Page 88 of Prisoner of Steel and Shadow

Four more blades followed, faster than anyone could track, landing with absolute precision as they sank through the fabric of her veil and clothing, pinning her to the dirt.

It wouldn’t hold her for long, but it didn’t need to. Shadow just needed the woman to stay in one place long enough that she could end it. Dichen struggled in earnest, working to pull herself free. She’d only managed to release two of the daggers before Shadow was upon her.

Holding one of Shadow’s knives in her hand, Dichen lashed out, but Shadow was faster. She caught the woman’s wrist and halted the movement, using the weight of her body to keep Dichen pinned to the ground.

Both women were breathing hard, trickles of blood running the length of Dichen’s youthful face and Shadow’s arm.

“Any last words?” Shadow asked, not as a taunt, but as one master of the craft honoring another.

Dichen’s pulse fluttered in her throat, but her dark eyes were calm. “There is glory in death for those of us who serve Him. At long last, I return home.”

“May the stars welcome you.”

“Not the stars. Tul Mort Jateh.”

Shadow’s breath hitched, and she shuddered as invisible fingers reached out and trailed the length of her spine. Fear, potent and all-consuming, held her in its grasp. It was pure instinct that made her react.

Still holding Dichen’s wrist hostage, Shadow shoved it down, stabbing the assassin through the throat with the same weapon she had intended to use to slit Shadow’s. For some unknown reason, a smile lifted Dichen’s lips even as blood bubbled up between them. Then with a sigh that sounded like pure contentment, her eyes fluttered closed, and she fell still.

Shadow’s heart raced and her limbs trembled. Swallowing, she pushed herself off the other woman and scrambled away. There was no basis for the intensity of her reaction. But there was no ignoring it either.

What the hell had Dichen said?

And why did the unknown words fill her with such terror?

CHAPTER26

RONAN

Primed from his earlier fight, it didn’t take more than stepping onto the killing field to set the hunger for violence surging back to life. One would assume his inner monster would be sated, but the Butcher had been born in darkness and forged with blood. His craving knew no end.

Having never gone up against a blood mage, Ronan had no frame of reference to pull from, but he wasn’t worried. Much about battle was universal. No matter what Cedric threw his way, he’d be ready.

At least, that’s what he thought before Dmitri’s shout rang out and the mage raised his weapon and turned it on himself.

Ronan was already moving, his sword aloft and aimed to strike, but his steps faltered as the metal heads of the flail arced up over Cedric’s head and down toward his back. The crowd’s shocked cries gave voice to Ronan’s own surprise as the mage staggered forward, drops of crimson raining down onto the dirt below.

What in the Mother’s name...

And then the unexpected act of self-harm made a twisted sort of sense, for what was the source of a blood mage’s power?

Blood.

A lot of it.

The more of the empowering liquid he had at his disposal, the stronger the magic he could wield. The flail provided him with the means of drawing a significant amount of it in a short time, granting him access to a whole library of spells he would not otherwise be able to perform.

Understanding this in theory was a world away from experiencing it firsthand. Ronan was no stranger to formidable magics; he served the most powerful woman in his home realm and was capable of awe-inspiring acts on his own. But even still, he was utterly defenseless against the full brunt of the man’s gift.

Between one faltering step and the next, everything Ronan knew to be real came under attack. Reality was suddenly no longer a known entity, but an ever-shifting landscape at the mercy of the man currently trying his best to kill him.

It wasn’t as drastic as night replacing day or the arena transforming into an ancient forest. He could still feel the warm kiss of the sun on his face and smell the metallic tang of Aldair’s freshly spilled blood. But now, instead of one mage, Ronan was surrounded by twenty nearly identical replicas. With every step he took in any direction, the circle spun, making it impossible to know which was thetrueCedric.

Ronan came to a standstill with a low growl, eyeing the ring of impostors for any clue he could use to his advantage. The mages acted independently of one another. Some grinned at him; others adjusted their grips on a wide variety of weapons. There was even one beckoning him forward while the man beside him scratched his arse.

One broke free of the group, then a second and a third. Ronan knew trying to fight the decoys would be an effort in madness. Not only were they not real, but all he would succeed in doing was tiring himself out and making himself an easier target for the mage.

What he needed was a way to identify the real Cedric. Something he could do to test all of them at once. Ronan grinned as the answer came to him.

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