Risk lacked in every way, and yet Mazzulah continued to put her in these death matches, letting her be beaten to a pulp.
Risk’s hands curled into fists. Her own baby talons piercing her skin. The pain did not bring her clarity, though. The blood flowing from her veins did not slow her rapidly beating pulse.
She’d known that she was the weaker Darkova all her life.
She’d known that she wasn’t cut out like Quinn.
She’d known that she was a disappointment, and yet she couldn’t escape it.
She came here to right the wrong she committed. To save her sister from the fate she had condemned her to. And in doing so, she locked herself in a prison of her own making.
Tears burned in her eyes. The granules of sand stung as she blinked rapidly, trying and failing to get rid of them.
“I have waited such a long time for this opportunity, for dark Maji to be born that could win this war. Neiss and Beliphor have contributed amply. Saltira didn’t even choose a Maji, but instead chose a child with a heart for war—and even that child is more useful than you.” Mazzulah sneered, and for once, he didn’t seem all that insane. There was a clarity in his eyes that Risk seldom saw. While he might be madness incarnate, he wasn‘t all gone. “I am the exiled king of gods and it is my heir that will lose me my freedom. My heir that will fail us.”
Alpis perched on his shoulder. No matter how many times she’d called to him, the bird never came to her. Not anymore.
It occurred to Risk, not for the first time, that she was truly alone here.
Quinn could not save her.
Hope did not come to her.
And Risk? She was tired. Tire of fighting. Tired of merely surviving. Tired of being a pawn. A tool. An heir.
If she could end it all, she would. But Risk was too weak, even for that. Too scared.
And the cold, hard, inescapable truth was that she hated herself for it.
“Kill me,” she said. It was hardly more than a whisper, but the crowd quieted instantly and Mazzulah narrowed his eyes. “Kill me,” Risk said again, louder this time. “If I am such a disappointment—such a failure—then end me. Find a new heir. Win your own war.”
His lips pulled back into a snarl of disgust.
“I think not,” the god said. “But if you want to give up so easily, perhaps I should just let my raksasa do as they will with you. Maybe if you’re good, you’ll convince one of them to kill you.”
Panic shot through her. She surged forward and lifted a single hand, reaching for him though he was too far away. “Wait!” she called, as Mazzulah stood and turned away.
The dark god laughed with condescension, and Risk froze.
That panic gave way to anger. To rage.
“She’s yours, Dartan,” Mazzulah said before vanishing in a cloud of smoke and taking hope with him.
The raksasa moved and all that Risk could process was fury.
Mazzulah had lied. He wasn’t going to train her.
He was giving her to his demigod children.
To play with. To use. To destroy.
Red tinted her vision for the second time in her life, and while Risk was weaker in almost every way, she refused to be treated that way again.
The raksasa reached for her with talon-tipped fingers. Silver eyes with flecks of violet narrowed.
Risk darted to the side, but she was too slow. His hand wrapped around her throat. The sharp points of his claws bit into her neck.
She tasted blood on her tongue as he threw her to the ground.
A plume of black sand blocked out the sky and stands as he came down on top of her.
But while she was willing to give up for the promise of death, she wouldn’t stop with the threat of this.
He reached for the shredded remains for her burlap tunic. It was three sizes too large and hung on her frame at the best of times. The raksasa raked a hand down the front, splitting it open.
Terror seized her chest. Her heart constricted as it tried to escape the cage of bone that enclosed it. Her throat closed as emotion too great to speak made her swallow.
And then she felt it, that little itch inside her.
Her magic desperately wanted to get out, and while it hadn’t saved her any of the other times she’d tried, Risk would do anything to stop this from happening.
Hope was gone.
Quinn was gone.
Mazzulah was gone.
No one would save her.
For the first time, Risk would save herself.
Magic was all around her in this land of dark gods and demon children and dead souls, but there was other magic too. Magic inside of her.
And it was that magic that had finally woken up.
“Get. Off. Me.”
The raksasa stopped. His hand uncurled from her throat, and his body moved. The creature’s face blanked as he obeyed her command.
Risk sat up and pulled at the scraps of fabric, covering her front. She held them tightly over her chest and embraced the scent of blood and dark magic in the air.
She might not be fear or death or even war.
She was a beast.
And she would not be violated.
“Kneel,” she commanded. Magic suffused her voice. Power thrummed in the air, hanging like a musical note that didn’t want to end.
The raksasa bent his knee, but he was not alone. From the surrounding stands, a great clap sounded as every master and slave obeyed her command.
Then a slow clapping began.
Risk blinked, confusion diluting her pull on the magic as the rage drained away. She turned in a circle, searching for the source. Not a single being moved though. Not a single soul had even breathed in the time she commanded them.
She frowned and then glanced at the dark throne.
Mazzulah appeared in a burst of black feathers, with Alpis on his shoulder. His eyes shined with pride and the power of the gods as he said, “I was beginning to think I chose wrong.”
A trickle of anger leaked through as she said in disbelief, “This was all a test?”
Mazzulah laughed, and it was horrible. “Of course. I told you from the very beginning, I would break you to remake you.”
She took a step forward, narrowing her eyes, and the dark god snapped his fingers.
The black desert and its stands disappeared in an instant.
Risk swallowed hard.
In front of her, the great staircase loomed.
“What is this?” she asked.
No one answered. Risk turned and looked at the door behind her. The place it led to was better and worse than this. She wanted to take it. To leave . . .
And yet something stopped her.
She’d told them to kneel, and they did.
She hated herself and Mazzulah for what happened, but for one single blissful moment Risk knew what it was like to have power. To have control.
And she would do anything to taste it again.
Even climb the forsaken staircase.
Chapter 12
Living Death
“It is when we’re at our worst that our demons seem like friends and our friends seem like demons.”
— Lazarus Fierté, soul eater, the mad King of Norcasta
The scent of damp petals and midnight weeds called to him.
Lazarus rolled, tossing and turning in his sleep.
For so long, he never dreamed. The beasts had always consumed him in nightmares. It was the price of his magic, a price he willingly paid. But since he’d surrendered to those same creatures, he found a peace in sleep that he’d never had before.