Page 36 of The Coven of Ruin
There were six pairs of fighters, and their bouts would start at the same time. The winners from those matches would duel the victors from the second iteration of six fighters, and the numbers would dwindle from there. The rounds were meant to be quick.
Besides Zyana, Trista recognized a few other witches. Najim, from the Coven of Frost and Shadow, was one of them. The frost mage was fighting against one of the witchmen who had asked for Demurielle’s favor.
“How is that fair?” Demurielle hissed. Zyana’s opponent was a lanky-limbed mage who was at least two heads taller than her. But Trista knew that the mountain witch would have it no other way.
It became clear very quickly that she didn’t need fairness. Zyana handling her blade was of the same nature as a musician with their instrument or a healer holding a heart in their hand—it brought her to life. She moved fluidly, the size of her opponent no matter. It didn’t change the connection she had with her sword.
“She’s incredible,” Demurielle whispered from beside her.
“I suppose the Triune knows who their defender is. I’m the healer, and you’re the advisor. We have our own little…” Trista was about to say ‘coven,’ but the word stuck in her throat. To call someone coven was to say they were more than family, and though she yearned for that and wanted it with her entire being, she felt like the others would disagree. They already had covens.
“We are quite the team. Thank me later,” her friend said, waving her hand dismissively as if she had orchestrated it all.
When Zyana disarmed her opponent a moment later, she and Demurielle stood up to cheer, earning them looks from some of the other witches surrounding them. Zyana had a quiet sort of grace about it all as if she hadn’t just sent his blade flying through the air. The officiant thrusted his arm out in her direction. Victor. Walking to the sidelines, she waited for the other bouts to finish.
“She could win the whole thing,” Demurielle declared as she sat back down.
“I don’t doubt it. Then we can start callingherthe greatest swordsman in Witch Country.”
“Speaking of, I didn’t see Illeanhere today. Must’ve been embarrassed by that entire display yesterday. As he should be.”
The topic of Illean had her studying Ares again just as the second iteration of fighters took to the field. He was speaking to the Iron Prince, both sitting back in their seats to avoid anyone else from hearing them. It was only when he leaned forward, cutting off the prince’s words, that her eyes went back to the field.
Cloaked figures appeared in a sudden wave of fog. They were draped in dark gray robes, their masks making them appear faceless. At first, it was just three, then a dozen, and then there were so many she couldn’t keep track of them.
“What is going on—“ Screaming and yelling cut off the rest of Demurielle’s sentence.
Trista stood up, fear urging her to move, to run. Some fighters noticed the growing number of figures on the field and stopped dueling each other. The gray cloaks swarmed them, and they disappeared beneath a faceless sea. The nearest guards rushed out from their posts. The lethal Maja of The Coven of Frost, wielding her staff expertly, was already pulling a cloaked mage off her brother. With a flash of silver and black, her feline familiar intercepted another.
Trista found Ares instinctively again. The god was on his feet and reaching over his shoulder for the hilt of his sword.
And then silence as if the world had been muted. Demurielle screamed soundlessly beside her, clawing at her arm. Her lips formed the same name over and over again. Zyana.
A discordant voice boomed out from the field. “She wakes, witchkin! Your Witch King would have you be oblivious, but if you do not choose to be on the side that ushers in her reign, you will die.”
All the noise charged back on, a symphony of screams and commands. More guards took to the fields, but more cloaked members appeared in the stands as they did.
Fear for the sun witch’s safety was what finally propelled her frozen body into action. “We have to move,” Trista ordered, but urgency and terror made her voice shaky. Grabbing for Demurielle’s hand, she pulled her down the stands, avoiding the crowded stairs, where panicking witches tripped over each other.
Guards had already surrounded the royalty, and Ares was nowhere to be seen.
A shadow blotted out the sun, and she skidded to a halt as Demurielle clambered beside her.
A dragon. Its black-scaled body and spread wings engulfed the field in its shadow. Thick veins webbed throughout its wings, giving them a reddish tint. It descended at an incredibly fast rate—slitted, earth-toned eyes trained on the rising ground. When a shock of white hair and black armor sprinted off its back, leaping into the fray beneath, the dragon rose back up, taking a few shrieking masked individuals in its claws. She and Demurielle both watched it spiral upward in quiet awe before moving toward the railing again.
“We have to get out of here. We’ll climb over, and we can’t stop moving until—“
Trista was pulled backward and sent careening into the benches behind her by a lumbering faceless figure. The landing knocked the breath out of her, and she gasped for air.
Whoever it was grabbed Demurielle by her wrist and lifted her up until she dangled in the air. All the depths of fear she had felt in The Arena held nothing to that moment. It was one thing to be face to face with death, and another to watch someone she cared for suffer in its clutches.
A dark chuckle shook the masked mage’s chest. Demurielle kicked and flailed, clawing at his hand around her wrist—
Loud cracks exploded in the air. The figure’s head jerked up, looking out into the field before he dropped her and disappeared in his own resounding snap.
They were gone just as quickly as they appeared, leaving only chaos in their wake.
Chapter XVI
