Page 61

H.A.Z.E

T he silence is deafening.

It crashes over the Colosseum in a way that feels unnatural, pressing against my skin, thick as oil. The weight of thousands of eyes bears down on me—judging, condemning, waiting.

The crowd, the Royals, the High Lords, and the Generals; they're all watching. Their hunger hasn’t faded. If anything, it's deepened, twisting into something else, something uncertain—but none of it matters.

Not the suffocating expectations of my demise. Not the invisible chains of their gazes. Not the taste of iron and rot on my tongue as black blood drips from my lips.

Only one thing holds me still.

Him.

My saviour. My captor. My Shadow.

He stands before me, mask in hand, his fingers stained with the remnants of what was done to me. His touch still lingers on my skin, ghosting along the places where his hands had wiped the blood from my cheek. But it's not just the warmth of his touch that keeps me rooted in place; it's his eyes.

Swirling red, deep and endless, shifting like a storm caught in the unseen wind. They burn, but not with rage. Not with hatred, but something else. Something worse.

I'm not sure what he sees when he looks at me. I don't know why his voice had softened when he spoke those words—words that shouldn't have mattered, should not have been allowed to slip past my defences.

'I like your voice.'

Something tightens inside me as his words echo back. I was wrong about many things when it came to him and underestimated him when I knew better. But one thing remains true, an undeniable fact.

"You and me," I say, my voice low, certain. "We're inevitable."

Riot tilts his head, his red eyes steady on mine. I should step back. I should lower my gaze in respect before the Grand Arbiter—the man who has decided my fate—but I don’t.

He hums; the sound is quiet. "Perhaps."

His eyes linger, a softness to them I don't deserve. Then he turns, pushing off the sand, leaping effortlessly back into the Immum. I watch as he lands between Reece and Alissa, his movements controlled and precise.

Reece meets my gaze first, her dark eyes narrowing before she turns away. But I saw it; the slight furrow of her brows, a flicker of concern buried deep.

Alissa hesitates. Her gaze flickers between me and Riot, uncertainty clouding her features before settling on me. She doesn't understand.

I tilt my head, watching as confusion deepens in her eyes, the silent question forming before she even realises it’s there. Her fingers twitch at her sides, her stance just a fraction too stiff.

Then—a groan fills the arena.

The iron gate begins to rise.

Alissa startles, her breath hitching. But when she looks back at me, hesitation hardens into something else—suspicion.

I smirk, shifting my gaze as General Dame Thorne steps onto the sand, the last light of the day fading behind him.

The suffocating silence weakens, turning to murmurs, uncertain whispers threading through the stands like a slow-moving storm.

The weight of the moment settles over them, over us—heavy, inescapable.

I watch him.

His armour is battle-worn, the dark leather etched with scars and creases that speak of victories hard-won.

The dying sunlight catches along the surface, casting a warm, flickering glow.

This isn't the polished shine of a man seeking glory.

No, this armour is a second skin—weathered, resilient, and steeped in the grit of war, blood, and the weight of duty.

His steps are even, deliberate, boots pressing into the sand with measured intent. He doesn’t acknowledge the crowd, doesn't bask in their cheers. His focus is singular— me.

His eyes, cold as steel, lock onto mine. There is no reckless rage, no wild fury—only something far more dangerous. Something sharpened by grief, by loss, by conviction.

The crowd erupts, chanting his name.

But none of them see what I see.

The look in his eyes.

Resolve.

His fingers flex at his sides before settling on the hilt of his sword. He isn't afraid, only deciding how this will end.

Then, the air shifts .

It's subtle at first. A pressure change. A stillness that sinks into the bones of the Colosseum.

Then, it crackles.

A force unfurls above us—golden threads twisting from the heavens, coiling in the air, forming patterns too intricate to be anything but divine. The Gods. Tonight, they're far too close. Their presence presses against my skin and hums beneath my feet, weightless yet suffocating.

The crowd holds its breath.

They know.

I tip my head back, watching as the first Oracle descends— Mia Crux.

She's wrapped in flowing silver silks, her form ethereal as moonlight clings to her skin.

Selene's chosen. The light of the heavens bends to her presence; a soft, shifting glow that clings to her edges as if the stars themselves refuse to let her go.

Her hands remain clasped in prayer, her eyes shut, her lips moving in silent devotion.

Then, another. Juliana Garcia.

Green silk billows as she floats downward, the scent of earth and rain trailing in her wake.

Gaia's chosen. She's grounded where the first is celestial, her presence carrying the quiet power of ancient forests, of roots burrowing deep into the earth.

The torches flicker wildly as she descends, bowing in her reverence.

Cyrus James appears in a burst of golden radiance.

Apollo’s chosen. He's not light, but the force behind it is searing yet restrained. His hands don't tremble as he prays. His faith is unwavering.

Then comes the fourth. The most feared—Nerezza Khan.

Black silks twist and curl like living shadows, swallowing what little light remains.

Hecate's chosen. Where the others are bright, she's the absence of it, descent slow, measured.

Power thrums in the space around her, an invisible force wrapping around the edges of the Colosseum, whispering in tongues no mortal should understand.

The final Oracle descends, and the very air itself seems to recoil in the presence of Keyair Storme.

Red silks; the colour of fire, of war, of creation and destruction entwined. Prometheus' chosen. His presence is wildfire restrained, a power caged just beneath his skin, waiting for a single command to break free.

