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My fist hit my chest as I stepped into the ring, the fire of battle rushing through my limbs. One more fight, and I would be at the end. It was as far as I had ever gotten in a tournament.
But I saw Murphy’s expression shutter when the tablet chose a second name. Before he uttered a sound, I knew it was bad.
“Vorian, son of Crux the Progenitor,” Murphy said, his voice only slightly stiffer, caught in his throat.
Fuck.
Across the ring, my half-brother stepped forward. He looked calm, no beating his chest, no shouting. I would have preferred even a taunting smirk, to convince me the warrior was Thorzi or human oralive.
Vorian did not give me that. He simply stepped forward, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his neck.
I reached for my star marks, the power there etched into my skin. Each mark was earned by the warrior who bore it. We were permitted to use them in battle.
I would need them, the three I had, as useless as the third was in the tournament. I could not call beasts from here.
Vorian had seven.
He stalked around the edge of the ring like a zintar, licking his fangs, waiting to make his move. I had often wished for Jax’s insight, but as Vorian’s bright eyes scanned me, I had the sinking feeling that it would not matter.
The room was so silent I could hear his footsteps, quiet though they were. He twitched one way, a feint. I tensed to follow, but his attack never came.
He turned and stalked the other way. I hated this, knew that even without a sneer, he was playing with me.
I threw out my hand, my plasma blade zinging through the air from my arm. And finally, there was the hint of a smirk from my enemy.
He feinted one way. I expected the other.
Instead, he phased in front of me, nothing but a flicker.
Two punches, he hit above the small of my back before I had time to summon my forcefield. I spun with my blade. The tip scored a bleeding line across his bare chest.
He snarled and fell back.
For too long, it went on like that. He would phase, and I would call on my forcefield to keep him at bay long enough to drive him back. He landed some hits, but so did I.
Only scratches. Never enough to bring him down until—
There. His fist crashed into my stomach. I grunted in pain, but gripped his shoulders and lifted my leg, tangling the two of us together.
My heel crashed into his knee. The crack echoed in the room. His leg collapsed. I dodged back.
All he did was grunt, bracing himself on his one good leg. When he stood, he kicked, whipping the bad leg out.
In one move, it was straight again—another star mark allowing him to heal the break.
He had too many gifts. I would never win this.
The fury in his eyes—indignation that I had even landed one successful blow—forced me to step back as he approached.
His strikes then were so fast I could barely track them. It felt like I was moving through mud, trying to defend myself.
This time, he didn’t rely on brute force, but a flurry that broke through my forcefield and left dark bruises across my skin. With his teeth bared, one of his plasma spikes shot from the center of his palm.
It stabbed through the meat of my thigh and he tore outward. I gasped. My leg buckled.
As I gripped the wound, he turned away. Warriors’ eyes tracked him, even the mightiest Thorzi warriors taking note of Crux’s son.
I had not straightened when he was in front of me again, from the far side of the room to before me in less than a blink.
