“Malice’s daughter is a true opponent, and you have already proved the might of my blood to the world. If you show your full power here, it will be no shame to fall to her. Look into my eyes.”

She did, reluctantly, and he met her draconic golden eyes with yellow human eyes of his own. They were so much more beautiful than hers that she lost herself in admiration.

He smiled on her. “I will be proud to care for you as a mighty Overlady and one of the eight Uncrowned of your generation…but I would rather lift you up as the victor of the Uncrowned King tournament and my third Herald.”

Strength and pride she’d never known flooded through her, and she drew herself up straight. “It will be my honor.”

The Monarch’s face darkened, and he turned to the door. “The moment is upon us. Go, and savor the opportunity to tear Fury’s sister limb from limb.”

Mercy’s battlefield against Sophara was an isolated space, sealed off by madra. The arena was as wide as usual, but all noise and spiritual sensation from the stands were cut off, and the audience would have to watch them exclusively through viewing constructs and projections.

The floor and ceiling were knobby and black, so that they resembled Mercy’s bow, though she didn’t sense any shadow madra from them.

Shadow aura, on the other hand, was thick in the air. The arena was dark, the shadows in the corner impenetrable to the naked eye.

Winding through the center of the arena, cutting it in half, was a flowing river with a line of fire dancing on its surface. That would be for Sophara: a plentiful source of water and fire aura.

But the flames did little to push back the darkness, and Mercy faced Sophara over a line of fire.

The dragon had her chin lifted even higher than usual, an arrogant tilt to her lips. Her strands of golden scales hung from her scalp, flickering in the firelight, and her eyes seemed to glow. She wore no sacred artist’s robes, but simple pants and a tunic that left her arms bare.

No jewelry either, though all her clothes were lined in golden silk. She had dressed simply, for a gold dragon.

Mercy raised a hand in greeting. She couldn’t afford to lose, but Sophara was surely in the same situation she was.

The gold dragon didn’t respond, turning to Northstrider.

The Monarch hovered inches over the fire, so that the flames occasionally licked his mismatched sandals. His ragtag clothing didn’t burn, and he looked from one of them to the other.

“Prepare yourselves,” he said.

He didn’t ask if they were ready. He could see they weren’t.

Both Underladies cycled their techniques, watching each other. Mercy tapped into the Book of Eternal Night, preparing its power. Suu’s head drifted down the length of the staff as it bent into a bow, a string coming down from one tip to the other.

Mercy calmed her heart and mind, as her aunt had suggested. She forgot the potential execution hanging over her mother’s head, and the thousands of lives at stake from the deals of Monarchs.

And she allowed herself to look forward to the fight.

“Begin,” Northstrider said.

Gold dragon’s breath annihilated the space where he stood.

It engulfed Mercy in a violent world of sunset-orange light, overwhelming her senses.

And harming her not at all.

Crystalline purple armor covered Mercy from head to toe. From beneath her amethyst helmet, the Moon’s Eye lens continued to show Sophara as a silhouette of madra standing right where she’d begun.

Still inside the Striker technique, Mercy pulled back the string of her bow.

The second the air cleared, she Forged an arrow on the string and released. Then another, this one with an added punch from her Enforcer technique. Then another, and another, and another.

As she loosed her arrows, she let her armor puff back into essence and began cycling her Dark Tide Incantation. Madra of shadow and water strengthened her, from the soles of her feet to the tips of her fingers.

Sophara had her own Archlord weapon in her hands: Quickriver, a whip of liquid steel that stiffened to a saber as she swatted the arrows out of the air.

The first, she slashed apart. The second hit with more force than she had evidently expected, knocking her blade a hair out of line. The third stuck to the blade, the fourth into her shoulder, and the fifth she dodged.

Mercy’s arrows were made from solidified Strings of Shadow, so they didn’t hurt much. But they stuck, and they interfered with the circulation of madra.

Before Sophara could recover, Mercy drew her hands down as though painting a line. The Shadow’s Edge flew out, slicing the flame between them in two.

Harmony’s favored technique was notoriously difficult to block, cutting through physical and spiritual material with equal ease, but Sophara had a way to defend.

As expected, she used it.

A golden disc bigger than her head flashed out of her soulspace and intercepted the Striker technique. The Shadow’s Edge shattered, its madra dissipating on the script around the edges of the construct.

The disc—her Imperial Aegis—had its full power scaled down for use in the tournament. It was too much like armor. But it was still allowed, as shields were permitted.

Sophara’s own full-body Enforcer technique filled her now, and as she leaped over the fiery river, she trailed orange madra behind her.

The Riverflame Dance gave her physical power that Mercy didn’t want to meet head-on, so she used her own Dark Tide Incantation to slip aside.

Quickriver melted back into a whip, extending its reach and slashing at Mercy, but Mercy slipped below it and splashed out with another Striker technique: the Nightworm Venom.

The Imperial Aegis intercepted that, moving it into place for Mercy to leap onto it, jumping over Sophara and loosing another arrow straight down onto the dragon’s head.

She smashed it with an Enforced fist and returned dragon’s breath, but Mercy had extended a String of Shadow and lashed herself to a distant point of land. She pulled herself backwards on the line, firing arrows as she flew.

Sophara took the bait.

She dashed forward, trailing gold madra, her flying Aegis shielding her from Mercy’s arrows. Sophara would know from previous matches that Mercy never preferred to close the distance, fighting only from afar until she was forced to use her bloodline armor to defend herself.

Dragons had innately powerful bodies—Sophara kicked up chunks of the ground every time she took a step. And Sophara’s spirit had been strengthened beyond its limits. She would know that if she closed the distance, she could pull Mercy apart.

That played perfectly into Mercy’s hands.

A wall of dragons’ breath thundered past her, but Mercy had seen it forming in her Moon’s Eye, and she took an extra moment to layer techniques into her arrow.

When she released her bowstring, the arrow flew with speed that tore the air, crashing into Sophara’s Aegis.

There was a deafening explosion of shadow, and the Archlord shield construct was blasted away. The detonation destroyed the floor and carved into the river, launching water and fire into the air to fall as rain.

Sophara had followed up her dragon’s breath with a leap, hanging in the air over Mercy. Her liquid metal weapon condensed into a short broadsword, and her every movement trailed a shadow of Flowing Flame madra.

With a confident smile, Sophara brought her hands down with all her strength.