Page 78 of Between Smoke and Shadow
Malek at six, breaking Tora’s arm after she’d already surrendered.
Malek at nine, killing the injured tree cat I rescued from the Wilds.
Malek at thirteen, coming home from the City of Mirrors with his first scar.
Malek at seventeen, bragging to Sorace about his favorite kills.
“Prince Harrick, Prince Malek. Please prepare for battle.” The automated voice is loud enough to hear over the crowd, to break through my flashing thoughts.
Malek framing the red headed servant. Malek pinning Alven Tjor against the wall, his eyes glazed with pooling magic.
Now, my brother stares at me. His pose is relaxed, but there’s a crinkle between his brows, like maybe he can sense the chaos rising within me. Maybe he realizes I’ve lost my sanity, my rationalization.
He cocks his head to the side, an amused smile lifting his lips. No, he doesn’t realize a thing. Malek only ever notices himself.
Beep.
The first buzzer goes, and Malek’s smile widens. I let his grin infect my mind, let it soak into every good moment I’ve had with Rune. I make myself imagine it: him taking every precious future moment away in an instant, just because he can.
Beep.
There are more to come. More buzzers. A clash of cymbals. A shock of darkness and light. Fighters are required to wait. It’s the rule, and no honorable contender would strike before the flashing light, the final note. But if our society allows the murder of defenseless commoners, who are we to say what’s honorable?
I scream, launching Malek with a force of wind that knocks us both off our feet. Only where I stumble, he slams across the arena and against the protective shield. His head snaps back, making a hideous thud against the glass. The crowd screams in protest, the buzzer continuing its automated countdown.
I’m already back on my feet, screaming again, wrapping vines around his body like they’re a hundred vipers. Squeezing harder and harder, so tight on his neck that his skin is purple. His mouth opens, but there’s no sound. For the first time in his life, he’s forced silent and helpless.
“You want to play dirty?” I scream. The words aren’t mine. They’re from a thousand versions of me in time, from a boy who desperately wanted a brother and got a monster instead. Everyounce of anger I’ve harbored in our twenty cycles, pouring out now, amplifying my voice to the entire arena.
I thrust my hands harder, squeezing the vines until I hear bone cracking. The crowd boos, as if they think their judgment will stop me. Nothing but Malek’s lifeless eyes will silence the roaring in my bones, the determination in my blood.
“You want to cheat and lie and thieve? You want to murder and destroy?” My voice has gone hoarse, but I don’t care. It doesn’t matter if the crowd can hear—only that Malek does. I want my hatred to be the last thing he hears. “I’m done following the rules, just to watch you break them. You made an error, targetingher, brother. And it will be the last one you make.”
He loses consciousness, body falling slack. His eyes roll to the back of his head, but I’m still squeezing. I don’t stop, even as they try to pull me away. I’m not sure whotheyare, but I don’t care. I’m staring at my brother’s limp body, falling motionless as the reality of what I’ve done creeps over me. Guards hold my arms at my side, but I could throw them through this whole fucking Tower, if I wanted.
As my breathing slows, I wait for the guilt or horror to flood my senses. Instead, I don’t feel anything at all.
TWENTY-SEVEN
HARRICK
Once I’m released from medical evaluation, I wait in the arena lounge. Compared to most places in the Tower, the decor is muted and boring, looking almost unfinished. There’s a full kitchen on the eastern wall and an array of plush chairs and short tables throughout the remaining space. There’s a bookshelf on the western wall that I’m pretty sure is an entrance to one of the Tower’s emergency tunnels. While I count the minutes, waiting for the official verdict, I study the bookshelf. And yes, there it is: a faint seam in the wall, almost impossible to see from this distance.
“The ice helps more if you put your hands in it,” Tora says, startling me. She strides into the room, wearing the same gown from this morning. Unlike then, she’s put together now. Hair in tight coils and vibrant glitter on her eyes. She glances pointedly at the bucket of ice chips to my left.
She circles the table, knocking my feet off it, and sits on the edge. I pick up the bucket of ice, but I still don’t use it.
“I should have told you I planned to kill him,” I say. I struggle to maintain eye contact, terrified of what she’ll find there. “I thought maybe that’s what you meant earlier, but I didn’t wantyou to talk me out of it if I misunderstood. I just…wanted to end him.”
“I know,” she says softly. She places her hand on my knee, a trembling frown twisting her expression. “He’s alive, Harrick. Alive and going to recover.”
“Fuck!” I don’t mean to scream, but I can’t help it. Of course my brother has to be a literal cockroach. Of course I didn’t do enough to finish him. I shove to my feet, pacing the length of the room.
“On the bright side, the Committee has ruled in favor of your win,” she says. She twists to follow my movements. “The Architect seemed pleased too?—”
“Malek won’t let it happen again,” I cut her off. “Next time will be a true fight to the death, and we both know I won’t survive it.”
“We’ve found your source of power,” Tora says, finally standing. She comes in front of me, blocking my path. I could push past her, but I don’t. I’m craving her reassurance, false as it may be. “You fight for Rune. As if her life depends on it—because itdoes, Harrick.”
