“What have you done, Ramona?”
I shrug.
“What?”
Quorroc shakes his head in disbelief — the old man looks between the Phoenix and I like children committing some stupid act, lacking the common sense to make any other choice.
“You cannot join the Seed with a relic of its Creation! You could short-circuit Atlas, and send us plunging to the realms below!”
“Oh really, Maester?” I ask. “And what do you propose when Mykul wins, and that demented woman takes the Seed anyway? Don’t you think our survival is worth a little risk?”
“That is not the point, Nephalim. You cannot possibly think to hand absolute control of the Light to this unstable woman —”
I am done being questioned.
“You know what, Quorroc? That unstable woman is our only hope of restoring Atlas. So yeah, I’m putting all my eggs in her unhinged basket, and you know what? If it fails, and goes to shit, and we all die — at least we died fighting. Not rolling over for the Devil’s tramp, gagging on our own self-righteousness!
“That said,” I continue, lowering my volume, “I understand the risks as you have explained them, Maester. What happens next is on me.”
Quorroc is unsatisfied by my cavalier response, but does not argue further, withdrawing back to his corner in disgust. I am joined by Tim and Luca as he storms past them.
“Is he going to be a problem?”
“He’ll cool off,” Luca assures me. “You made the right choice, Ramona. If the woman wins, there won’t be a difference.”
“But if we win,” Tim interjects, “it will be another thing to deal with. Atlas falling out of the sky is just as catastrophic as Ziz destroying it.”
Then there’s the matter of what it may do to Harper, who is placed at risk by simply carrying it inside Mother’s Star. Remembering her deathwish, I say nothing of the woman crouched against the wall behind us.
“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it. Right now, we have to win this fight. Also, we have to consider that the High Priestess may make her move soon.”
“There are a lot of balls in the air,” Tim agrees. “For the sake of versatility, we should sit at opposite ends of the Arena as Harper battles Mykul. If something offkey happens, one of us will be able to quickly close the gap.”
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll have the Magi wait at a safe distance, and muster there if Hannah doesn’t decide to play fair. I’m thinking the Cathedral ruins — they can port us out a safe distance from there.”
“Agreed,” Luca replies.
The plan is set. Our champion will wield the Light’s full power against all the darkness infesting Atlas, and one will emerge the clear winner this time.
Reckoning has come.
***
The trial of Creation’s fate is upon us.
From my seat on the Arena’s southern end— the section we lured a dragon into destroying is closed down, but only comprises a small portion of the bottom stands— I lock eyes with Tim in the north, and nod to Luca on the eastern part of the ring.
The crowd of Brotherhood entertains outlanders from Earth, who whoop and yell and throw objects from the stands into the Arena below. Both factions lean over the railings, fragmenting visual signals between our party. The items tossed into the ring range from household items like kettles and pots to more nefarious possessions like daggers and spent ammunition. All were hauled here from the living world and land scattered beneath their jeers and insults.
Not far from my enclave of degenerates in the land of wild things, Hannah is perched on a canopied balcony, on a throne like her chair in the Seat. Her gold dress shimmers in the daylight. Seraphina stands over her left shoulder as the woman stands to address the crowd with Barrett to her right.
“Newcomers of Atlas!” Hannah’s booming voice reaches every corner of the Arena, packed to capacity with malevolent souls. “Today, you are a part of history! It is here, in the court of mythical warriors like Dinah the Great, the future of the supreme realm will be decided, along with all living things it governs!”
The crowd cheers and stomps their feet like apes, continuing to throw their worldly possessions into the pit. Clattering metal and landing refuse overrule the silence — when it has ceased, Hannah resumes.
“The Dark Lord will not be known as some interloper who whittled Atlas out from under those who ruled it! He will be known as the gladiator who won this city with valor, in the traditions of old! He will have won it back from gods that failed to appreciate their role of serving, not lording over their mortal subjects!”
This is met with more wild cheers from her army of repressed sycophants — whom the Avatar would have not hesitated to send to the Shroud once upon a time, citing a threat to the peaceful aura of Atlas.
