Uncrowned (Cradle Book 7)

by Will Wight

  Unfortunately for the black dragon team, Naian could not both hold back and fight against Akura Mercy. With Suu in hand and the purple lens over her left eye, Mercy unleashed arrow after arrow at her opponent.

  He never managed to close, even with the Burning Cloak; she dodged his every move, tangled him up with Strings of Shadow, and continued shooting. Her arrows seemed to have minds of their own, swerving to hit at the last second, leaving veins of black madra that he had to burn from his spirit.

  Finally, he struck her head-on with a bar of dragon's breath...but Mercy strode through it in full amethyst armor, unharmed, walking until his Striker technique ran out. When it did, she already had an arrow nocked and her bow drawn.

  She didn't fire it. She waited, the missile seething with shadow madra.

  Lindon wasn't the only one who could sense the war inside the Blackflame. He trembled, his head twitching and his tail lashing behind him. His Burning Cloak flickered on and off.

  After gathering himself for a long moment, he growled, “I surrender.”

  Disappointed jeers rose from the crowd as the Ninecloud Soul announced the result. Some of the unruly spectators within the Eight-Man Empire’s tower threw food or garbage into the arena, but constructs instantly incinerated it all.

  Mercy's armor dissolved, and her bow shifted back into a staff. She wiped sweat from her brow with black-clad fingers and bowed to her opponent.

  More elegantly than Lindon would have guessed, Naian returned the bow, pressing fists together in a salute. Then he turned to Lindon's booth and bowed a second time.

  Naian did not make eye contact with Lindon, clearly still wrestling with himself. Nonetheless, Lindon nodded in return.

  Most of what Lindon did in his pursuit of the sacred arts, he did for his own sake. He hadn't done much that he could be truly proud of.

  And he still hadn't, he reminded himself. Not yet. Not until Naian was taken from the gold dragons and restored to control of his own body and spirit.

  Northstrider appeared in the center of the arena, and his commanding voice announced the Akura team as the victor. The crowd's cheers drowned out all other sound.

  Mercy bowed to Northstrider then hurried back through the ash, beaming at Lindon. Behind her, Naian said something to the Monarch. Northstrider's golden eyes surveyed him, and he responded with one word.

  Lindon wished he had been close enough to overhear.

  Naian glanced back to the Akura booth one more time and then walked away, picking up his own restraints on the way back to his waiting room.

  The back wall of the booth slid up, leading back to the Akura waiting room, and Mercy dashed through the front of the booth only a moment later. “It worked!” she cried. “I knew it was going to work and it did!”

  Little Blue jumped up and down on Lindon's hand, chattering away, and Mercy exclaimed, “You were so brave! Were you scared?”

  They walked back into the waiting room as the Sylvan began to tell the story with half-understood impressions and hand gestures. Dross interjected here and there, asking a question or clarifying a fact.

  As the walls continued to slowly fall, Lindon cast one last look behind him.

  Across the ashen arena, Naian Blackflame walked into his waiting room, where Sophara was waiting for him.

  The gold dragon did not seem furious, as Lindon had expected. Her arms, with their layers of jeweled bracelets and smattering of gold scales, were folded. She tapped her foot impatiently, staring across the arena herself.

  Her eyes locked on Lindon's.

  Naian bared his teeth, waving his chains as he shouted something at her.

  [I don't have a good feeling about this,] Dross said, and Lindon felt the same way. He looked to Northstrider, who still stood impassively as images from the fight were projected over his head.

  As the stone wall lowered past Sophara's face, her golden claws flashed once.

  Blood splattered out onto the arena, and Naian's body fell.

  Lindon shouted and ran forward, but an invisible force kept him from pushing past the descending door. He was no longer permitted in the arena.

  The Ninecloud Soul was already talking about the next fight, the Five Sisters of the Iceflower Continent against the Ironheart Legion of Rosegold. Lindon could see the last Blackflame Prince's body sprawled on the ground, his throat torn out, staring across with blank eyes.

