I reach down into my chest, find the last of my strength, and pull on Teren’s energy. Let him feel agony like he’s never known. Let him suffer. I put everything I have into this, letting my hatred of him go unchecked.
Teren lets out a wrenching cry of pain. He falls to his knees.
Wait. This isn’t right.
I blink, confused, trying to clear my hazy thoughts. My illusions continue to work on him, wild and uncontrolled and untethered, blind. Blind. Then I realize—why am I able to affect Teren? He cannot be injured. And Violetta isn’t here to stop him.
And that’s when I realize, in horror, that I have attacked Enzo instead. Enzo was the one who had blurred toward me—he had moved toward me in an attempt to protect me. Enzo is the one that I sent staggering to his knees.
I yank my powers back instantly, but it is too late. Teren—the real Teren—seizes the moment. He takes his sword. He plunges it deep into Enzo’s chest. It runs all the way through, the bloody point emerging from Enzo’s back right between his shoulder blades.
No.
Enzo lets out a terrible gasp. Teren’s mouth tightens in triumph. He clutches Enzo’s robes in one fist, then yanks him closer, shoving the sword in deeper. I cannot move. I cannot think. I can’t even scream. My shaking hand reaches out for him, but I am too weak to do anything else. All my powers—undone in the one moment when they would have mattered the most. I struggle to regain control, but it makes no difference now. Enzo trembles on the blade. Teren pulls him close and bends toward his ear. Somehow, in the midst of the arena’s chaos, the Lead Inquisitor’s words sound clear.
“I win,” he says. For a moment, their eyes lock—Teren’s, pale, pulsing, mad; Enzo’s, dark, scarlet, dying. Then he pulls his blade out. Enzo collapses to the ground. I run to his fallen figure, as if this might just be an illusion—but he stays still and unmoving. Somewhere, Teren’s voice reaches me. “Thank you for your help,” he says.
I put my hands on Enzo’s face. His name falls from my lips, hoarse with pain. I had lashed out at him with all of my fury—but was it rage meant for Teren, or was it really my internalized anger at Enzo, for using me, for leading me on? Maybe there’s still a chance. He fights, with the last of his strength, to return my gaze. What do I see there? Is it betrayal? I’m sobbing now—tears fill my vision and spill down my cheek. There is nothing to be done.
Enzo looks at me. He blinks rapidly as he tries to say something, but blood froths at the edges of his mouth. He coughs. Red speckles land on my arm. I look on in disbelief as his eyes meet mine one last time. Then his life fades away. Just like that.
My mind goes blank. The world turns silent.
The sky above us flickers, then turns a furious shade of scarlet, a vision of blood, deep and dark. I crouch, my hands ripping at the ground, my emotions unwinding, my energy surging to a level I’ve never felt before. My gaze fixes on Teren. I hurl myself helplessly against his invincible power, trying desperately to grasp on to him in some way, to hurt him, hurt him, hurt him. But I can’t. I’m useless.
He could slay me right now, if he wanted to. But he no longer wears his eerie smile or his cold amusement. He looks serious, grave, and thoughtful.
“You don’t belong with them, Adelina Amouteru,” he says. “You belong with me.”
Somehow, somewhere—a curtain of wind lifts me up into the air. I struggle against it, wanting to stay in the arena. I want to destroy Teren. But I feel Lucent’s arms wrap around me, then her pulling me up onto the back of a balira. Below us lies the wreckage of the arena, the dead and dying, the smoke and carnage, the white cloaks littered in clusters, the bodies of the dead who had fought for Enzo.
None of that matters now. The prince is dead.
Teren Santoro
Teren looks up at the fleeing Elites as they spirit away the prince’s body. Behind them are Inquisitors on the backs of baliras, chasing them down. Teren watches a moment longer, picturing Enzo’s dead face as they go. The young prince’s face was gray and lifeless, eyes shuttered, heart still. Blood stains the ground of the arena’s platform.
Teren stays quiet. He does not smile. Enzo, whom he remembered from childhood, the boy who always defended him in front of his father. What a shame that he was the Reaper, all along. It had to be done. Dirty malfetto. Now the world is a better place, and Giulietta can rule. Teren’s face remains a portrait carved from stone, but deep in his chest, he feels a twinge of loss.
What a shame.
Trust is when we plummet into the depths of an abyss and
reach out for each other’s hands.
—Amaderan Poetry, various authors
Adelina Amouteru
I fade in and out of a strange, disturbed sleep filled with ghosts. Or illusions? I can’t tell the difference anymore.
Maybe there is none.
Sometimes I see my father hovering over me, his face distorted and smiling. Other times, Violetta’s tear-streaked face appears. And Enzo. Enzo. He hovers there, a little too far away, and I cry out for him, struggling against invisible bonds to reach him. He’s alive. He’s right there. Shouts come from somewhere in the distance. Hold her down! I’m in too much of a daze to dwell on anything other than the enormous creature carrying us across the sky and the silence and stillness of those riding with me. I want to open my mouth and say something. Anything. But my state of half consciousness muzzles me. I run a hand along my chest and feel a thick bandage there, trying gamely to lessen my blood loss.
My vision blurs as I try to look around at the others, but I can’t focus enough to see who they are. I look back up into the evening sky and close my eye. The world has faded to gray with Enzo’s passing. The only feeling I’m aware of is Violetta’s hand in mine, squeezing, and I squeeze back with what little strength I have. A few strands of my hair crisscross over my vision—they are dark gray, the darkest they’ve ever been.