Page 18 of Jeweler to the Blessed (Champions of Chaos #1)

When his nightmares wake, you’ll know he’s found her.

— FROM CHAMPIONS OF KAVIOS

S creams erupted around me.

Fear spiked as the firm hand on me, forcing me from harm, dropped. My guard fell to his knees. I turned my head. No one had touched him.

Something pressed against my neck. It was the feeling of a mind magic unable to infiltrate. But no adamas glowed around me.

The rest of the combatants on the street, both Blessed and Feared, were crumpled heaps on the ground.

I glanced back toward Cross Street and saw the same there.

Some screamed, some twitched, all expressions I could see were drawn in …

terror. I knew then that all were experiencing their worst nightmares in a way only they could perceive.

Nothing else could cause this display. It was magic I’d previously considered no more than legend, but the bodies on the street proved how incredibly wrong I was.

My stomach should be plummeting at the discovery that stealing fear to wield nightmares was real. Instead, my entire body was alight with it.

This was … different. It felt good. What was happening?

I’d been so scared when my guard lunged for me, believing he touched my skin.

I knew it wasn’t his intent, but our bodies shuffled as he moved to defend me.

For the first time in my life, the guard touching my skin was not the worst thing to happen.

I looked down at him. His knee was bent, his hands were at his temples, and his face pinched like he was in pain. He didn’t scream like the others. It was a testament to my guard’s mental strength that even as his nightmares caged him, he didn’t break.

Nightmare was wielded by collecting fear, a power history claimed could only be used by the Cursed King, a figure, up until this moment, I thought was as much fiction as fact.

The Cursed King was real.

He was here.

He was in Kavios? If Themis’s Champion was here, shouldn’t he be on the throne?

Finally, I came to my senses and dropped to my knees in case anyone else was unaffected. Standing out was the worst thing I could do. Assessing the scene before me, I didn’t see a purple glow anywhere in the darkness. The timing was too perfect to be a coincidence. This attack supported the Feared.

They named themselves after the Cursed King’s ability to take fear. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised if he were real, he’d help them. But I was still adjusting to the fact that the magic was real instead of being hypothetical text on a page.

The Feared’s plan seemed simple enough: take me.

I swallowed. Kill me.

No more adamas for the Blessed.

I hated that it was a good plan.

Scanning the scene on the street again, no one else appeared unaffected. The wielder had to be close. I needed to get out of here before the Cursed King showed his face and finished what his followers had been unable to do.

My guard still knelt next to where I crouched.

I couldn’t do anything for him. He came after me, even after I’d kicked him.

Even when the fight was erupting, he’d tried to shield me.

I shook my head. He also told me to get out of there.

Well, that might have been a warning for the Feared too.

Either way, this must be his job, assigned by Vaddon and the prince. He’d want me to get to safety.

I kept low, crawling on hands and knees off the side street and onto Cross Street.

My mouth hung open. From my previous vantage point, I could tell some on the main street had been impacted.

Now, I could see it was the entire festival.

Pulse racing, I crawled through the bodies, still not wanting to give myself away.

Most were fully curled up on the ground.

Few were on their knees. Screams turned into sobs as their minds trapped them, replaying their worst nightmares.

I glanced at the castle balcony, where, sometimes, a blue glow emanated over the city, calming the masses. It was dark. With a power display like this, proving incontrovertibly that the Cursed King was real and not a figure of legend, King Rodric needed to watch his back.

Limbs shaking, I crawled closer to my parents. Mentally, I began cataloging everything I knew about the hero of Mother’s favorite book.

The Cursed King was … cursed by a goddess. Champions of Kavios claimed he was Themis’s—Order’s—Champion, cursed by Chaos. History didn’t detail what curse he carried.

He stole fear, turning it into nightmares.

I looked around and had to cover a laugh as I crawled.

It was wholly inappropriate, but that piece of information was now uncontested.

There was no other explanation for the curled up and screaming masses on the street.

No one else at the festival was standing or moving.

This attack’s reach would be impressive if it weren’t so terrifying.

I searched for Mother’s chair. It should have been visible now that most people were below its height.

