“It’s time,” called Eryx’s oil-on-water voice.

I turned from where I sat in the darkness of the sitting room. Eryx, self-satisfied as usual, grinned down at me from the doorway. Not yet dawn, torchlight crackled. Flames spilled their glow into the gloomy chamber, casting his gaunt face in half-light, deepening the shadows until he seemed more skeleton than living flesh.

The hair on my nape stood up. Death was nearby. I could feel it.

“Now, Myridian,” he said.

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my sleepless eyes before standing. The settee beneath me groaned at the shift in weight, and in my detached state of mind, it seemed to be telling me goodbye. Goodbye and good riddance. I chuckled at the thought that even the Dorian furniture hated me. Eryx flashed me a strange look.

He waited for me to turn into the hall, then followed at my heel. Behind me, Eryx asked, voice taunting, “Do you know what the Trial will be?”

I glanced over a shoulder, brow raised. “Juggling? Riddles? Perhaps I have to perform a striptease?”

“A family reunion,” he said, lips peeling back from browned teeth in a stinking grin. “You’ll be seeing your father before the sun sets.” He laughed then, an ill-sounding, wheezing chuckle.

I laughed right along with him. And why not? He was probably right.

They led me through the gate in chains, and the crowd roared.

The limestone stands of the arena shook with the joined voices of thousands, vibrating the ground beneath my feet.

It had been little more than a month since I’d last felt the grit and give of the sand shift under my boots. In that short time, the season had changed. Already the air was chill. Yet this frigidity . . . It was more than autumn’s hold on the land. It was the stony cold of dead things, of dread and rot—a sign that Doria had at last shed her mask to show the true face beneath.

And what a terrible face it was.

My eyes moved across the stands, over the thousands gathered, hoping to see my death. They roared and stomped and cried out their hatred. The ice in the air wrapped a clawed hand around my spine and squeezed. Because this . . . this was Bloodlust. Thousands of Dorians held in its cruel, hungry hand.

I stood, still and silent, my mind far away, as human slaves readied me for battle. My leathers hung loose—my thinner frame a sign of Doria’s generous hospitality. On the opposite side of the sandy field, beneath the covered box where the Emperor and nobility watched, Imperials tended Varian in much the same manner, Lux beside him.

A sharp pang ran through me at the sight, and as selfish as it made me, I momentarily regretted sending my friends away. Lux should have been standing at my right, murmuring strategy in my ear, Cadmus on my left, supplying observations with the detached intelligence of a scholar. Of course, Peleus would be too busy scanning the crowd for pretty faces to be of much use, but Dacian would be intent upon Varian—a promise to finish the General Prince if I couldn’t. And Nerina . . . Nerina would pace, chafing at the bit.

Guilt washed through me at the thought of her. Of those sea-green eyes that would’ve been glued to me. Even now, I felt the weight of her gaze. But her eyes were not the ones I missed.

I searched the Emperor’s box, where Adresto sat with Elysa. He looked young enough to pass as her suitor instead of a 500-year-old God-Blooded whose sliver of mortality should’ve been pulling him towards the funeral pyre.

But of course, Aurora was not there. A fool’s hope that she would be, but still, disappointment filled me. If this day was to be my last, I’d have liked to see her face once more.

Moments later, the priestesses appeared with their oils. Silence stole over the crowd as they went through their rituals.

A few heartbeats, then the Third Trial began.

The deep, brassy echo of the gong still reverberated off the stone of the arena when he attacked, rushing across the sands with preternatural speed, teeth bared in a snarl. I barely had time to lift my blades, to parry an arm-numbing blow from Varian’s famed sword, Deimos, before he was upon me again.

Another parry. My bones rang with the force it. I stumbled back, ankle turning awkwardly on a stone buried in the sand. My heart leapt into my throat, adrenaline flooding my veins as I lifted my blades a fraction of a second too late. Deimos slid between them, slicing across the manacle at my wrist. Sparks flew and blood welled on my forearm.

I danced back, shaken. If not for the spelled iron, I would have lost my arm. But, if not for the spelled iron, this dance would have ended before it even began.