One by one, they lower into the arena, forming a circle around me and the General. They don't move. Don't waver. Their hands remain in prayer, their eyes shut, but I feel them watching. Judging.

Then, the golden thread appears.

It sparks to life in the space between them, a single line of light looping from one Oracle to the next, forming an unbroken chain that binds them together.

It shimmers and pulses; a heartbeat of divine will sealing the arena in a cage of divine will.

It hums in the air, threading between the Oracles like a living thing, growing stronger, thicker, until the light twists and rises, forming a barrier that separates us from the world beyond.

One by one, the Oracles lift their faces, their eyes still closed, their lips parting as the first words of the invocation spill from their mouths.

The sound is layered; a perfect harmony of voices not meant for mortal tongues.

The words slither through the air, bending reality itself, pulling something unseen from the heavens above.

And then the power takes hold.

A low tremor shakes the ground beneath my feet. Not a warning—an arrival.

Golden light bursts from the Oracles' hands, streaking through the air like veins of molten sun, racing toward the man standing before me. It doesn’t touch him at first, circling him like a predator, testing, waiting. Then, all at once, it strikes .

General Dame Thorne stiffens as the magic latches onto him, sinking into his skin, seeping into his very bones. He doesn't cry out. He doesn't flinch. But his breath comes sharp through gritted teeth, his body locking in place as the transformation begins.

The golden glow envelops him, bright enough that, for a moment, he's nothing more than a silhouette against the pulsing light. His irises vanish, swallowed by the divine fire burning through him, leaving his eyes empty, hollow save for the bleeding white light that has consumed them.

Then, the leather armour tears with a sudden, wrenching grip.

Straps snap and seams split, the sound sharp and final, like the crack of a whip in dead air.

Pieces fall, flopping onto the sand with dull thuds and the occasional metallic clink from worn buckles and rivets.

The chest piece slumps forward, followed by the pauldrons slipping off his shoulder.

His torso is a map of old battles. Scars crossing scars, faded bruises long since settles into his skin. But one mark draws my eye, carved deep and deliberate across his chest.

Pathetic.

The word is old, the edges smooth with time, but the intent behind it still bleeds through. It was a pale, healed groove where I once took a blade and etched my judgement into flesh. It wasn't fast, either; it was meant to last.

But he wears it differently today; he wears it like he agrees with it.

Then—the magic appears on his skin.

First, the marks burn into place—thin, jagged lines appearing across his chest, his arms, and his back as if an unseen hand were carving them from his flesh.

They glow deep crimson at first, fresh wounds sizzling in the open air.

The heat rolls from him in waves, thick and suffocating, pressing against my skin like a distant inferno.

But then the light shifts.

The red fades, cooling, crystallizing. The wounds do not heal; they harden , the lines shimmering, shifting, turning to iridescent streaks that reflect every colour in existence.

Rainbow light ripples across his body, refracting with every movement, every breath, the markings no longer burns but appearing as crystals embedded beneath his skin.

The crowd is silent now.

I feel their awe, their reverence. They see him as something divine, something unstoppable.

But I see the way his fingers twitch, the way his shoulders tense. The magic is changing him, reshaping him into something more—something that is not him .

I take a slow step forward, tilting my head as I watch him fight to breathe under the weight of their will, my hands still bound in front of me.

A slow smile curls over my lips, dark and promising. Of course , they had all come together for this—for me .

I lift my gaze to the Immum . My focus narrows to a single point— the Royals.

They sit in their elevated thrones, draped in gold and silks, their presence untouchable above the chaos of the arena. For a moment, their eyes gleam with anticipation, dark amusement curving at their lips as their attention shifts from the General to me.

They expect me to suffer.

They expect a struggle.

They expect me to fail .

But then… the chains shatter.

My gaze connects with Maya, as my hands fall to my sides. Her eyes widen, and her grip on her throne tightens. The unbreakable blood-forged links groan, splinter, collapse; the illusion of control crumbling to dust at my feet.

My smile deepens.

The shift is immediate.

Their amusement flickers. Dims. Then dies .

"It should have been obvious," I drawl, basking in the unease crawling along their faces before settling on Maya, Helena, and her daughter, Luna Imperium. I didn't need to shout. I knew they could hear me just fine. "Did you really think you were enough to put me on my knees?"

Eyes once alight with cruel satisfaction now sharpen, wary. Their postures grow tense, hands curling over the arms of their thrones, fingers pressing into polished gold. It's subtle—the way their breaths change, the way their lips part as if to speak, but no words come.

"I forgot to teach you, didn’t I?" I turn away as my voice carries itself through the arena—to the Royals. "Not to underestimate the extent of my power."

Essy's eyes blink open in the blackness, her power pulsing out of me. And one by one, the runes etched into my ribs, suffocating my power, shift, quake and disappear entirely.

The crowd isn't just silent… It trembles.

I shift my gaze to the General. His bleeding white eyes meet mine.

The hatred there is still his own.

"You should have known," I murmur, my voice smooth, amused. "My knees don't ever touch the ground unless I want them to."

They don't understand it yet.

Not fully.

But unease coils in their chests, slithering up their spines, whispering the truth they have not yet dared to name.

The moment they had gathered for—the moment they had designed —is no longer theirs to control.

It's mine .