He extended his hand, palm-up. “I give you the new grand prize of the tournament: a weapon of the gods.”

A silver-edged black arrowhead appeared hovering over his palm. It looked fairly ordinary to Lindon, but the aura of the entire world twisted and fluctuated as all seven Monarchs reacted.

Rather than watching them, Lindon looked to the center of the arena. Eithan, on his knees, stared at the arrowhead with an intensity Lindon had never seen. His smile was long gone.

The messenger smiled at their reaction. “Long ago, the founder of House Arelius created this weapon which he called Penance. It is a penance for its target and, unbeknownst to most, its creation was an act of penance by its creator.”

The House Arelius crowd gave a shout, but Eithan’s gaze was glued to the arrowhead.

“He made the right choice, ascending to the heavens, and he brought this weapon with him. Now we return it to the place of its birth.”

The arrowhead drifted up, flashing black and silver. “Penance was made with a singular purpose: to kill. That is what it does, and nothing less. It can be used to kill one being in this world without error. This, children, is the power of life and death.”

For the first time, he looked to the Monarchs, and he didn’t bother to look respectful. His sneer covered his face and infected his voice. “No doubt you will squabble for this, but the results of this tournament are now guaranteed by my master: Makiel, the Hound. No competitors can be added or withdrawn, the rules must be upheld as before, and Penance will not function for anyone other than the rightful champion. If you break the rules, you will be judged. If you kill or punish the champion for possession of this weapon, you will be judged. Tread carefully, for the eyes of heaven see all things.”

The eyeball on his shoulder shone brightly, spinning to pierce each Monarch.

None of the kings and queens spoke a word. Not even to agree. Now none of them looked so self-assured anymore. Even Reigan Shen scowled through his white mane, goblet forgotten.

The heavenly messenger looked down on the competitors, and his smile was gentle again. “Fight hard, children, and do not let fear hold you back. Instead, let desire drive you to even greater heights. You are the future, and the Hound values the future above all else.”

Lindon stared at the arrowhead. The messenger held a life in his hand. Anyone’s life—a Sage’s, a Monarch’s.

Even a Dreadgod’s.

[Whoever gets that won’t have an arrow,] Dross whispered. [They’ll have a target. Everyone in the world will be after them.]

Even if the heavens protect them from reprisal? Lindon asked.

[Heaven is a long way away. Humans are right here.]

When the world began to glow blue again, Lindon lunged for Yerin, but he was swallowed up. Only a breath later, he stood in the center of a bright-tiled hallway, exactly where he had been taken. A nearby Truegold woman in Akura colors fell to her knees and started muttering.

The Spirit Cloak sprang up around Lindon, and he started to run.

Yerin was now in danger. Whatever the heavens said, the Monarchs and their champions would do anything for a weapon like the arrowhead. He had to gather everyone they could trust and stick together; keeping Eithan and Mercy and Yerin in the same place would be the best way to keep them safe.

And he had to tell them they couldn’t win.

Out of fear of a Monarch’s reprisal, he hadn’t even told his friends Sha Miara’s true identity. The time for that was past; they had to know they were competing against a Monarch.

He had almost reached the end of the hallway when a black-scaled hand shot out from nowhere, grasping at his throat. With the impossible grace of the Spirit Cloak, Lindon dodged.

The hand landed anyway.

It was like a hammer slamming into his neck. He crashed to a halt, choking and gagging past the sudden pain in his throat, his technique dispersing. He sagged to the floor, looking up through watery eyes.

A huge man, at least Lindon’s size, now loomed overhead. His clothes were mismatched and ragged, open at the neck to reveal the rock-hard muscles of his chest. Wild hair spilled down his back, and his face was unshaven, but his vertically slitted golden eyes glared down on Lindon like a king passing judgment.

[Master…] Dross whispered.

Northstrider spoke only two words.

“Who’s Dross?”

THE END