Even so, I tunneled to the dark abyss where my power lived. Deflecting Deimos yet again, I spun away, mind only half in the fight as I struggled to awaken the beast lulled to sleep inside me.

Boos rang from the crowd. “Fight, you coward!” someone cried.

Sweat poured from my brow as I fought to find my power. A black ember rose to the surface, and I grabbed it, holding on with all my strength. The beast inside blinked lazily awake and welcome magic—cool and tranquil death—filled me. This death . . . it was nothing I’d ever feared, though it was why others feared me, why they hated that I was my father’s son. No, I’d spent enough time among the dead, felt the flow of it through my own veins, to know death was easy and gentle, and utterly dull. It was the heat and vitality of life that was a challenge, painful and exhilarating. But I supposed that was what made it worth having. And it’s what I intended to fight for.

Death ran swift through my blood as I sidestepped another murderous blow, one that carried all of Varian’s God-Blooded strength behind it

Blindly, I sliced behind me as his momentum carried him past, willing my magic to flow from my fingers and into the Stygian steel blades in my hands. I prayed I could cut through the leather protecting Varian’s leg and sever the muscle at the back of his knee, that the wound combined with the drop of death I dealt him would be enough to end the fight. My entire mind focused on that single, cold ember of magic. Skin parted beneath my blade and I let that power fly.

Varian cried out, the sound a low, pained growl.

I spun to find a long rivulet of blood dripping from above his greave onto the sand and cursed. Too high. I’d aimed too high and too shallow, missing my mark and leaving a long but superficial cut crossing the back of his thigh in a bloody grin.

He turned to face me, features bloodless. His chest rose and fell in quick, panting breaths. My power had entered his bloodstream like Arachne’s venom had entered my own. It should have brought me pleasure to see the shock and pain on his face as some of his life drained from him, but it didn’t. I was just tired. Decades we’d been playing this game, and as much as I wanted to hate Varian, I knew what it was to be forced to be your father’s son.

“I don’t want this, Varian. Let Aurora decide her own future. Call today a draw and let us try to find peace before it’s too late.”

He limped forward, his skin white as chalk, but a vein still throbbed dangerously at his temple. Each sinew of muscle in his neck stood out like cords of rope as he strained toward me.

He’d recover in a few moments, I knew, and I was wasting my chance. Yet still, I couldn’t find it in me to lift my blades.

“Before it’s too late?” he repeated. “You came here to steal her from me. Now, you speak of peace?” He laughed. “I think not, old friend.”

Bitter anger frosted my blood, my words. “You think the provocation was all mine?” I twisted my wrist, flipping one blade end over end in a delicate arc before pointing it at his still heaving chest. “You came to Myridia a floundering, angry child. Everyone feared your Bloodlust, your lineage. But not Yrdin. He taught you to think and feel and move as a Myridian does. Yrdin cared for you when everyone else only wanted to use you as a pawn to keep peace with your father. And I . . . I accepted you as a friend. As a brother. And what did we get in return?”

I spat in the sand; the memories turning my stomach sour. “I came home to word that you’d razed half the Shards. Killed countless at Drifton and Megaris and the Needle. To word that Myridia was under siege. But I didn’t believe it. Not until I saw with my own eyes it was your ships that surrounded our shores. And then there was Yrdin . . . Killed in cold blood as you spoke to him of a truce.

“You tried to end me that day, too. And you failed. How many times have you tried since, Varian? I’m losing count.” I took another step until my blade dug into his chest. Until the metal scales of his armor dented around the god-forged tip. “So do not call me the villain in this tale for seizing what chance I have to keep my people free of Doria. Free of you and whatever sort of monster your father has turned himself into.”

His eyes, a hint of blue showing around the blackened pupils, flashed from me to the Emperor’s box. The male sat there, watching as his only son fought to the death. One hand held a glass of wine, the other was wrapped around Elysa’s satin draped knee. Varian looked back at me, a savage grin spreading across his face. “You think I don’t know what he is? He murdered my mother. Poisoned my bride. He’ll pay for his crimes. But first . . . you’ll pay for Aurora.”

