Page 177 of Lana Pecherczyk

What?

Heart hammering, River surged upward, climbing over Tommas to get to the prize. His fingertips grazed glass, but a boot stomped down, pinning his forearm in cold mud.

River glanced up.

“Pathetic,” Cloud muttered, then scooped up the prize and launched it downfield to Ash. Five years melted away in that single, coordinated movement. Ash caught it, pivoted, and tossed it onto their trove’s pile.

Cheers erupted.

River pushed himself up, spitting mud. He turned, looking around. Cloud hadn’t joined the celebration. Instead, he was already at his team’s starting point, watching River and waiting.

Only one treasure left.

The ruby.

It sat accusing in the mud at centerfield, gleaming like fresh blood under torchlight. More spectators from around the Great Murder had formed a wider circle, sensing the game had become more dangerous. And they were right.

When the final round began, the other team moved with vicious intent. An elbow caught River under the chin, snapping his head back. A knee drove into his kidney as he stumbled. He saw Talo go down face-first after a brutal, deliberate trip. No whistle. No foul. Blake’s human rules had abandoned the field.

“They’re playing dirty,” Sera panted, hauling River upright after another bone-jarring tackle.

“Just playing by crow rules now,” he replied, copper tang of blood coating his tongue. “Watch for sharps. Sneaky claws. Hidden weapons. I don’t want anyone losing an eye, got it?”

Five years earlier, he would have known exactly what strategy Cloud implemented. They’d fought back-to-back against Nero’s undead army, their movements synchronized like wings sharing the same air current. He still remembered the taste of death, the burn of depleted mana in his tainted inner well, the way Cloud had pressed a dagger into River’s palm without looking, knowing exactly what he needed.

“Umbria, focus!” The Corvus’s roar cut through his thoughts as Cloud launched toward the ruby, a streak of lethal darkness across the field.

River pumped effort into his legs and raced to intercept. They collided in the airspace over the treasure, the impact sending shockwaves through his aching body. Mud and wet grass splattered his face, cold and slick. Limbs flew, fists jabbed. Cloud’s forehead snapped forward and connected with River’s nose. Pain exploded. His head jerked back, spraying blood. Through blurry vision, a figure approached, taking out River’s backup. One by one, the Umbrias fell to the Cardonas.

Blake’s terror spiked through their bond, distracting him from Cloud’s second attack. A palm heel to the solar plexus, knocking the wind from his paralyzed lungs. His swinging fist went wide. He slumped sideways, wheezing and collapsing.

Through the haze, he saw Cloud pluck the ruby from the mud, stroll calmly downfield uncontested to his team’s trove, and place it down. Finality.

Game over.

Point made.

Cloud had always been better at this—harder, more stubborn, more vicious. More willing to hurt in order to understand weakness, to sacrifice everything for the prize, more willing to stab his friend in the guts. He was the son of a bitch who’d told suffering to fuck off long enough for him to infiltrate Crystal City. River was weak, preferring to stay cozy and safe, wrapped in ignorance.

River struggled to his knees. The world swam. Mud became his second skin. Players limped off the field, nursing wounds. Ash assessed injuries, ever the pragmatist. And the crow of the hour stood apart, untouched by the fray he’d orchestrated.

Watching.

Waiting.

Fury ignited River’s blood as his vision tunneled to that fucking, perfectly preserved bloody V. Suddenly, all he could see was lightning arcing down from the sky. All he could smell was burning feathers. Scorching flesh. The heartbeat when he realized his best friend had meant to kill him.

“We’re not friends,” River choked out, swaying slightly. “We’re not family.” He stalked forward, crossing the invisible line. “We never were.”

Before thought, before reason, before Blake’s terrified face flashed in his mind, he lunged. His fist connected with Cloud’s jaw. A solid, satisfying crack. Savage relief. Finally.

But Cloud barely stumbled. He spat blood onto the field near River’s feet, where it mingled with rain-slick earth in a dark pool. Thunder rumbled overhead, matching the tension coiling between them. It felt like the airship all over again.

“You haven’t changed.” Cloud’s lips curled into something too cruel to be a smile. “Still thinking you’re defending everyone when really”—he gestured at the crowd, the splintering teams, Blake watching from beneath the canopy—“you’re just making a bigger mess.”

“Fuck. You.”

“That all you got?” Cloud circled, beckoning with his tattooed fingers, but River refused to take the bait. “You sure get quiet when the truth bites back.”