Broggen Lor’fyre uses his ornate, ruby-encrusted sword as a cane to limp toward the victory dais, while the head and separated body of his slain opponent are whisked away by the magical winds behind him. Black veins linger down his neck, his fists, highlighting his new hollowed-out appearance.

  He looked like a hidden prince before Noctus—the Storm Lance—bonded with him. Now, I don’t know…

  The lot of us on the victory dais quietly make room for Broggen to stand with us. He’s silent, wincing as he holds onto the ledge. None of us dare say anything.

  “That’s what you get for chasing me, Noctus,” Boeru snickers at the unhealthy bond. “A storm doesn’t know when to quit.”

  I’m trying to wrap my head around this whole situation. So, Noctus is an enemy rider in the war I witnessed in the under-sky. Yet he followed Boeru through his gateway anyway, in order to… learn the ways of Elden magic alongside the same faction? Seems risky, if that’s his goal. Sounds more like a vendetta to me. Here’s hoping Noctus doesn’t turn Broggen against me.

  We stay quiet for a while, giving me time to work out some of this new information. Especially the idea of enchantments. Years ago, I skimmed through most of that mythos because it seemed so ridiculous when our only available tools were wooden sticks and frayed string. Beckoning magic out of forged steel? Impossible… at least in House Kavoh.

  Brothers and sisters continue to slash at one another in the arena for hours unending. It doesn’t get easier to watch.

  I’d mentally prepared for Arkitus to come roaring back in the form of fire scorching my lungs too. So far? Nothing. Boeru’s power seems to be true and stable. I’m grateful for it, even if the price is a sarcastic dragon spirit flying inside my head.

  Our victory dais now has thirty of us—enough to lean over to Renesta and ask her a question amidst the growing chatter.

  “Do me a favor?” I ask quietly, holding her gaze.

  She peers at me, the acknowledgement sending butterflies shooting around my belly.

  “Become a shade in Boeru’s prison, and see what you can find out about Noctus’ reasons for leaving the afterlife war.”

  “If it were only that simple, Haledyn.” Her emerald eyes glint, glancing at Broggen—who’s still silently leaning over the ledge. “Noctus… I assume that’s his bond?”

  “It is.”

  “Hm. Last I need is an enemy of that caliber,” she recoils.

  “How about an ally with a dragon spirit?” I try.

  He’s clearly the biggest threat, so uncovering any of his spirit’s motives might prove useful to me and the dragon.

  One look over at the pit of shame, and I find some of the meeker siblings of my house peeking out with sad eyes. Off to exile they’ll soon go. It hurts to think about it. I’ve existed under the dark skies for nearly twenty years, and would have done another forty easy, while only wielding the bliss of ignorance. Now knowing what’s ahead? What’s true? That makes exile the torture it’s meant to be.

  My gaze shifts to Jurso—a young man too smart to go to waste. One who will surely die without access to Arkitus medicine. I have to find a way to get him out.

  And Layla… I look up to her, only four more people left in her row. She has to be worthy. And she has to win.

  “Tempered blood. Is this what you wanted, Father?” Broggen grips the ledge harshly, teeth gritted as he suffers some horrible pain. His eyes flash white and black, as if magically being thrust around different realms. I think he may have literally inherited a storm.

  The other victors leave space around him, because all of us know he’s dangerous and far out of our league. The man can command the warring dark, for gods’ sake, and as far as I know, he’s the only one from House Valor.

  A part of me wants to break the ice. If we’re to ascend to second houses soon… it’s the right move. All of us should be banding together, actually. The Danes are the enemy. It’s the same hope I harbored on the way down that awful staircase—we’re stronger in numbers.

  An uneasy rumbling turns my stomach at the thought of my dead brothers and sisters. Tonight didn’t have to go this way, I keep telling myself.

  It’s settled. I’m going.

  One glance at Renesta tells her what I’m thinking, and she only curtly shakes her head no. Boeru grumbles his dismay as I start shuffling past the other victors.