  The door closed over Sophara's bloody claws.

  “Will he come back to life?” Lindon asked, voice trembling. He already knew the answer, and Dross confirmed it.

  [There’s never been a delay before,] the spirit said softly. [If he was going to come back, his body would have disappeared.]

  Then the wall crashed down, cutting off the sound from the arena. He heard only Mercy and Little Blue excitedly talking to one another, but Mercy trailed off.

  “Lindon? What happened?”

  He had driven his fist into the stone, leaving a crater. His right hand left no blood behind, though the white madra cracked slightly.

  “...just to spite us.” He bit off the words, his voice low. Tears stung his eyes, though he couldn't understand why. He hadn't known Naian Blackflame at all.

  “What?” Mercy hurried around so she could look into his face. “Did the dragons say something?”

  The air flickered, and a massive bulk of a man stepped out, ragged hair falling behind him. His unshaven face showed a hint of anger.

  “They always do,” Northstrider said. He had appeared in the center of the waiting room as easily as walking out of a door.

  The two Underlords both bowed, though Lindon had to force his body to move like a puppet.

  “Dragons are beings of destruction,” the Monarch went on. “They would rather see a field reduced to ash than see someone else have a bite to eat.”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Lindon said. He didn't have a way yet, but he and Dross would figure it out. Blackflame burned through his spirit, and he took deep breaths, cycling the fury throughout his body.

  Northstrider's golden eyes flicked between them before settling on Lindon. “Your opponent asked for his last words to be delivered to you.”

  Lindon felt a pang in his heart. Last words. So Naian had expected what happened to him.

  “He said, ‘The dragon advances.’”

  Chapter 16

  In the brightly tiled and decorated hallways leading to their waiting room, Yerin and Eithan ran into the House Arelius team.

  If that was a coincidence, Yerin would eat her sword.

  Veris Arelius, the remaining Underlady, was the House Arelius woman they had met during the second round. She was tall and long-limbed, with blue eyes that shone like a sharpened blade and yellow hair tied into a braid.

  Yerin had never seen Veris’ partner in the flesh before, but she'd looked up dream tablets on House Arelius since the last round. Altavian Arelius was in his early thirties, and his blond hair was almost white. He stood as tall as Lindon but not as broad, with legs built for running and arms for reach.

  The sword on his back was twice the length of Yerin’s, and his Goldsigns were his razor-sharp nails. He was a sword artist who specialized in Enforcer techniques; in her dream tablet, she'd seen him cut through three individual opponents in a row during the second round.

  Altavian's blue eyes were as peaceful as a lake on a windless day, and he looked as calm as though he walked around in a meditative trance. He bowed when he saw her, but otherwise said nothing.

  Eithan swept up to them both, beaming. “It's a shame that we must meet each other in competition, but at least we will have a chance to learn from the main House.”

  “If you've made it this far, you don't need any pointers from us,” Veris said. Now that she was speaking words Yerin could understand, her accent was clearly similar to Eithan's. The Arelius woman regarded them both with satisfaction. “Five people with the name Arelius passing the second round. I hope that burns him to the bone.”

  “I dou
bt Reigan Shen is burned at all by our tenacity,” Eithan said, and Veris paled. Altavian's eyes widened in shock, and both members of the House Arelius team took a healthy step away.

  Eithan flicked a lock of hair behind him. “We're not going to say anything he doesn't already know. I doubt he thinks we have a positive opinion of him after he killed our Monarch and shattered our home.”

  He may as well have been speaking about ancient history, but Yerin's attention was hooked. She'd gathered that the Arelius homeland had been destroyed, and that Eithan had been there, but now it sounded like a battle between Monarchs.

  “I wouldn't hate hearing that story,” Yerin said pointedly to Eithan.

  “Not here,” Veris said through her teeth.

  Eithan lifted his eyebrows. “You think speaking more quietly is going to prevent a Monarch from hearing us?”

