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Instead, he begins to fade, his essence thinning until he’s barely visible. “You play a dangerous game, Knox. The other gods will not be as forgiving as I have been.”
“Forgiveness implies guilt.” I buckle on my sword belt. “And I have nothing to feel guilty about.”
His presence vanishes entirely, leaving only a lingering chill in the air. I stand alone in the pavilion, ice melting slowly around me as my emotions settle. The confrontation has left me strangely lighter, unburdened in a way I haven’t been since I first learned the truth about the gods’ feeding.
I gather my shield, placing it on my arm. The weight, balanced against the sword at my hip, is right. Outside, the noise of the crowd has reached a fevered pitch. They’re ready for blood, for spectacle, for the divine drama they’ve been promised.
They want a fucking show?
We’ll give them one.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Morning sunlight slices across the arena and beyond, casting a golden shimmer across Tirene’s western shore. Thousands of voices wash over me, their expectation a vise clamped around my heart.
I’m on the west side of the stadium. Sterling’s on the east, with water droplets already forming in the air around him.
Agnar and his team managed to lift and solidify a section of earth large enough to host a fighting ring almost the same size and shape as one of the training fields in the capital. Three dragons wide and at least four times as long.
Waves from the ocean crash in the distance, lapping and foaming against the jagged Storm Cliffs.
The roar of the crowd crashes into me like a tidal wave. It’s a horrible replica of my first introduction to Chirean and Dame and my reunion with Leesa. Shoved into an arena where only a dragoncaller had a hope of surviving.
I’d give my left big toe to be facing dragons instead of gods right now.
The tiered stands wrap the entire field, with openings in the corner where people still stream in. Entrepreneurs are already moving through aisles, hawking food, drinks, and even tiny flags marked with fire or water sigils.
Like this is a festival and not a death match.
Though I do my best to shove the fear aside, ice floods my veins. Too much rides on today’s outcome.
Our future. Our very lives. Our existence as we know it.
Above the stands, even the sky is thick with onlookers. Tirene’s winged people hover, accompanied by others on the backs of gracefully gliding alicorns.
A thrilling sight to many.
But one that churns my stomach.
Just last night, I pleaded with the dragons to stay far away from today’s fight. After Ziva’s threats, I couldn’t put them at risk.
I’m still terrified. I feel their absence like a phantom limb and miss the reassurance that proximity to their massive, powerful bodies provides.
How much will we lose today?
The arena stretches before me, an open expanse of hard-packed earth ringed by layers upon layers of spectators. Their excitement envelops me like an oppressive blanket, thick and suffocating. The gods’ section gleams with an unnatural light.
Crystals grow, radiating from each deity.
An active harvest blooming right in front of everyone. And yet, no one thinks twice about it. No one questions the gods and their actions.
My stomach flips at the sight, disgust tightening my lips. What they’re doing is vile.
Movement catches my attention. A flash of black clothing and predatory grace.
Sterling is heading for the center of the arena toward a strange ornate weapon rack. Just from a first glance, I can tell that no human crafted these weapons. Must be a “gift” from the gods, which means I should keep my distance.
No gift from the deities comes without a price.