  It’s the right move, I reiterate to myself. Waiting on the Danes is how we ended up in this mess in the first place.

  Blood splashes out of the next mortally wounded brother in the arena, splattering so far it nearly reaches the dais. The brutal blow grabs the attention of everyone except Broggen. He’s too tormented to notice. The silhouette of Noctus continues to rile over his shoulders.

  Ignoring the fresh death, I inch into Broggen’s space, and automatically my essence percolates in my arms. The hair on my neck stands on end, but it doesn’t stop me.

  “We have something in common,” I say.

  Broggen turns his head like he’s fighting the force of violent wind. The dark shadows formed around his eyes makes his black scar that much more intimidating. “You, Dragonborn? Hmph. There is nothing we share. Your bond is secured.”

  “I meant having asshole parents.”

  He sneers at that, turning to the arena as the twitching body is carried into the built-in crematorium. “We do what we must to advance.”

  I lean over the ledge so I don’t seem too eager. “You took life without a hitch, brother.”

  “I am no brother of yours,” he growls, the silhouette slithering more violently.

  “’Course not. The Danes made that abundantly clear. All I meant was… how are you able to move with such conviction without spice?”

  Awkward silence comes between us.

  “I mean no offense, broth—” I clear my throat “—Broggen.”

  His eyes narrow. “Tempered blood.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific. Mythos can be quite conflicting about all this.” I motion to the arena and the Danes behind it.

  “We are bred since birth to evoke the dark. Ignorant, angry, yearning, it shapes our blood. We are puppets, Haledyn of House Kavoh, albeit victorious ones.”

  I nod with pursed lips. “This is nothing but a séance for some sick priests.”

  “It is far more than that,” he rumbles.

  “Yeah, well, I want no part of their war. I’ll forge my own path once I get my bearings.”

  “Strong words from a man trapped in chambers deep underground. My guess? We will be molded again.”

  “You seem more sure than anyone from House Kavoh or Sivus,” I say.

  “House Valor believes it is the elite, claiming a sure formula to evoke the warring dark. We’re trained, and trained, and trained, until beckoned by these fucking wizards. Then, when we’re ripe and ready, Father tells us to conceal ourselves until the moment is right. ‘A spirit will find your tempered blood.’”

  Thinking back to Broggen’s hunchback and the scarf over his head adds up now.

  Broggen tightens his white-knuckle grip around the ledge. “We trained with sharp edges often, and were assured the other houses we’d be pitted against were vile creatures that drank the blood of the dead.”

  “Not all of us,” I joke.

  “Of course, Father was lying. We all knew it.”

  “So there are others from House Valor. I thought you were the prize.”

  He fights to shake his head. “We are a small house of powerful lineages. Since the Danes began calling this contest, one of us has attended every batch. Our house father pays special attention to each of us. Training us to kill without hesitation.” The corner of his lip twitches. “He wasn’t quiet about his dismay of failing to evoke an awakening either. He said he failed to push the others hard enough, to temper our blood properly.”

  “Looks like he succeeded,” I test.

  He twists his lips. “At a critical cost. You can imagine my apprehension when a man is stabbed through the heart, and arises again with a dragon’s spirit in tow. There was another way, Father,” he speaks with malice. “My path didn’t have to be this one.”

  A quick glance at his expression shows a mountain of pain weighing on his brow. My guess? This isn’t the first time he’s taken a life.

  “So you believe your house tempers blood differently than the others?”

  Based on my discussions with Jurso, it seems to be the case.

  “It is a fact,” he snarls.

  “I’m careful with that word these days.”

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  Broggen’s head jerks down suddenly, triggering him to rake a hand through his hair. “My bond… it angers with your presence. Enough, Haledyn. Be gone. Give me space.”

  His voice boils through my ears, making me momentarily deaf. Feels like he just activated a hundred essence bombs inside me, but when it dissipates, I realize it’s just a warning.

  I sigh and head back to my station. No reason to rile the Danes again. I’m not upset with how that went either. I learned about a new house—likely the most lethal. Also, I’m hoping the conversation was light enough to communicate “we don’t have to be enemies.”

