angry.
Lio gritted his teeth against the pain in his ankle and pivoted toward Chrysanthos. Lio brought his hand down and hammered the man’s forearm. Mortal strength was barely effectual, but Chrysanthos’s hand loosened, and his elbow buckled. Lio pulled his good hand back and drove his fist straight into Chrysanthos’s face.
Lio felt the man’s nose break against his knuckles with a satisfying crunch. Thorns, that felt good. A few more beatings in the face would discipline the Dexion as befit a monster and bring the weight of the Goddess to bear upon him.
Lio reached for Chrysanthos’s collar. Crimson poured from the mage’s nose and over Lio’s hand. Lio could barely smell the faint odor of Chrysanthos’s blood, but the Hesperine spectators flinched and gasped.
The man staggered back and snarled. Lio let him go.
Lio shook his head, as if that could clear it. The anger had hold of him more powerfully than his opponent had.
Lio met Chrysanthos’s gaze and beheld the pure rage in the man’s eyes. In an instant, the rage disappeared behind the Dexion’s haughty expression again, but his mask was stained with blood now.
Lio saw his opening. He could gain the advantage if his opponent was angry—but only if he was not.
Lio went still, favoring his broken ankle, and watched his enemy. He took a deep breath, then let it out. He pictured Zoe’s face in his mind. What excited questions would she ask him about tonight’s events? What answer would he be able to give her about his actions? How did he want the bedtime story about this battle to end?
His anger cooled.
He considered the weaknesses in Chrysanthos’s guard. Lio had plenty to work with. The mage was chafing under the limitations of his role as a harmless Tenebran mage, just after his promotion to the office of Dexion.
He had only achieved that distinction because his competitor had died. He spoke of Dalos with such loathing that Lio could easily imagine the two war mages’ rivalry. Lio need not reveal he knew Chrysanthos’s identity to stir him up.
“Dalos was no match for seven Hesperines at full strength,” Lio goaded Chrysanthos. “I begin to think you are no match for one weakened by Sunfire.”
The mage’s punches came faster, fiercer. Lio evaded with the fresh speed of confidence.
“But then,” Lio mused, “it’s not fair to make a comparison. All you have in common with Dalos is your god. He was a real war mage from Corona. You’re just the King of Tenebra’s emissary.”
Chrysanthos tried to drive past Lio’s guard again, but this time he failed. Lio could exploit that to go on the offensive. But he danced away. He hopped as lightly as he could on his injured joint. Chrysanthos pursued him. Lio, though the crippled fighter, led his enemy around the ring.
Lio was now in control of their battle.
He brought their fight right below the Tenebran embassy’s seats. “Where were you during the Equinox Summit? You, the great champion of the king’s alliance with the Mage Orders? Why did Dalos face us in your place?”
Chrysanthos came at Lio like an enraged animal. The man threw himself into a flurry of attacks with manic speed and stunning force.
Lio was ready. The months he had spent in agony without Cassia had tempered him. His Trial brother’s training on how to cope with battle injuries had honed his concentration and discipline. Despite the magefire in his damaged joints, he evaded and parried every attack with the intermediate defense moves he had held in reserve, adapting each tactic on the fly to the limitations of mortal reflexes and only two good limbs. Without hesitation, he transitioned into his best offensive sets.
Chrysanthos had no time to react. No presence of mind to realize he played right into Lio’s hands. Until it was too late.
Lio brought Chrysanthos to his knees before him in a Mage’s Supplication. Lio grasped the Dexion’s head and neck with perfect control. One twitch, and he could snap the man’s neck.
Chrysanthos went still. He shook from head to toe. Lio did not need the Blood Union to tell him Chrysanthos was drowning in his own anger and fear.
Lio took a breath, and the thrill of victory filled him. His ears throbbed with the cheers of his people. He looked up to the embassy’s seats. The Tenebrans were silent. But they were smiling.
Cassia’s gaze met his for the barest instant, and the triumph in her eyes braced Lio like a draught of her blood.
A black handkerchief fluttered to the ground before Lio and Chrysanthos. Aunt Lyta stood to one side, her wary gaze on the mage. With great care, Lio unhanded Chrysanthos and stepped back. Lio waved to show his gratitude to the crowd, then, as honor demanded, offered his hand to Chrysanthos.
The mage spat in Lio’s direction and stumbled to his feet on his own, his face a mess of gore and hatred. “How dare you offer me your hand? You are no victor. Murderer!”
Lio composed his face. He replied only with a courteous bow.
