The room was small, cold, with a high window that overlooked the battlefield. The wooden stands, empty, awaited the nobles who would arrive at dawn. The hemp ropes trembled in the wind. The scaffold, still clean, shone in the moonlight.
Zirinos sat on the bed, the sword on his lap.
The dark steel blade shone in the faint candlelight. The red veins, which once pulsed with Andy's energy, now pulsed with his own – with the corruption Tryni had implanted in him. Enyo slept on the windowsill, curled up on herself, her black scales shining.
The sound of the whetstone echoed in the silence.
*Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.*
Zirinos did not think of Mira. He did not think of the judgment. He did not think of Lindériu. He thought of tomorrow. The strokes. The order. Who would die first.
Andy, he thought. Then Irina. Then the daughters. Then Linda. Then Luna.
One by one. Like beads on a rosary.
His head began to hurt.
It was not an ordinary pain. It was a knife entering his skull, twisting, tearing the membranes of his brain. Zirinos clenched his jaw. His teeth ground together. The whetstone fell to the floor with a dry sound.
The masked one's voice came from within.
Zirinos...
"No," he whispered, his eyes closed. "Not now."
You're planning the massacre. Good idea. Bad execution. You will fail.
"I won't."
You will. Because you care. Because Mira...
"Shut up!"
The pain passed. The voice fell silent. Only the silence remained, and the ragged breathing, and the cold sweat on his neck.
Zirinos sheathed his sword. He stood up. Enyo squeaked, woke up, clung to his tunic.
"Let's go," he said. "The air here is heavy."
He left the room. The corridor was empty. The torches flickered. The shadows danced.
+++
The inner garden of the castle of Lunos was small, surrounded by dark stone columns. The rare flowers, which only bloomed in September, glowed with a pale light. The smell of wet earth mixed with the smell of fear.
Andy and Irina sat on a stone bench, side by side, their eyes fixed on the horizon.
They had not spoken to each other in years. The last time they had been like this was on the night before the forced marriage – she sad, he resigned, both knowing that love had no place in that union. Now, time had worn away the edges. Only tiredness remained.
"Ana is different," said Irina, breaking the silence.
"We are all different," replied Andy, his voice neutral.
"Her power... doesn't work. Or it works badly. She tried to break a rock with the mark of Anorys. The rock didn't even move. Then, without meaning to, she split a tree in half."
"The second sun exploded. The masked one stopped time. The universe felt it. The divine power felt it."
"And yours? Your power? Decatry's?"
"It expired. Years ago."
Irina looked at him. Her tired green eyes fixed on his.
"You know you could die tomorrow?"
"I know. We're all dying tomorrow"
"And you're not afraid?"
"I am. But I can't run away."
Irina touched his hand. Her cold fingers weighed. Andy did not pull away. For the first time in a long time, there was a moment of tenderness between them.
"I'm also afraid," said Irina, low. "Not of dying. Of losing our daughters."
"They are strong."
"They are not. Sara is too sweet. Ariny is too proud. Ana... Ana is a bomb about to explode."
"That's why they need you."
Irina did not answer. She only squeezed his hand.
The wind blew cold. The flowers glowed.
"Andy," she called, after a long time.
"Say it."
"I wish it had been different."
"I know."
"If we had met in other circumstances..."
"But we met in these. This is what we have."
Irina closed her eyes. Her head rested on his shoulder.
Andy did not move. He only stayed there, looking at the horizon, feeling the weight of his wife – the woman he had never loved as she deserved, but whom he had always respected.
Dawn was approaching.
+++
The training yard was empty at this hour.
Ethan practiced strikes with the wooden sword. Vertical cut. Thrust. Defense. Vertical cut. Thrust. Defense. Sweat ran down his forehead. His arm burned. His ragged breath mixed with the cold wind.
"Slave," called a voice behind him.
Ethan turned. Ana sat on a stone bench, her arms crossed, her dark golden hair falling over her shoulders. The mark of Anorys shone on her chest, visible even above her tunic.
"You're not going to win tomorrow," she said.
"I know."
"Then why are you fighting?"
"Because yes."
Ana stood up. She approached. Her cold brown eyes fixed on his.
"You're an idiot."
"You've called me that already."
"You deserve it."
She touched his face. Her cold fingers weighed. Ethan did not retreat.
"Don't die tomorrow," said Ana, her voice low. "I need you to hit me."
"I won't die."
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying. I'm pretending."
Ana almost smiled. Her cold lips touched his. It was quick, dry, almost chaste. Then, she stepped back.
"I'm going to sleep," she said. "Tomorrow is early."
"Ana."
"Say it."
"I like you."
Ana looked at him. Her brown eyes, where fear and anger mingled, fixed on his.
