Crown of withered thorns

Chapter 8: Seven breaths to die

The air in the Crucible turned to ice as the man wearing my master’s face leveled his blade. The crowd’s roar became a muffled hum. To everyone else, this was a spectacle. To me, it was a funeral.

"You move like a man who knows my name," the shade of Thorne rasped, his leather armor creaking as he settled into a low, predatory stance. "But you breathe like a coward. One breath to steady the heart. That’s all I’ll give you."

"One breath is all I need to know you're a fake," I said, my voice cutting through the ozone. I didn't draw a weapon. I stood with my arms hanging loose, my golden marrow pulsing in a rhythmic, internal clock. "You have his eyes, but you don't have his soul. You’re a construct of the Empyrean—a puppet made of violet light and old memories."

"Puppets can still cut," Thorne sneered.

He lunged. It was the Horizon-Slash, a move he had spent three years beating into my muscle memory.

"One," I said.

I leaned back by a fraction of an inch. The steel whistled past my throat, close enough to shave the peach fuzz off my skin. I didn't counter. I just watched his feet.

"What is he doing?" Silas the Broker shouted from the balcony. "Kill him, you old fool!"

Thorne spun, his blade a blur of silver. He transitioned into the Falling Leaf—a three-strike combination designed to overwhelm a defender's guard.

"Two," I counted, my voice flat and cold.

I pivoted on my left heel, the first strike missing my shoulder. I dipped my head, the second strike cutting air. I stepped into his space, my chest inches from his, and the third strike passed harmlessly behind my back.

"Three," I whispered into his ear.

Thorne jumped back, his eyes narrowing. A flicker of genuine confusion—or maybe a glitch in his programming—crossed his face. "You... how do you know the rhythm? Only the Warden..."

"The Warden is standing right in front of you," I said. "And you're breathing too heavy on your recovery. Your right knee still hitches when you overextend. The Empyrean copied your strength, but they copied your old wounds, too."

"Shut up!" Thorne roared, his skin beginning to crack further, violet light leaking out like glowing blood. He unleashed a flurry of strikes—a desperate, violent storm of steel.

"Four," I said, parrying a blow with the back of my hand, the golden Ichor absorbing the impact with a sharp clink.

"Five." I slapped his blade aside, forcing him to stumble.

"Six." I caught his wrist, twisted it just enough to hear the joint groan, and looked him dead in his violet eyes. "You’re out of time, Master."

"I am the Divine Judgment!" the creature shrieked, his face melting into a featureless mask of light. He raised his sword for a final, crushing blow—the Heaven’s Descent.

"Seven," I said.

I didn't use a blade. I didn't use the Ichor-Vapour. I simply reached out and tapped a single point on his sternum—the exact spot where the original Thorne had a shrapnel scar from the Great Siege.

The result was a total system failure. The violet light inside him flickered, turned a sickly gray, and then imploded. The Master collapsed to his knees, his sword clattering to the sand. He wasn't dead, but his connection to the Empyrean was severed. He was a hollow shell, baffled and broken by a boy who shouldn't have known his name.

"How?" the shell whispered, looking up at me.

"Because I've already died for you once," I said. "I'm not doing it again."

I turned my back on him and walked toward the pedestal at the end of the pit. Silas was standing there, his face a mask of shock and greed.

"The Void-Steel," I demanded. "Now."

Silas signaled to his guards. They brought out a long, rectangular box made of cold-iron. "You're a freak, boy. A god-damned glitch. But a deal is a deal."

He flipped the latches and opened the lid.

The Void-Steel blade lay there, a sleek, black-on-black sword that seemed to drink the torchlight. But it wasn't the sword that made my heart stop. Tucked into the hilt was a small, jagged crystal—a Star-Shard.

The moment the lid opened, the shard ignited.

A pillar of blinding, white-gold light shot upward, punching through the roof of the Crucible, through the soot-clouds of the City of Black-Iron, and straight into the heavens. It was a beacon, a cosmic flare that screamed our location to the stars.

"You idiot!" I roared, grabbing the Void-Steel and pulling Elowen toward me. "You didn't know what was in the box?"

"It was just... a prize!" Silas stammered, shielding his eyes from the glare.

"It's a tracking device," I hissed, the golden marrow in my bones beginning to vibrate with a terrifying frequency.

I looked up. The violet scar in the sky was widening. The High Lords didn't need to scan the woods anymore. I had just rung the dinner bell for the entire Empyrean fleet.

"Cyprian, look!" Elowen pointed at the horizon.

Six streaks of fire were descending from the clouds, heading directly for the city at speeds that broke the sound barrier. These weren't scouts. These were the Executioners.

"We have to go. Now!" I grabbed the Void-Steel, the black blade humming as it tasted my golden blood for the first time.

The City of Black-Iron was about to become a crater, and the only way out was through an army of gods who now knew exactly where the glitch was hiding.