Deimos rose with unnatural speed, hissing through the air between us. The bright morning sun gilded its razor-edge as Varian brought it down. I twisted away, moving in the familiar steps of this dance as the blade cut towards me, only inches from my throat.

The sand rustled drily, Deimos’s top brushing the ground on the next upswing. Again, I moved just out of reach. He and I had played this game far too many times for it to be quickly finished, but with no more magic to aid me, my greatest chance lay in stoking his rage. In wearing him down. “What you don’t realize,” I said, striking a glancing hit beneath his guard, “is that you’ve already lost her.”

Varian’s attention dropped to his side, where blood welled at the thin line of vulnerable skin, edging his breastplate. Then he lunged, a low cry ripping from his throat.

I sidestepped. “Lose the Trial and I win her. Win, and you’ll never truly have her.”

He swung Deimos in a high arch, a blow that was meant to rend my head from my shoulders. I ducked and spun away, coming in with a low sweeping kick from his other side.

He staggered back, grip loosening on Deimos.

“It was never a game to be won or lost,” I continued, circling that wounded, angry animal, my own blood cool and calm as I baited him. “All I had to do was force our Lady of Truth to see the truth of you.” I smiled. “She’s done that, Prince, and has found you wanting.”

There was no blue in his eyes as he came for me. This was nothing but blind rage. He was lost to the Bloodlust completely.

Varian struck again.

My blades crossed before me an instant before Deimos swung down with all the power Ares had gifted his grandson. The shock reverberated through my bones, but I pulled away, knives sliding free with the kiss of steel on steel. My feet pivoted across the sand and one blade sliced cleanly through the air. The other followed as my body spun, blade catching him across his side as I moved. Flesh gave way beneath the sharp edge.

A collective gasp ran through the crowd. Varian loosed a hiss of breath, loud in the sudden hush that fell. The pit, pat, pit, pat of blood wetting the sand in thick drops filled the silence as the Dorians watched their invulnerable hero bleed.

But Varian just smiled. His eyes met mine, pupils impossibly wide. “Did you think it would be that easy? Oh, no, my friend. We’re just getting started.”

Time bled away in battle. It slowed until it was one great blur of steel and pain and blood. The sun had moved across the sky. No longer overhead, it began its slow descent towards the horizon.

How much time had passed, I couldn’t say, but in that time I’d dredged up only a few drops of magic, each weaker than the last. The irons did their work well.

Varian had recovered, aided by his own magic, which fed on the bloodshed as surely as Aurora’s did the dawn.

My breaths were coming faster. The frenzied power behind his sword was becoming difficult to manage.

Parry, dance away, deflect. I repeated the steps to this dance over and over again, tiring more each time. Rarely did I find a gap in his defenses to strike, and my chances were growing farther and farther apart.

The sweat stung my eyes, ran over my skin. Its salted kiss was a constant pain in the cut on my forearm.

I risked a moment to wipe it from my eyes and that was enough.

Varian struck fast as an adder. I danced away at the last moment, in enough time to save my artery from being opened, but my leathers split high on my leg. Blood ran in thick streams down my thigh. I barely felt the blow, despite the sand beneath me turning a frightening red. I knew enough to understand the lack of pain was a bad sign.

I managed to keep my feet beneath me and parried the next blow. Varian rocked back a step, a grin spreading across his face. Adjusting his hold on Deimos, he circled.

Thankfully, the flow of blood was slowing. I tested my footing. The front of my thigh was numb, but it would hold me. I turned, keeping Varian in my line of sight.

And my head spun.

I shook it off, matching Varian step for step. But then, with shocking suddenness, Varian leapt. He cut hard with a brutal, two-handed strike. I ducked, barely escaping the blow. Varian’s momentum carried him on. He pulled himself to a stop, pivoting to face me.

Varian’s form seemed to waver. I blinked. Fog crept across my mind like a growing weed.

Varian shot a quick glance towards the Emperor’s box and chuckled. “Feeling a bit sluggish?”