  Time will tell, I suppose.

  “Well?” Renesta asks eagerly.

  “Saw you glancing my way over there.” I brush my muscular shoulder, pretending to be irresistible in this new body.

  “I was looking beyond you. That man is a mage bomb about to explode.”

  I deflate, then quickly remember where I am when the Danes yank the silken-hair sibling from the spiral staircase—the one who knew Rogoshel.

  I’m curious about him now that I’m sure he’s attuned—white-glowing eyes give it away.

  “Hm, here he comes.” Renesta folds her arms. “Tristian Siegfried of House Rhylock.”

  Woosh!

  His ragged crimson cloak flaps all the way until he lands, locks hanging over one eye as he waits patiently for the Danes to allow him to choose a weapon.

  His weapon of choice ends up being a double-bladed staff. The way he holds it firm behind his arm—clenched tight—makes me think he’s been training with a similar weapon for a long time back at his house. His eyes flash toward the victory dais, then toward the floor. “I am a vessel for you to inhabit.” He paces over the stone. “Awaken, warring dark. Find me.”

  “Layla Barristan of House Kavoh.” The Center Dane rises, his words making my heart fall into my stomach.

  Why him?

  Why does she have to fight him?

  Rogoshel cackles a few feet away from me, then barrels his way over to rile me further. “I whispered in her ear that you would die, and you did. Now it’s my turn to tell you the same.”

  “Fuck off, Rogo.” I glare at him, now at eye level.

  “Careful.” He steps to me with a snarl. “Don’t think you want to test if you’ll rise from the dead again.”

  I don’t back down. Layla is all I have left in this world. Now that I have the means to defend her name, I will.

  “We’re going to get in trouble with the Danes again.” The tiny woman grabs onto Rogo’s arm, making him grunt.

  “Relax. I’m not going to pummel your precious dragonborn. I just like to fuck with him.”

  I narrow my eyes at the brute. Rogo may talk a lot of shit, but deep down what he says is true—he never really participated in pummeling me. Not like he helped either.

  Layla emerges with a roaring-lion shield in one hand and a two-handed broadsword in the other. She looks like an exiled knight from mythos, molded by the gods. She’s shoved harshly onto the arena, nearly losing her footing. The Danes seem angry at her. Why?

  “May your spilt blood fuel the warring dark.”

  All of the other Danes bow their heads, causing my breath to shorten. In all my years in House Kavoh, I’ve never worried about her. She’s one of the strongest people I know. But when her blue eyes lock with mine, it hits me. She’s up against something foreign. The same power hovering around my arms is in Tristian.

  Center Dane clenches his fist in front of him. “Duelers… ready.”

  The victors all fall silent.

  The pit of shame shows eyes glued.

  C’mon, Layla.

  These are her chosen weapons back in the stables too. A wooden block with a frayed rope handle, and a long wooden stick. I can’t help but think why Mother would keep us at such a disadvantage. We never held real weapons in our lives.

  She never tested our fear of death.

  Did she want to spare us from being killers?

  Or…?

  Tristian whips his staff into a blur—blades shimmering—then halts it horizontally behind his back while stomping one foot forward into ready stance.

  Layla claps sword against shield to beckon him right back. Her confidence eases me.

  “Begin.”

  Layla charges with her shield held up, with an obvious mind to force Tristian off his footing. It’s a good strategy. We don’t know if attunement needs time or energy to summon the warring dark, so why wait?

  Clang!

  Tristian thrusts the staff forward with perfect form, hitting the center of the lion’s mouth, taking the bait.

  No… it’s not bait.

  Three black ribbons slither down the staff—off the tip of his blade—and spread over Layla’s shield.

  She tries to pull away, but it’s clear Tristian just tethered them together, somehow overpowering her.

  “Dark magic prick,” she growls and whips the shield outward with incredible strength—big arm flexed—smacking the staff away. As her sword comes slashing down, Tristian flips artfully out of the way, wedging the spear point into the crack to guide his fall, gracefully landing one foot in front of the other out of Layla’s reach.