They are here in force now.
“This started being about Death’s malfeasance! Be assured, he will dig his own grave in time! This is an attack on our freedom, to live without celestials dictating when our lives must end! To that, I say — long live our souls!”
Hannah lifts her right arm into the air — it’s not the naked limb’s trajectory that unnerves me, but Seraphina’s eyes following the closed fist as it lifts over the pit, and the woman’s trademark grin returns.
“Let the fight begin!”
Cranking gates on either end of the Arena force an exhale from my chest, and I catch the blond woman smiling at me, salivating over the moment she apprehends the Seed of Light.
May the Light be with us.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
In the beginning, there was nothing — it comprised all except the vomited matter from antimatter, something from the big nothing; scraps of potential in a debris belt of pointlessness. Much like the little girl who survived Daniel Knox and Tiffany Stewart’s depraved deaths, it rose up from nothing.
Osmosis, like the puddle before Avalon becoming a living, breathing exoskeleton with a light in its ass and intuition I sorely lack. The Magus’ insectoid friend and I may have more in common than I’d like to admit in that regard. We are shapes from the formlessness that birthed us, like the universe that paved the way in unnatural, spontaneous paths.
In the grand scheme, this battle is ours to lose — pushing back at the mammals of Darkness who came down a birth canal they were welcomed at the other end.
Even Ziz — the boy god who befriended dragons, turning them against their malevolent masters, resulting in near-universal banishment— was born with a place in the natural order. Unlike me, the Dark Lord was fostered into his final form, rather than forced into it. He saw the Council’s actions, and made a choice to go against them.
The crowd assumes their seats as the blond woman does; stops shifting as the bloodbath they were promised begins. Many of them — all men, following the sole female authority who gave them new life— rub their hands in anticipation, whispering garbled excitement to each other. But the boisterous behavior that preceded their sudden, consuming respect is absent, biting its tongue under the risk of punishment, or simply out of reverence.
In the ring, cool air does nothing to mitigate the stream of sweat down Harper’s cheeks. Her outfit— a simple white tank-top and black slacks— is dirtied with fear and apprehension, but her face wears none of it. The locket glows emerald rather than its traditional white, casting green aspersions over the Phoenix’s bare collarbone. The effect is still dull, but the woman overseeing this match would not recognize the Seed’s effect if it were naked in front of her.
Unlike our side, she has never seen it.
The moment between Mykul completing his series of twirls and flips with the Habinar’s double-headed ax and his charging Harper across the Arena is filled with terror and loathing that can only go double for the thin woman facing him. Mykul is three times her size, and about the same disparity in body weight. Watching him effortlessly wield the gigantic heirloom like nothing injects dread into my darkest reaches as the angel charges her with outstretched wings.
Despite his
visible ailment, Mykul’s wide arc with the ax is completed with maximum gusto, backing Harper into one of the rear alcoves. She scrambles out of its reach on hands and knees, fingers clawing at a thin layer of grains. Mykul pulls the ax up to shoulder level and advances, chasing my crawling Champion down the Arena’s middle, lifting the ceremonial weapon above his head with the most effortless golf arm I’ve ever seen.
The weapon reverberates on the spot the Phoenix rolls away from. Her hand reaches along the threadbare coat of sand, finding a clump as the rogue angel lifts the ax again.
Pitching her fist of grains at Mykul’s face sends the much larger man into a fit of screams and grunts, using the base of his palm to wipe at his affected eyes. Harper wastes no time scrambling to where her comparatively paper sword was cast off in their initial struggle.
Seeing their hero easily beaten back by Death’s champion, the etiquette of Hannah’s followers is forgotten in a volley of yelling, pounding feet and swearing.
She’s got this.
The Mother’s Star does not react or change for her momentary victory — the emerald glow does not brighten, nor weaken. Mykul rebounds, sending my gaze to the blond woman. Hannah’s expression morphs between hope and despair. I can’t linger on her, and return to the fight.