  “I think a little caution is better than none.” She stared him down for a moment before Eithan cleared his throat and dipped his head to her.

  “You are quite right. I apologize, I forgot who I was dealing with.”

  Veris' eyes flicked to the ceiling, but she seemed to relax somewhat. “The point remains that this is a good omen. No matter which of us wins, the Arelius name will echo across the world.”

  “Mmmm,” Eithan said.

  That might have been agreement.

  The other two bowed and began to leave, but Eithan stopped them with a gesture. He gathered his thoughts before he spoke, which snagged Yerin's curiosity. Since when did he think before speaking?

  “The Blackflame portal to the homeland opens in about two years. I would very much like to meet you there when it does. I believe we may be able to help each other.”

  Veris looked surprised, and exchanged a quick volley of words with Altavian in her language. Finally, she said, “Much of that territory has been lost, but we will find a way.”

  “Let it be so!” Eithan said triumphantly, and then he strode toward their waiting room. “Come, Yerin! Let's get ready to beat our new friends to death!”

  ~~~

  The scripted stone door of their waiting room slowly slid open, revealing an arena that had totally changed once again.

  Rather than covered in ash like Lindon's, their battlefield was covered in rectangular pillars. Some of them were only waist-high, while others towered overhead. Narrow alleys wound their way through the dense maze of structures.

  Lindon's Blackflame arena had been designed to give them a source of aura, but this seemed to be built to limit their angles and force them into a fight on different levels. Yerin could imagine having to push to a crossroads to get enough space to swing her sword, and leaping up to the top of a pillar to land a Striker technique on someone below.

  She wondered why the arena had been customized in this way for this particular match—it seemed to be designed to restrict the two sword artists more than anything—but the introduction made the picture clear.

  “Arelius versus Arelius!” the Ninecloud Soul announced, to the approving roars of an energetic crowd.

  The week since the last match had whipped them into a frenzy, because Yerin couldn't hear herself think.

  “House Arelius used to rule over most of the Rosegold continent, before the tragic death of the Monarch Tiberian Arelius only eight years ago. But his descendants are still a force to be reckoned with, leaving branches on every continent! Today, it's a family reunion, as their cousins from the Blackflame Empire have come to test their worth against the heart of House Arelius!”

  Arelius versus Arelius...this arena had been designed with their bloodline abilities in mind. The close square pillars would block sight and make hearing unreliable, so spiritual perception and Arelius bloodline senses would be the best way to navigate the fight.

  And Eithan had forced her to complete his spiritual perception course. Had he known, even then, that they would be in this situation?

  Yerin gave him a wary look from the side. If he had anticipated this far ahead, then she should be a little afraid of him.

  He kept looking to the center of the arena, but leaned to the side to speak to her. “Good thing we trained your perception, isn't it? This could have been awkward.”

  Yerin relaxed. Sometimes she forgot Eithan was only human.

  The columns blocked their sight of the other team, but Northstrider appeared in the middle of the arena, standing on the highest rectangular pillar. His wild hair blew in the wind, and he looked down on them with the regal bearing of a king.

  “Decide who fights,” he said, and Yerin heard stone grating on stone as the booth rose from the floor behind her.

  “I’d be more than happy to draw swords on both of them,” Yerin said, “but they're your kin. I’ll follow your word.”

  They had discussed their strategy already, but Eithan had directed her to focus on preparing for either fight. She had a plan against Veris and Altavian both, but he had dodged any questions about which of them would fight first. She assumed he wanted to decide at the last moment.

  Eithan leaned over so that they were eye-to-eye, looking into her. A moment later, his hand blurred as he slapped her on the side of the head.

  It didn't quite hurt, but she instantly responded by stabbing at him with one of her Goldsigns. He slid casually to one side.

  She scowled at him. “You trying to get me ready to stab an Arelius?”

  Eithan straightened up. “Just checking. I don't see it in you yet. Why don't you watch me first? It might be good for you.”

  “I was ready to do that from the beginning! Didn't need a slap!”

