Page 62 of Dark Virtue (Threads of Ruin #1)

R.I.O.T

T he air has changed.

It ripples with something vast, something wrong , folding over itself like an unseen tide, heavy and suffocating. It isn't just the weight of the battle to come; it's so much more than that. It's something older. Something watching.

The crowd feels it, too.

What was once eager, wild, bloodthirsty, has now turned stiff with unease. Thousands of creatures, rich and poor alike—each one drawn here by the promise of violence, of justice, of an inevitable end—now sit frozen, their bodies locked with a tension they do not yet understand.

Their breath hitches. Their hands clutch the edges of their seats.

Not one of them dares to speak.

Not now.

The Gods are far too close.

Their presence is not visible, not tangible, and yet I feel them pressing against the edges of my mind. Their unseen gazes slither through the Colosseum like hands reaching into the dark, pulling at the subconscious of all who bear witness.

The sand shifts unnaturally. The torches flicker, their flames bending as if straining under the weight of something greater than the mortal plane.

I tighten my grip on the golden banister, forcing my breath to steady. This is as it should be. This is a battle sanctioned by the divine. And yet, there is something about this moment—something about the woman standing in the pit below—that feels off.

She shouldn't smile.

She shouldn't look so unafraid.

Even a Second-Generation Nightwalker like her should understand the weight of this moment, of her looming death. But she simply breaks the chains around her, each movement deliberate, slow.

"You knew," Reece whispers, standing beside me as we watch her. "You knew they wouldn't hold her."

I had hoped she would run, but I should have known better.

Nightmare doesn't run. Not in that forest, not when she learnt what I was, not when the Royals had come—she never ran. She wasn't designed to run.

"Her knees touched the floor," I say, tilting my head, unable to take my eyes off the scene below. "And I knew she was planning something."

I sense Reece's eyes narrowing. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I realised something. There's only one person, one entity, allowed to hurt her without consequences," I say, my words low and steady. "Herself."

Reece doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say. I'm right, and she knows it.

"And if anyone else tries… they will suffer ."

A pulse of silence passes over the Colosseum, stretching impossibly long, thick as oil, suffocating.

Then—movement.

The General lunges.

Nightmare moves.

And the Colosseum erupts.

The battle is a storm of steel and blood.

We watch as they clash, their bodies nothing but blurs of movement across the sand. The force of their strikes sends ripples through the air, warping the space between them, shaking the very foundation of the arena.

Then the first strike lands—hard.

Dame Thorne’s fist drives into her ribs like a hammer, the impact rippling through the Colosseum like a drumbeat of war.

The force sends her skidding across the sand, her boots carving deep trenches into the earth.

The crowd erupts, their voices rising once more, raw and desperate, clinging to the sight of their champion striking true.

She doesn't fall.

Instead, she straightens, rolling her shoulders, a smirk curling at the edges of her lips. A look that shouldn't exist on the face of a woman taking blows meant to break her.

The General wastes no time.

His hand tightens around the hilt of his sword; a massive, ornate weapon wreathed in divine fire, its golden edge glowing with searing heat. With a single motion, he swings—fast, precise, deadly . The blade hums as it cuts through the air, the sheer force of it warping the space around them.

She leans back just in time, the tip of the sword slicing cleanly through the air where her throat had been moments before. A second strike follows, the arc of divine steel aiming for her ribs, but she twists, the heat of the blade searing the fabric of her clothes as it barely misses.

Another strike. Faster. Stronger. The crowd surges as they watch their champion press forward, each movement of his sword cutting through the dark like a burning comet.

Then—

She catches it.

Her bare hand grips the blade mid-swing, fingers curling around its searing-hot edge. The divine steel hisses as it meets her flesh, golden fire licking against her skin, but she does not flinch. She does not bleed.

For the first time, hesitation flickers in Thorne’s white eyes.

That is all she needs.

With terrifying strength, she wrenches the sword from his grasp and shatters it.

The divine steel breaks like glass in her hands, shards of golden light scattering across the sand, dissolving before they even land.

The General staggers back, breath ragged, his hands empty.

Golden light erupts from his fingertips, coalescing into orbs of fire that burn too bright, too pure. The kind of magic meant to unmake her, to reduce her to nothing.

He hurls them.

The first streaks toward her, its heat warping the air, curling the sand into glass where it passes. She shifts—just enough to let it scorch by, the light casting sharp shadows over her face. The second and third come faster, a barrage meant to overwhelm.

She ducks.

Weaves.

Slips between them as if she had done this a thousand times before.

A flicker of something crosses the General’s face—confusion, frustration—before his hands come together, magic surging through his arms as he forms something bigger. A spear of golden flame, pulsing with the force of the Gods themselves.

He throws it.

The crowd watches, breath held, as the fire hurtles toward her. As if this is the moment. The end. The victory they had been promised.

And then—she disappears.

A blur, nothing but the whisper of a shadow, and the flaming spear slams into the Colosseum wall, sending a shockwave of molten light exploding outward.

The crowd gasps.

Suddenly she’s behind him .

A hand grips the back of his neck before he can turn, nails digging into his skin like claws.

Her smile now is something different. No longer amusement. No longer indulgence.

It’s hunger.

Sadistic. Thirsty.

The same look a predator gives the moment it knows its prey is done struggling.

Thorne jerks away, swinging his elbow into her ribs, but she barely acknowledges it. Instead, she moves with him. Lets him think he's escaping before twisting him sharply and slamming his face into the sand.

Blood spatters.

The battle is relentless, a storm without end. She doesn't hesitate, doesn't hold back. Her foot slams into his knee, twisting at an unnatural angle. His body buckles, his breath leaving him in a choked, ragged sound before her elbow crushes into his temple.

The General stumbles, and falls. His knees clashing with the pit with a sickening finality, his once pristine form now battered, broken, his golden markings flickering, faltering. His breath is ragged, his stance unsteady.

This should not be happening.

The power of the Gods—of all of them —flows through his veins. He should be beyond mortal limits. His strength should be unmatched.

And yet—

She's won.

The roar that once rattled the walls of the Colosseum dies, the energy shifting from elation to something heavier.

Unease. Disbelief.

Fear.

The silence spreads, thick and suffocating, pressing into every corner of the arena. No one speaks. No one cheers. No one moves.

This is not the story they were promised.

This is not how it was supposed to end.

Yet, as she stands over him, her breath slow, controlled, the blood of their champion dripping from her knuckles onto the sand—

I know.

This is exactly how it was always going to end.

I stand over the edge, the roars of a crowd long silenced, the clash of steel now distant. Then, it comes.

A pull.

Faint at first. Subtle, like a thread tugging at the edge of my soul, its grip growing stronger, more insistent with every passing moment.

The air around me changes, the weight of the mortal realm suddenly feeling thin, stretched, fragile. The tug sharpens, deepens, a sensation like a hand wrapping around my chest, pulling me upward, toward something ancient, something far above the chaos of the arena.

The floating castle.

Its presence burns at the edges of my mind, distant but undeniable. I feel its call—deep and unforgiving, its will folding over me like an unspoken command.

It’s time.

I know it before the realisation even settles. My time on earth is up, and I am being pulled back.

Back to the castle.

Back to where I belong.

The weight of the arena falls away, the sights and sounds of this world fading into the periphery as the call becomes impossible to ignore. It’s not a choice.

It never was.

I'm the Grand Arbiter. The Gods’ Champion. My top priority is to protect the dome.

The castle looms in my mind now, vast and terrible, its towers piercing a sky I can no longer see. It is waiting for me, its presence wrapping around my soul, demanding my return.

And as the tug pulls me harder, I realise—

It's time to return home.