Mykul and the Phoenix now occupy the dead center of the ring. The angel stumbles as Harper climbs to her feet. In his heavy suit of armor, Mykul is his own worst liability — the giant swings the ax, and its black coat moves too fast to make out the gold characters engraved in its handle. Its blade passes above Harper’s lowering head. Returned to a crab walk, she scurries to the Arena’s western side.
Mykul recovers momentum. The angel’s eyes are empty, wings are dirtied from the kicked-up earth. He exhibits no fear of the much smaller woman he is tasked with murdering, but does not enjoy the length of time it is taking to best her.
Harper’s blond locks beat back and forth with her flailing head as Mykul pitches the ax aside. Rather than put stock in a weapon that doesn’t belong to him, the angel makes faster gains over the Phoenix’s crawling torso. Harper winces as Mykul bends over her, grabbing the fabric of her shirt from behind. Using uncanny, unlimited strength, he lifts her into the air, pitching her across the Arena.
Thrown into one of the closer walls, pulling down debris from her point of impact, Harper’s face rotates over a limp arm. I look up to my right, magnetically pulled to the blue irises burning into my cheek, grinning at me. I disregard the woman, attention returned to my Champion.
Harper shifts on her aching bones, face hidden by the storm of shoulder-length hair. As the Phoenix slowly lifts herself off the ground— first using her arms, then legs, to push herself to a stand— my head lifts, shooting to Hannah. The woman’s former confidence is replaced with annoyance, and she nods at her Champion.
Come on, girl— you got this.
The angel lunges, giving little thought to his own trajectory. Harper sidesteps his stomping sandals. Mykul smacks the wall, bouncing off it, landing on his back. This gives Harper the opportunity to put some distance between them.
The angel is already climbing to his feet; his wings contract on his back as if he landed on them like it was a funny bone. Cracking his neck, the woman’s champion advances with an unintelligent roar, walking briskly to the northern end Harper is backed into. Mykul sweeps the stones with his hand along the way, wrapping around the Habinar’s ax handle, thrusting it into the air with one hand and catching it with another. He brings it down as Harper narrowly dodges the swing, catching in the Arena’s creviced wall. Mykul tugs and pulls with all his dormant, brute strength. He eventually gets it out, but the moment comes too late.
From her new position on the western wall, Harper breaks into a cantor, upgrading to a sprint, closing the gap with her adversary. The Phoenix’s soles lift off the ground. She doesn’t quite bring her leg up high enough, and the angel grabs her ankle as it attempts a kick. He releases at a half-circle; Harper shoots across half the ring, landing hard on her side.
The woman smiles at me, then returns her focus to the match. Hannah stands from her throne of rock and godless glory, casting shrill inflections down at Mykul.
“What are you waiting for?”
Harper winces at the mutant warrior’s enclosed boot. But this time, her gasps are stronger than resolve.
“Kill the bitch!” Hannah screams.
Mykul’s hesitation is Harper’s gain— so focused on his mistress, the angel does not notice Harper’s head lift, nor the rogue, static hairs down the side of her head. A powerful glow escapes the darkness between her arms, heart buried in the thoughtlessly dispersed sand.
It is not the flame that broke open the Spire’s gates, red with a white center, a blazing hot ball of pure physics. This is untempered Light — the Seed bounces in the magnetically hovering locket, rising until it is inches from her face. The blanket escaping the star emanates yellow film over a bleached core swirling down the Phoenix’s arms. It envelops Harper’s body, turning her skin the same volatile glow.
A human sun.
The wave of Light that hits the angel passes through him so quickly, it is nearly possible to watch the giant man dissolve into nothing. A shrill cry escapes the box to my right — only seconds ago, Hannah was so sure she had won.
The Seed fades inside Mother’s Star; Harper collapses on her side, trying to cough the inferno out of her lungs as smoke rises off her flesh. The locket fades to the emerald glow it displayed before turning her into a mini-supernova.
In the north stands, the man who calls himself Death sinks in relief among the angered crowd, who have returned to rowdiness on all sides, echoing Hannah’s despair. On my side of the stands, outlanders and Brotherhood alike hurl insults and objects, all which fall just short of the recovering Harper.