  “Next time, dodge it.”

  Yerin grumbled as she walked back to the booth. They were both Underlords now. She didn't have to listen to him anymore.

  ...though she reminded herself that she still hadn't defeated him in a spar. Once she could beat him, then she could ignore his advice. And slap him on the head.

  Yerin settled into the booth as the disembodied voice echoed through the arena: “The fighters have been chosen! Veris Arelius of House Arelius fights for the late Tiberian Arelius! And Eithan Arelius of the Blackflame Empire fights for Akura Malice! It's a civil war between these two scions of the same clan!”

  Yerin could see the back of Eithan’s elaborate lavender-and-gold outer robe fluttering in the wind, his hair blowing alongside it. The image of him projected for spectators overhead looked supremely confident, as always.

  She couldn’t see his opponent with her own eyes, but Veris’ giant illusory image floated in the air opposite Eithan’s. The Arelius woman wore loose-fitting pants and a shirt, all in the Arelius colors of dark blue, black, and white. She stood with her hands behind her back, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Lightning crackled in the air around her.

  “Begin,” Northstrider said, and then vanished.

  Veris’ eyes snapped open.

  A sharpened lance of bright, crackling energy flashed through one of the alleys between the columns. The Striker technique looked like lightning hammered straight, and it pierced the air not where Eithan was, but where he was headed. He had dashed to the side, but Veris had anticipated that.

  Eithan leaped on top of a nearby column as though he had planned to all along, and the Striker technique passed beneath his feet. He cast stars of pure madra to the opposite end of the arena, calling down a blue-white waterfall.

  So far, so boring, at least for a fight between Underlords. They were fighting like a pair of archers in an exhibition, like they were trying to show off for the fanciest shot. In Yerin's estimation, Eithan should have closed the distance between them immediately and gone straight for the kill, knowing that his opponent favored Striker techniques.

  A moment later, everything changed.

  A soaring lightning falcon swooped over Eithan's head, let out a screaming cry, and detonated into a field of storm madra...fifty feet away from Eithan. At the same time, Eithan darted backward, dodging nothing, and let out a burst of pure madra into thin air.

&
nbsp; While running, he drew his new scissors—the prize he had chosen from the last round. They were actually an Archlord sacred dagger with the ability to change its physical shape, so he chose the shape of his old weapon: a set of large black fabric scissors.

  And these carried an Archlord binding. No matter how much madra he had, it would be difficult for Eithan to activate such a weapon at his advancement stage without tearing his madra channels.

  He was using them for their other advantage, which he had proudly explained to Lindon and Yerin already. This weapon responded to Enforcement far better than anything else Yerin had ever seen him use.

  He flooded the scissors with pure madra, and they burst into a dark ball of gray light. When he stabbed that weapon into Veris’ Forged falcon, the lightning technique crackled and burst.

  Eithan wasted no time ducking into the pillars, still running.

  The images of the two fighters hovered in the air over the columns themselves, and Yerin turned her attention to those when she could no longer see Eithan. They occasionally crossed techniques, with Eithan reflecting a ball of destructive energy or Veris' hair being ruffled by a near-miss from a burst of pure madra, but most of the time it was as though the two of them were fighting against invisible opponents.

  The Ninecloud Soul’s beautiful voice sounded excited, its rainbow light glimmering from the center of the projected fight. “Our more advanced guests will have already noticed the complex back-and-forth dance between these two combatants. Each is predicting the movements of the other, attempting to corner their opponent by cutting off retreat. Anyone worried that one Arelius might hold back against another can rest easy!”

  Yerin couldn't see any of that, and it frustrated her. As far as she could tell, they were playing around and taking it easy on one another. Her master had been no Arelius, and she was sure he would have followed this fight.

  She extended her spiritual perception, trying to sense the interplay between the two, but all she could feel was the flashy back-and-forth of their exchanges.

  Breathing deeply, she sunk deep into her spiritual senses. Rather than trying to see the fight, she tried to feel its flow.