Damn. Those are fighting words.
Belatedly Slay realized he didn’t want to see the final confrontation play out as a cat. Quickly he shifted and put on the clothes Rowena was holding for him. Not long after that, the doors to the palace slowly opened, revealing at last the tyrant that the entire free world wanted to decapitate. Tycho Vega should have been a monster in visage, just as he was in spirit, but instead, he was a handsome man with gilded skin, flat green eyes, symmetrical features, and mane of golden hair. His rich, tailored clothing was a tad rumpled, not as much as Slay might’ve expected under the circumstances.
Vega measured his pace as he exited the palace surrounded by his honor guard, descending step by step like he was conveying some great distinction instead of marching to his doom. Maybe he couldn’t see the writing on the wall or he believed his own propaganda, that he was a fucking god, immortal and untouchable.
He’s about to learn otherwise.
Slay was already clocking the number of Elites left by Tycho’s side, and it would be an absolute massacre if the challenge angle didn’t work out. Between Prince Alastor’s people and the resistance fighters, this bastard had no chance, none at all. He’d spent all his resources and lost. In the end, he’d only wind up as a footnote to narcissism and failure.
“A personal challenge? From you?” The tyrant threw his head back and laughed, megalomaniacally unconcerned despite overwhelming evidence that he was living out the final moments of his pathetic existence.
Knowing this bastard had hurt Ro enough to leave her permanently skittish made Slay want to rush him—to choke the life out of Vega slowly and watch the light leave his eyes. But it wasn’t his place to snap this bastard’s neck. No, he had to contain his rage and let this play out. I’m an extra in this scene, not a key player. But he’d pay close attention, and if this asshole even glanced sideways at Rowena, Slay would be on him like a shark scenting blood in the water.
“Bravado,” said Prince Alastor in a glacial tone. “You never believed I could come this far. Consistently, for my entire life, you underestimated me. You also didn’t see the threat lurking within your own walls. Those you’ve harmed most grievously have risen against you. Look around at your mighty empire, brother. There’s nothing left.”
“I will start again,” Tycho snarled. “When I have disposed of you.”
For some reason, Prince Alastor smiled. “Did you forget? It is within my rights to choose a champion.”
“I volunteer.” Rowena’s voice rang out clear and true; she stepped forward then so there could be no doubting her intentions.
Slay’s heart leaped into his throat. Hell no, he didn’t want her to do this—there was no telling what harm might come to her and she couldn’t heal like an Animari either. With great effort, he choked back his instinctive protest. She wouldn’t thank him for interfering.
The tyrant made a scoffing sound. “I should have known you wouldn’t face me personally. You’re weak. Defective. Inferior stock, brother. That’s why Father said you weren’t even worth killing.”
Shit. Even Slay flinched from those words. The Vega family dynamics were deeply and profoundly fucked up.
“He’s a far better man than you,” Sheyla snapped. “And illness isn’t weakness.”
Prince Alastor quieted her with a gesture, addressing his brother in a grave tone. “That’s why you slew our siblings instead. Efren. Caia. Leander. So much blood on your hands. Do they whisper to you? It must be so difficult to sleep. I’d think their unhappy spirits must linger—”
“Shut up!” Tycho shouted, the first sign he’d given that he had a breaking point. Now his bottle-green gaze glinted with madness and cruelty.
Slay glanced at Rowena, checking on how she was taking this. But her face was serene and set, as if she’d passed beyond being moved by Vega’s outbursts. Some part of him was relieved, but also troubled; he hated that she needed such impenetrable defensive walls.
The madman turned to his few remaining followers. “Who will stand as my champion?”
Not a single voice spoke up. Instead, eyes swung away from Tycho Vega, gazing at the floor, into the crowd. Slay smothered a chuckle because this was just too fucking satisfying. Hell, not even his own people wanted to fight for this asshole anymore.
Vega slammed a fist into his palm. “Then I will dispatch the enemy myself and afterward, you’ll all suffer for your insolence and disloyalty.”
Does he really believe that? Or is it that he can’t cop to his own bullshit even at the end?
Soon, they cleared a space in the piazza with everyone present standing witness. Slay trusted Rowena—he did—she’d never start a fight she wasn’t sure she could win but fear still tightened his chest as she and Tycho shifted. He’d seen Ro change before, but Vega was monstrous, a dark golden beast like a creature of a storybook, a demon and a dragon combined, bipedal and horrific, with lashing tendrils streaming from his immense head.
On the ground, Ro wouldn’t fare well. But he should’ve believed in her, trusted that she had a plan. She went airborne instantly while Tycho cursed her in base Gol. At least, Slay guessed that was what the sounds meant. Ro feinted and dove, making Vega spin until he was dizzy with lashing out, and when he faltered, she struck, digging her rear claws in deep. And with her usual grace, she soared aloft, up, up, up, and when their struggling bodies became hard for Slay to see, she let Vega go. The tyrant plummeted, his body impaled on the spiked adornment that framed the piazza. Ro landed and shifted, stalking like an avenging fury toward her dying foe.
“Did you think I’d fight honorably?” she whispered as blood bubbled from Vega’s mouth, his breaths coming in desperate, wet gurgles. “Allow you a fair chance at victory?”
Slay suspected only the Animari among the crowd could hear her next words. “Why would I? When you’ve never displayed a shred of it. For what you did to me, you were mine to kill. Did you imagine I came back by coincidence? How would they have captured me if I hadn’t allowed it? I fight from the air.” Ro laughed with chill mockery. “I returned to destroy you, devil. And I hope the family you murdered is waiting for you on the other side.”
Utterly broken, the tyrant breathed his last.
And Golgerra rejoiced.
21.
For hours afterward, Golgerra was all riotous celebration.
Rowena hadn’t known that freedom would look so much like a drunken revel. But as people caroused, Prince Alastor’s people brought out more food and liquor and soon the piazza was overflowing with merrymakers. Ro looked for Slay in the crowd, but she found Alastor instead. The crowd parted naturally for the prince, part of his regal aura.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, low.
Rowena shook her head, not pretending to misunderstand his real regret. She smiled then. “I’m glad you didn’t risk your forces chasing me. Didn’t it strike you as strange that I would be captured when I have an aerial advantage on the battlefield?”
Prince Alastor froze, his expression arrested as he took her in with an assessing air. “Are you saying…you returned on purpose?”
“To work with the resistance. Ultimately, to defeat your brother. If I hadn’t landed, hadn’t let it happen, his forces couldn’t have taken me hostage.”