As Hannah’s sole syllable of agony escapes her — unbeknownst to my spinning head and darting vision during the fight — my worst fear comes true. Seraphina lifts a blade she must have concealed inside her wrist, and swings at the blond woman’s neck. I only catch a glimpse of the assassination attempt coming off a check on the Phoenix.
I don’t know what made her choose to do it at Hannah’s lowest moment — she does have one hell of a petty streak going, after all — but the attempt is quickly cut short. Barrett unveils his own blade, driving it through Seraphina’s throat with a primal cry. Hannah’s head looks back at the confrontation as the knife falls from the Priestess’ hand. I can’t see Barrett’s face, only the hand pushing his own weapon in.
Seraphina drops to her knees — he’s talking to her and I can’t hear what they’re saying over the boisterous crowd’s cursing and chanting, but I know exactly what he’s doing.
The Maester wants her to know she failed. He withdraws the blade from her windpipe, and Seraphina crumples to the floor behind Hannah’s throne. Barrett turns his head back to the events below. Though his white beard is soaked with the Priestess’ blood, his expression is quite pleasant — like it never happened at all.
Hannah’s is more dazed; first in confusion, then terror, shortly culminating in rage. When she looks down on the surviving Phoenix, the woman knows she has been cheated. She moves her mouth, doling instructions to Barrett. I don’t hear her command, but don’t need to.
I know exactly what happens next.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Behemoth that Hannah calls down into the Arena is larger than the one Luca and I faced in the Cathedral. I know this one — it is the alpha male of the dragons that came from Ezzark. It has never intervened until now, content to dispatch its weaker cousins at Hannah’s command, often perching itself vertically along the vertical Spire, where it has begun to leave claw marks from constant lookouts there. Its scales are dominantly chestnut, compared to the faint blues and greens of its subordinates.
I am surprised the woman only calls down one — maybe she sends them all, and this one, their leader, finally intervened. Its home is Atlas now, its tenu
re threatened as the Council before it. Harper lays weakened at its hulking fours, submissive prey for the advancing dragon, purring at the prospect of an easy meal.
A man in the east stands leaps over the railing, landing in a roll by the Phoenix. Luca’s wings spread over Harper in a protective blanket, sword already drawn toward the Behemoth. The dragon is taken aback by the intruder, and snarls at the angel protecting its lunch.
“Wait!” Hannah calls, drawing the Behemoth’s squinted eyes to her. “This is not in the rules! This man is trespassing!”
“Rules that ended,” Luca shouts back, “the moment you brought this savage beast down here!”
“And yet, you had the Seed this whole time! What happened to honor?” The beast bows its head, still growling through the jagged rows of teeth, awaiting her order to resume. “Instead, you cast your dignity aside, and did not win Atlas fairly. Therefore, you have lost.”
Caught between their public shouting match, the crowd falls quiet, awaiting their coveted bloodbath.
“So you have decreed! But it will not be shown that Luca, son of Tomas, first of a line of new Nephalim — true Nephalim! — stood by, and allowed you to break your word. Asking this woman to fight a Behemoth in her condition amounts to nothing less than a public execution! And I will abide no tyrant, she-devil. Light knows, I have done so for too long already.”
The one goal in my remaining afterlife — to wipe the smirk off that succubus’ face — is accomplished. But now my allies (my friends) are in danger, and that is a new problem that Tim’s wife is too happy to take care of.
“If that is your wish, then I hope you have made your peace,” she says, and looks at the dragon. “Kill them.”
The woman turns her back, and the creature’s head drops to an attack position. Luca’s shoulders sink as the Behemoth draws a breath, knowing he can’t withstand the intense heat from its lungs.
From my place in the stands, paralysis breaks. Launching from my seat, I begin pushing past the bodies separating me from the box. Looking to the Arena’s northern end, I don’t see Tim— that could easily be attributed to hurried glances and overwhelming desire to corner his wife.
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