I pushed off with my right hand, white-hot agony eating my shoulder as I rose.
And then screamed as an arrow lodged deep into my boot, its head digging into the side of my foot. My hasty globe rose just in time as another three arrows hit. Darren isn’t holding back. I yanked the shaft out—knowing full well I wouldn’t be able to run with it still in. The next second the arrow and the prince’s crossbow vanished, and an axe appeared in each hand.
His favorite weapon.
Gods, no.
I didn’t have time to bandage my foot; Darren was charging forward and in seconds hacking at my globe, his strong shoulders glinting underneath the fading purple defense.
I couldn’t counter those with a sword. And my left hand was broken—my right shoulder all but aching at the slightest effort.
Time for pain casting.
I still had enough regular magic in reserve to produce a dagger in hand and pressed down against my left palm, blood trickling into the sand—the shoulder injury too far back to manage.
My sphere turned to ice and when his blades came crashing down, it shattered. Thousands of tiny razor-sharp shards shot out against the prince’s exposed skin—tearing bloody trails down his arms, his chest, and his face.
Darren’s axes faltered and my casted polearm came down without hesitation. The sickle blade made a terrible screech as it slid against the non-heir’s globe.
I attacked. Again and again, high and low swoops as hard as my shoulder could manage—I could see Darren’s defense losing color with every slash until it broke—
But as I lunged forward my own casting vanished, and I jerked to a stop, tottering. I needed the knife.
But nothing came.
The beauty of pain casting in real battle? A mage kept a knife on him at all times for just that purpose. In the Candidacy? There were no real weapons. We—I—had none.
Across the way I saw Darren’s eyes flare up in understanding. His hand raised to cast—
But nothing came.
Like me, the prince had expelled all his regular magic.
Somehow, I had always known it would come to this.
Unlike me, Darren thought of a solution faster. I had just the barest moment to register his decision before the prince’s fingers dug into the wound at his side.
Three daggers came at me at once.
“Surrender, Ryiah!”
They were almost here.
“No!” A nervous sweat broke as I clawed at my palm, sandy nails scraping against skin—the sensation of hot blood along the pads of my fingers almost enough to make me retch.
I was not fast enough.
Rain fell on the arena like sleets. Thunder roiled across an angry belly of shadow while stark flashes of yellow illuminated the arena.
I went down with a dagger square to the chest.
My giant burst of magic—it only swayed the last two.
“Ryiah!” Darren staggered forward and then stumbled as the sand roared up and caved beneath his boots. The last of my magic.
Two mages. Only one will win.
I was choking on air. Black, black air that I could no longer see. Everything was a shape.
Hot iron coated my lips, metallic and bitter. I clutched the blade, disbelief and fear taking hold of my thoughts. There was a strange ache building in the back of my throat, my stomach, my lungs. Like someone was pressing my chest against the flames of a fire. I screamed and I clawed, blood spraying from my mouth as I struggled to free myself from the pain.
Salty tears trailed down my frozen cheeks as strange hands fought to hold the fire in place. Raging, wild tremors took control of my limbs. Something was shredding me out from the inside. An anguish took over and every breath was like a thousand hot knives stabbing into me at once.
Hot air pressed against my ear, a familiar voice that begged for me to stay still. I whimpered and cried, nonsensical pleas as the pressure remained and the terrible darkness took over my world.
“You w-will be…” Someone else was breaking, too. Sobbing as the words became splintered and hoarse. The knives, I realized, they were killing him too. We would die together.
“The healers a-are almost here,” he begged.
Pain ripped away at my flesh, and my scream was the last thing I heard.
Chapter Fourteen
When I woke up his red-rimmed eyes were the first ones I saw. There were heavy shadows under their lids, and his skin was so pale he could have been a ghost. His hands were gripping the rail of my cot, heavy tension radiating off the white of his fists.
Dried blood coated his chest and arms, and there were several bruises mottling his ribs. He looked like death.
I sucked in a sharp breath. We were in the infirmary.
A great ball of fire was climbing up my lungs.
A lump in Darren’s throat rapidly rose and fell when he noticed I was awake. “Ryiah!” he choked out my name, and I swear I heard him break.