I shook my head, not a denial, but to clear it. A leaden heaviness pulled at my limbs, dragging me down like the slow, languid lure of wine. I glanced at my wound, but the bleeding was no worse than before. “What is this?” I asked, words slurring.

“Insurance,” he said, again looking towards the covered pavilion. The nobles watched, but the Emperor was no longer drinking, no longer caressing Elysa’s knee. He watched us with a deep scowl. But beside him, the Korai’s colorless eyes bored into me. Her hands rested on the arms of her seat but she held them palm up, fingers moving slightly as she’d done the night of Nemoralia when she’d worked her magic. Then I felt it, a deep, wrenching draw.

Elysa’s lips pulled back from her teeth, not in a grin, but in the gritted determination of exertion. Another pull from the heart of me, from the place where my power twined with my body.

My magic.

My life.

Elysa… Not the Emperor, but Elysa, was siphoning it away.

She pulled and my breath came in quick, wet gasps.

Yet still, decades of training did not fail me.

A whoosh of air and my body took over instinctively. My spine bent and the blade whirled over my head. I watched it pass over me, an inch from my nose.

A shock of sable hair fell to the sand, cut free from my head.

I tried to straighten, to ready my own blades to parry the next onslaught of ruthless attacks, but another pull tore at my gut and my injured leg gave out. I landed hard on my back. One blade flew from my hand, embedding itself in the sand feet away.

The air hissed from my lungs and I knew it was the last thing I’d ever feel.

Varian’s body darkened the bright sky like a storm cloud. He raised Deimos. Light glinted red-gold against the blade and I closed my eyes.

“Stop!” A shrill voice cut over the crowd, over the blood roaring in my ears.

I opened my eyes. Varian’s gaze widened, lifted to the Emperor’s box. My own followed.

The High Priestess stood alone. She gripped the marble balustrade with white knuckles as she looked down upon the arena floor. Her eyes were wild with fear as they found my own. “I call an end to the Trials of Aurora, Daughter of the Dawn!” The words tumbled from her trembling lips so quickly they ran together. “Varian, son of Adresto, General Prince of Doria and Grandson of Ares, I name you victor. I name you worthy to take the Korai, Aurora as life-mate and wife. By Helios, Eos, and Selene, let this be done and let you serve their pleasure for the rest of your days.”

The clink of scaled metal told me Varian had lowered his arm.

The bloodthirsty anticipation of the crowd melted into confusion.

But the High Priestess’ eyes stayed on me. There was more than fear there, there was sorrow. And a plea I understood at once.

Sibyl had just saved my life, as surely as Aurora had from that very same spot in the First Trial. And her eyes told me that we both knew what it would cost her.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Sibyl?” An icy voice asked over the stunned, silent crowd. Elysa stood and faced the female who had raised her, opalescent eyes sharp as glass. “It isn’t too late.”

The High Priestess was pale, but her back was straight, her chin high. “Oh, it is, my daughter. It is much too late. And I’m sorry for it. Sorry for not seeing the truth of things sooner.”

And with those final words, the High Priestess turned and walked from the arena. I didn’t need to see the Emperor’s face to know those words truly were her last.

I stared after her, heart hammering, watching in stunned disbelief from where I still lay sprawled in the blood-drenched sand as she walked on without turning back. As she raised her hands high.

A heavy thunk. Cool air brushed against my chafed wrists. I looked down, unbelieving, at the spelled manacles that lay in the sand.

The collar around my neck fell to join them.

Freedom.

Power rushed through my body, the cold vitality of it filling my veins. I sighed at the exquisite relief of it.

Varian spun at the sound. Eyes wide, the blue returned, he stared at my naked wrists, my throat.

He lunged.

I reached out a hand, calling silently to the Stygian blade born in the hottest forges of Tartarus. It flew to my palm like a magnet.

Only feet away, Deimos swung for my head.

I took a single step sideways and left Varian—and the world of the living—behind.

Shadows enfolded me, silence replacing the shocked cries of the crowd, and as the sulfurous air of the Underworld filled my lungs, I thought of the High Priestess and knew she was on a similar journey.