Page 113 of Poison Sun

I need to do something different. I need to weaken him for long enough to give myself a firm advantage. I need to somehow amplify my magic.

Suddenly, as he comes at me again with his dagger, it hits me.

Metal conducts heat.

If I can get the timing right…

I barely have time to think before his blade connects with mine again. I just gather every bit of my remaining magic and act.

Pouring every ounce of it into my dagger, I transform the weapon into a conduit as fierce and scorching as the heart of the sun itself. My magic courses through the metal, a crackling, blinding light traveling from my dagger into his like a bolt of lightning.

Lucas’s eyes widen as the electric current hits him. It travels over every inch of his skin, trapping him in its deadly hold and searing his flesh.

He opens his mouth to scream, but his body convulses, cutting him off before he has a chance.

And then, as quickly as it began, it’s over. I’ve used the last of my reserves. There’s no more magic to hold onto.

The light dims, and Lucas collapses, scorched and smoking. The remnants of my attack crackle over his skin like residual lightning. I think he burned the wooden planks of the stage beneath him, too.

But he doesn’t turn to ash. Which means he’s down, but not dead.

I raise my weapon, ready to spear it through his heart and end it once and for all.

Right before I can, a scream echoes through the air.

The guard.

The air around him whips into a frenzy, forming a gust aimed directly at me.

With no magic left to counter it and my body weak from blood loss, I’m thrown backward in a soaring arc, landing hard near the back of the stage. I gasp as the wind is knocked out of me, and for a moment, I can’t breathe, can’t think. All I can do is drown in the sharp, jarring pain that radiates through every part of me.

No. I have to shake myself out of it.

I can’t let him win.

Struggling to my feet, I clutch my dagger that’s already out in one hand and reach with my other for the one stored in my boot.

The guard’s upon me in seconds, moving almost too fast to track.

On instinct—and thanks to my training—I dodge, duck, and weave through the air currents he sends my way. My daggers are extensions of my arms, blocking blows and making calculated strikes that nick his skin and force him to keep his distance. Because he might be the size of a football player, but I’m smaller. Faster.

I can hold him off. I can beat him. I don’t have any other options here.

But with each passing second, my muscles scream in protest, and my breaths come in ragged gasps. The ground beneath me sways and tilts with my growing dizziness.

I’m weakening. If I keep this up, I’m not going to win.

Time for a change in strategy.

And so, I stand up, take a deep breath, and let his next blast of air hit me. Hard.

Again, I’m sent flying back.

However, unlike last time, I roll into the fall and recover in a second.

Before the guard can realize what’s happening, I throw one of my daggers at him, aiming it straight for his heart.

The world slows down as the blade spins through the air.

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