  “It’s like he’s weightless,” Renesta whispers.

  I clench my jaw as he kicks the staff out of the crack and flips it into the same strong stance. Not good when a blade wielder as talented as Renesta is gawking.

  Tristian snaps his fingers, and the three black ethereal ribbons rewind back to him, circling his body. I know that low magic. It’s going to alter his movements, his physics, and I’m not there to guide my guard. All I can do is pray she catches on before he jabs that staff into her belly.

  Just the thought of it makes me want to hurl. I’ll beg the Danes to heal her, to make an exception. I’ll even agree to be their soldier if I must.

  “She radiates strength,” Boeru huffs, a miniature version of his silhouette forming from my trapezius. “And your heart pumps hard for her.”

  “Layla is my family, Boeru. If anything happens to her…” I choke back the thought.

  “You sound like the hatchlings at the roost. We will have to toughen you up yet, mortal.”

  Layla dashes again, but this time Tristian snaps his fingers, sending the ribbons out of his orbit and up a diagonal dotted-line path that ends right behind Layla. He bends with a smirk on his face, then leaps with ferocity. The ribbons launch him into blurring speeds as soon as he touches them, tossing him hard from one direction to another in a rigid triangular formation midair, landing him on the ground behind her. Stone cracks at his feet as he lunges his staff at her back.

  Clang!

  Layla spins, bashing the shield hard against the staff at the last second, but her sword arm is too slow.

  Sltt!

  The second blade of Tristian’s staff opens her forearm before he double-kicks away ostentatiously. The dark ribbons rush to cycle his body once more, as if caressing him.

  My fists clench at the sight. Her sword arm drips with red. But true to her badass self, she slams shield and sword into the ground, rips a piece of her cloth shorts, and uses her teeth to tighten the strip around the wound. It soaks into dark crimson almost immediately, making me realize how deep the slice is.

  Just land one blow, Lay.

  She hooks her shield and grasps her sword once more.

  “House Kavoh has failed you.” Tristian squints, the ground pulsing all around him. “They did not nurture talent properly.” He snaps his fingers, sending the ribbons on a straight dotted path toward Layla.

  He wouldn’t crash straight into her shield. Think, Hale, think. That low magic ribbon can alter physics if Tristian crosses through, which means it doesn’t necessarily have to speed him up.

  “Lay! He’s going to feign!” I call at the top of my lungs, bringing all eyes on me—victorious and shameful alike. I don’t care. She’ll know what I mean. We’ve practiced fake-out shots a thousand times before. And if the Danes want to punish me, fine. I’m valuable to them now, as much as they hate it. So it can’t be too bad.

  As my voice barely finishes echoing throughout the chamber, Tristian dashes toward the first ribbon, twisting the ribbon back into his orbit as he passes through it. Then he dashes past the next—staff held forward.

  He moves so fast it’s hard to believe this constitutes “lesser” dark magic.

  Layla’s fist tightens around the blade guard, readying.

  But something happens as he passes the second ribbon. He doesn’t re-envelope it around his body. It stays slithering midair. Layla sees it too.

  It won’t be just a feign… he’s going to—

  Fshew!

  As Layla opens her shield to reveal her blade arm slicing down, Tristian’s third ribbon sends him catapulting backward into the second ribbon, which now launches him forward. A trick to force a miss of her giant broadsword.

  Layla never finishes her swing, however. Instead, she shifts weight to reel the shield back and bashes Tristian horribly off balance when he comes rushing unnaturally fast.

  She read him like a book.

  The whole chamber dongs from the reverberation and the audience gasps.

  Tristian shuffles not to lose his footing, but Layla is through waiting around.

  Sllt!

  She slices him hard down the back, blood spraying.

  “Yes.” I punch the ledge with excitement.

  His ribbons converge like a bandage to immediately dress the wound, and he spins with a desperate attack that nearly traces her old scar.

  They both stumble away from one another. I notice the blood dripping through the cloth on her arm. She doesn’t have much more time left in there. Tough as she is, blood loss is going to take her out.