My eyes locked on it, and I crept forward. I was almost there when the twitching body next to Mother’s chair stopped moving. Another woman’s eyes opened next to her.

The magic was releasing.

They were awakening, and I needed to blend in. I slowed my crawl—almost there.

As the festivalgoers woke, the terror spread.

The fear present in their minds permeated this reality.

The careful balance between frenzy and excitement had slammed down on the scales, tipping toward panic.

Citizens got to their feet and no longer wanted to be anywhere near this place.

Some started racing to leave the festival.

Some were still crying. The Selection hadn’t occurred yet, but the party was over.

As more found their bearings, more raced toward paths that took them away from Cross Street.

The wide street wasn’t big enough to facilitate a mass exit soaked in nightmare-fueled hysteria.

People turned on each other in their newly ignited fear, in their desire to get away from whatever they had confronted in their minds .

I was at Mother’s side. Father was getting to his feet. “Emberline.” He squeezed my shoulder as the sea of people around us rose and shifted. A mass of alarm turned to a mob of anger as they realized they couldn’t get away fast enough.

“We have to go,” I said.

Father was still shaky on his feet. I moved to his position behind Mother’s chair, gripping the handles to push her. He was almost steady when jostled by another festival goer, dropping one knee on the ground again for support.

I reached to help him back up. “I’ve got Mother. Can you stand?”

Father didn’t answer, only glaring at me as he rested a hand on Mother’s chair. I didn’t question him further—just started pushing. Elbows knocked, screams and shouts still filled the streets, but we found a path toward one of the side streets connecting Cross with the lower parts of the city.

We were almost to it.

Father’s shoulder banged into me—hard—stealing the breath from my lungs. I stumbled, catching myself before I hit the ground, but Father continued to fall.

I had to get him up. People were already tripping over him as they stormed forward. They were past caring who or what was in their way. It was like trying to swim upstream as I reached for him. People surged on all sides, everyone equally affected by the fear, now desperate to escape its reach.

I stooped to lift Father. He was thin, like Uncle, but so much taller than I. His height alone made his mass more than I could lift. My thoughts spiraled as someone else tripped over his ankle. He groaned in pain. I winced, thankful I hadn’t heard a crack. All I could do was hope it wasn’t broken.

My worry turned quickly to a rage I failed to suppress. I hated everyone around me. Father was injured, possibly unable to walk. Mother was swaying listlessly in her chair, requiring my attention to get her to safety.

Anger was too easy to reach for. My rage at today—at the plan I’d been forced to give up, at the situation I’d been required to accept—bubbled inside me like a kettle about to boil.

I resented every person in my way. Hiding my feelings didn’t seem so important at this moment.

There was too much chaos, too much confusion.

Even the Blessed were running scared from the nightmares they’d just experienced.

I had plenty of anger to go around. Anger at this city—at the Blessed—at how citizens were treated.

Maybe the Feared wouldn’t exist if those without magic were treated with an ounce of dignity.

I let it all bubble until the erupting scream was from me as I lifted Father’s weight and set him onto Mother’s lap.

She grunted, but her arms wrapped around him, keeping him in place.

My pulse was still pounding from the adrenaline, so I pushed the chair forward with both of my parents in it. I ushered us through the side street and back into the safer streets of Woodside.

I shouldn’t have been able to do it. Logically, I knew that.

We were in no place for me to question it.

So I pushed. The farther we got from Cross Street, the more exhaustion replaced the throbbing anger.

The crowd thinned significantly with each block.

As my rage depleted, so did my strength.

Unable to move the chair another inch, I crumpled to the ground as I should have when fear struck the festival.

“Emberline.” Father turned when the chair stopped its forward progress. He pushed himself off Mother, hopping on his good foot as he tried to see where I was.

My breaths came rapidly. I chased each one with another, hoping the next breath would slow my heart’s rapid beat. I swallowed, giving myself a moment. This was no different than my calming exercises when my emotions spiked.

Except—I’d lifted my father, a man a foot taller than myself. I’d pushed him and Mother through multiple streets. Things I really shouldn’t have been able to accomplish—a strength I didn’t know I had.