Leon flew, panting and afraid, through the arena. He couldn’t sense Jheras at all. It was obvious from the chaos below that something had happened, that the Games had taken place. Where was Jheras? His large eyes frantically scanned the arena, looking for any sign of his friend, even though he knew it would be impossible to spot a single fae from this range…
Lyra glided after Leon, her larger wings carrying her easily on the breeze. She could see so many lights below them. So many shards. It was just like the first time, the day she met Iah. But there was something strange about the souls this time. They weren’t fading at all. Someone was holding them in place?
Jheras clung desperately to the power of the earth, bracing himself against his staff. He could sense it. Something awful had worked its way into the arena. He was already spent, and he knew it, from holding the life-magic in place for four days without rest, from supporting so many at once. But he had worked hard on this arena, on making it something like the patriarch had envisioned: a place where dragons could train and fight together without fear of lasting harm. “I will not allow some fallen phantom to take that from us,” he hissed, drawing deeper from his reserves than he ever had before. All the magic in the place, he had put it there. It belonged to him. It was him. “Come out!”
Something shone suddenly through the gathering dusk, startling the two flying fae. It came from a small cliff that overlooked the arena. “Jheras!” Leon shouted, diving toward the light. A moment later he was backpedaling furiously as something coiled up from the ground, a great shadow with fiery eyes. A small dragon stood beneath it, shining the strangest of roseate hues.
Jheras stared deep into the phantom’s orange eyes. “I know you,” he whispered, “and you are not welcome here.” He tapped his staff on the ground once, twice. Rose-colored light curled up the gnarled wood and splintered over his skin. It cut deep, but he couldn’t feel it anymore, and he didn’t care. He was beyond pain, just as he had gone beyond exhaustion long ago. The phantom reached for him. He held up his hand, and touched its claw.
Leon watched in terrified astonishment as the shadow twisted, cracked, and then simply melted away. He had also recognized that shadow. He’d seen it once, just once, in the old arena. How was it here? Then he remembered Jheras.
Lyra was already crouched beside the sky-winged fae when Leon landed beside her. Jheras had fallen where he stood. Raw, liquid magic trickled from his closed eyes and the wounds along his arms, mingling with the blood. He wasn’t moving.
“Lyra, is he…?” Leon didn’t want to finish the question.
The female fae looked up, then turned her aquamarine gaze back on the enchanter. “He’s breathing, for what it’s worth,” she said. “I do not know how. By all rights, his very soul should have shattered from the strain of what he just did…”
“Can you help him?” Leon asked. He gently touched Jheras’s wrist, reassuring himself that there was indeed a pulse.
Lyra shook her head. “I can tend the cuts on his arms, perhaps. But without access to medicine, this is far beyond my skill. Give me a hand. We need to get him home.”
--
The soul-seer left the two in Silver’s more capable care, slipping away silently as soon as their attention was focused away from her. She felt bad, leaving them like this, but it wasn’t like she could help much, anyway. Besides, she tried to tell herself, it’s for a friend. Sussuri would owe her quite the favor for the news and soul shards she brought.