  “Boeru, can we give her an edge? That fucker is using the warring dark. Can’t we give her some?”

  The dragon huffs in my mind’s eye. “I… do not know how,” Boeru admits. “The Danes hold these secrets, and are careful not to speak of them while gates are open.”

  Layla tosses her shield toward the windy edge of the arena and flips her sword into her off-hand. She beats her chest, psyching herself.

  C’mon, Lay.

  Tristian flips his hair out of his face and whirls the staff to his front, changing stance. His weight is on the opposite foot now, and the staff in opposite hand. He’s ambidextrous, or at least is pretending to be.

  Blood drips down his back. Good.

  He looks like he’s shaken, while Layla is alive with fury. It’s in this moment I realize the power of House Kavoh. Sure, those of Rhylock are acrobatic dark-wielding showmen, but us? We don’t give up easily.

  We have the broken bones to prove it.

  Layla charges with sword gripped in both hands, while Tristian readies to use a trick out of my book. He’s purposely by the arena edge now, activating the wind magic by pressing up against it. He backflips, landing both feet in the wind, and catapults himself high into the air.

  Layla slides to a stop, eyeing him.

  The crevices breathe light all around her as she brings the sword overhead. Danes stand from their seats, victors all leaning forward.

  Whoo!

  She throws it—sword tumbling through the air on a straight course to cleave him.

  The chamber holds its breath.

  Fttth!

  Blood splashes as the blade slices his arm and deflects the other way. Tristian’s staff and Layla’s sword tumble as the attuned man scrapes against the ground. The cracks are alive… another spirit is surely coming.

  “Yes,” I cheer quietly to myself. Then the excitement fades into dread.

  “End him,” the center Dane commands.

  Layla approaches hesitantly, heavy of breath, posture the same as before she was sliced bloody. She’s a beast.

  Tristian wheezes as he kicks himself away from her. With a quick bend, she snags his staff and continues strutting up to him. “What was that, about House Kavoh failing me?” She smirks.

  Don’t kill him, Lay. My whole body is tense watching. He’s valuable. Life is valuable.

  Don’t forget that so soon…

  There’s an anger in her eyes that usually isn’t there. The adrenaline of mortality. I felt it too before Grondus plunged that blade into my heart. Mercy, Lay.

  “Awaken your destiny, Layla Barristan,” the corner Dane rattles.

  The ground pulses harder at her feet, around Tristian’s head.

  She hoists the staff with one arm, carefully choosing how to stand over him, then holds it a foot away from his heart. They lock eyes…

  Don’t…

  “End him!”

  Layla scoffs and throws the staff, then looks brazenly at the Danes. “You are greedy creatures,” she bellows, and my heart lightens with ecstasy. Just hours ago, she was covering my mouth so I wouldn’t get killed.

  Now she sees… This is wrong.

  The cerulean light emitting from the cracks dims to darkness, aggravating the Danes greatly.

  “You dare—”

  Visible wind wraps her body, making me clench. She’s lifted off her feet, arms and legs quivering. They’re squeezing the wound to exercise their power, and could snap her neck with an effortless twist.

  “Stop!” I shout, the silhouette of Boeru growing large behind the victory dais, my voice amplifying.

  The Danes freeze.

  Now it’s my turn to protect you, Lay.

  “She won! You received two awakenings, a two hundred percent increase in five years. Release her, I beg of you, and recognize her intent to kill prior to disarming her opponent.”

  Silence follows, so I continue.

  “You have what you want.” I spread my arms, and Boeru expands his wings to echo my sentiment.

  Center Dane whips his hand, stopping her inches from the wall next to the pit of shame. He just holds her there, taunting.

  My breath catches, then when I realize he’s only threatening shame, I exhale.

  Shame is better than death, I echo Layla’s own words in my head.

  Center Dane lingers, white-glowing eyes hone in on me. “Soon, the lot of you will understand, I am not the enemy.” He whips Layla to the victory dais and drops her at the foot of it.