Page 29 of The Midnight Death Match

As we pass into the trees, the sword pulses again in my grip.

Not as a warning, but as recognition.

Chapter

Twelve

The sky darkensas we fly, but not from storm clouds. It’s like the sun decided not to shine near Courtsview anymore. The trees below are warped silhouettes, their branches curled inward like bones refusing to reach.

Vash rumbles beneath me, his muscles taut.

“I don’t like this,” Harek calls from behind me, the sound barely carrying over the wind.

“Neither does he,” I shout back.

Ahead, Sapphire dives lower, her orange scales catching the little light that breaks through the haze. Einar rides steady, unmoved. He’s flown this route many times.

We descend into a shallow valley where blackened ruins stretch across scorched earth. An archway leans sideways, its crest worn smooth by time and the dark magic that still lingers here.

Harek indicates for Vash to land, but he resists.

I stroke his neck gently. “Just a minute, then we’re out.”

He snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils, but obeys. We touch down inside the shell of what must’ve been a grand hall once—pillars toppled, vines crawling through broken windows,the floor cracked and overgrown. Only a few mosaic tiles remain, glinting beneath the grime.

Sapphire lands hard nearby, shaking off a branch that clings to her wing. Einar slides from her back, already moving to scan the perimeter. “This was a council chamber. Fae high courts met here once a season.”

Harek eyes the surroundings. “And now?”

Einar doesn’t look at him. “Now it watches its own decay.”

A shudder runs down my spine.

Vash stalks forward a few paces, his tail twitching, and head low. He stops suddenly, a low growl in his throat so deep it vibrates through the stone beneath our feet.

“Vash?” I move toward him.

He lowers his head to one of the standing pillars, a curved slab half-swallowed by roots and moss.

A carving, worn but unmistakable. The hunter’s crest—halved and mirrored, just like the rune Lys left behind. The etchings pulse faintly in my vision, shimmering like heat over stone.

My fingers brush the hilt at my side, and the sword responds, warming beneath my touch.

Einar strides over, brows drawn. He brushes away the moss, revealing more of the pattern. Symbols branch outward, connecting to old, fae script so weathered it crumbles at the edges.

“This wasn’t here the last time. And the crest wasn’t mirrored then. It was whole.”

Harek approaches, stands close to me. He stares at the stone. “What does it mean?”

I shake my head slowly. “And why is it changing?”

“Or waking,” Einar mutters under his breath.

The air stills. Even the wind seems to pause, holding its breath around us.

Harek clears his throat. “It’s getting late. We aren’t heading into the city now, are we?”

My father shakes his head. “No, we’ll eat, get a good night’s sleep, then storm in first thing tomorrow.”