"I know that, Darling."
She walked away. The dark blue tunic shone for an instant in the half-light, then disappeared around the corner of the corridor.
Ethan stood alone, the sword in his hand, sweat running down his face.
He continued training.
+++
Luna leaned against the corridor wall, her amputated arm hurting – not physically, but in her soul.
The phantom pain, the doctors called it. The memory of what no longer existed. The same pain she felt when she looked at Zirinos and remembered the man he had been before hell.
The corridor was empty. The torches flickered. The shadows danced.
Footsteps.
Luna raised her head. Zirinos came toward her, Enyo on his shoulder, his gold-and-blood hair shining in the candlelight.
She shrank back.
It was not a large movement. Only a hunch of the shoulders, a turning away of the head, a tightening of her remaining hand against her chest.
Zirinos stopped a few steps away.
"Luna," he called, his voice low.
She did not answer. She could not. Her voice had not returned since she had woken from the coma. The doctors said her soul had not yet accustomed itself to her body. Linda said it was fear. Zirinos knew it was both.
"Tomorrow..." he continued, "everything will be fine."
Luna trembled.
Tears ran down her face. Silent. Hot. Her remaining hand pressed against her chest more tightly.
Zirinos did not approach. He did not touch her. He only stood there, a few steps away, watching her fear.
"Don't be afraid of me," he said. "I'm afraid of myself already."
She did not believe him.
Her clear, empty eyes fixed on his. There was fear in them. Fear and something more – a question she could not ask, an accusation she could not scream.
Zirinos did not answer what she did not say.
He only walked away.
The corridor became empty. The torches flickered. The shadows danced.
Luna remained leaning against the wall, crying in silence.
The fear did not pass.
+++
Alór van Decatry arrived in Lunos at dusk.
His tired horse dragged its hooves on the beaten earth. Frost slept on Alór's shoulder, curled up in his fur coat, his icy blue scales shining in the moonlight.
The gate guards recognized him.
"The duke's son," said one of them, opening the way.
Alór entered the courtyard. He dismounted. The horse was taken by a servant.
Andy leaned against a column, his arms crossed, his face tired. When he saw his son, his eyes shone – not with pride, but with relief.
"You've arrived," said Andy, his voice neutral.
"I have, father."
Andy looked at Frost. The dragon, awakened by the noise, squeaked softly.
"What is that?" asked the duke.
"Frost. My dragon."
"He hatched?"
"He hatched. In the north. While I was fighting the demons."
Andy did not ask further. He only nodded.
"Rest," he said. "Tomorrow... tomorrow you, too, fight."
"Yes, father."
Alór shook Andy's hand. It was quick, dry, almost awkward. But their hands took a long time to let go.
"I like you, father," said Alór, low.
"It's not like, my son, it's love, and I do love you too.."
Andy walked away. Alór stayed in the courtyard, Frost on his shoulder, his heart beating fast.
Don't cry, he thought. Men don't cry.
But his eyes were wet.
+++
Zirinos stood at the top of the wall when Ethan climbed the stairs.
The wind blew cold. The pale moon illuminated the empty battlefield. The stands, the hemp ropes, the scaffold – everything waiting.
"Can't you sleep?" asked Ethan, sitting beside him.
"I never sleep."
"Me neither."
They fell silent. The wind howled. Enyo, on Zirinos's shoulder, slept.
"Zirinos," called Ethan, after a long time.
"Say it."
"Are you going to kill someone tomorrow?"
"I am."
"Who?"
"Can't tell."
Ethan looked at him. The purple-haired boy's eyes were tired, but there was fear in them – fear and something more, a rare thing.
"You are my friend, Zirinos."
"I know."
"Even after everything. I hope you survive."
"I... No, we will, Ethan.."
They fell silent again. The moon shone. The few stars trembled in the dark sky.
"Tomorrow," said Zirinos, "everything will change."
"For the better?"
"I don't know. But it will sure change."
Ethan touched his shoulder. His warm hand weighed.
"Take care of yourself, Zirinos."
"Take care of yourself, Ethan."
Zirinos stood up. Enyo woke up, squeaked, clung to his tunic.
"I'm going to sleep," he said. "Tomorrow is early."
"Sleep well."
"I never sleep well."
He descended the stairs. The corridor was empty. The torches flickered. The shadows danced.
+++
The battlefield was empty.
Zirinos walked alone, his hands behind his back, Enyo on his shoulder. His boots sank into the beaten earth. The cold wind brought the smell of fear.
He stopped in the center.
He looked around. The empty stands. The hemp ropes trembling. The scaffold, still clean.
"Tomorrow," he whispered.
The moon shone.
The monster that came out of hell did not sleep.
It only waited.
The tournament would begin in hours.
The massacre too.