Stormbringer dreamwalker.., p.4
Stormbringer (Dreamwalker Book 1), page 4
My stomach somersaulted in hopeful delight. “Seriously?”
“It takes time to adjust down here. Better to have some company while you do.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, but in that moment, I was already smitten with Rowan. I followed him through the Pit like a duckling, drawing intense stares from inhabitants lurking nearby. At this time of night, the only people out and about were those who thrived in darkness—not that the locals ever saw much daylight down here. Rowan and I passed countless little shops packed with junk and salvage, boarded with plywood, or barred with iron grating to protect shopkeepers. Propaganda was plentiful, expressing deep-seated hatred of the mundanes, the CEA, and the Council, but so was the street art, the vibrancy and creativity of which reminded me all too well of the arts district in the upper city.
It occurred to me as we walked that the Burial Pit was not simply a large, underground bunker like I had previously imagined. Casters who had flocked here over the last several decades had transformed these tunnels and soulless ruins into a flourishing city suitable for both habitation and recreation. From makeshift homes and businesses to neon-lit lounges and library nooks, casters had reclaimed Old Eth Nalore and shaped it with every ounce of stubborn persistence they possessed. I had nothing but respect for these people.
By the time we reached our destination, fatigue had caught up with me. I watched in weary interest as Rowan led me up to a massive, half-buried structure with shattered stained glass windows and relief work scrawled into the black stone exterior. This could have been a town hall, I thought, or perhaps a library; it was difficult to determine when so little of the original structure remained. Propped up against the wall was a sign that proclaimed in bold red letters DO NO HARM.
Rowan pushed open the heavy door and ushered me into the building. Candles flickered into view all around the room, dimly illuminating ornate columns, archways, and rib vaulting that had either collapsed or been swallowed by the earth in the Winter Burial. The black marble floor, similarly, had suffered its fair share of strain, cracked as it was in so many places. I stood and gawked and tried to wrap my mind around the notion of casters and mundanes dismantling this beautiful building and burying it far beneath our feet as if it were nothing more than a casket full of bones to inter. It didn’t seem possible.
And yet, here it was, sound and sturdy enough to host nearly a hundred people within its walls. My eyes roved over them all as they sat scattered across the floor, heads bowed, hands lifted as if in prayer.
Because this hadn’t been a town hall or a library. At the back of the room stood a silvered statue of the goddess Cygnus, her figure curled around a large, shallow basin of water reminiscent of the full moon.
I could barely spit out the words. “This is…”
“Her old cathedral,” Rowan murmured reverently.
Candlelights glittered in his eyes.
4
DARKWATER
The morning of my final preliminary match arrived with little fanfare.
It began with my alarm, which I spent several drowsy moments attempting to turn off. Nerves had kept me awake long into the night, hammering me with detailed thoughts of all the ways I could fail in the arena. Eventually, exhaustion dragged me down into a restless sleep—one that I could still feel in my temples and the backs of my eyes as I splashed myself awake with cold water. My stomach had already tied itself into a neat little knot, refusing any sustenance more substantial than a protein shake, which I nursed while I paced the apartment, glued to my phone.
My first text was from Darren, who informed me he would be at the match to handle ‘the aftermath,’ however it transpired. Second was a text from Micah, who checked in to ensure I was feeling okay and then gently reminded me to hydrate. Finally came a cheery text from Gahera, offering her love and encouragement.
Laced between these were notifications and messages from admirers and fellow competitors—some who were competing in the finals and some who were not. I even received a lovely message from my designer and tailor, Diana Avila, wishing me the best of luck. This wasn’t the first time I’d received such an outpouring of support, but it felt all the more impactful this morning, what with so much at stake.
Finally, at nine on the dot, I received the information I’d been waiting for: the final bracket. I hungrily searched for my name and found, to my relief, that I was matched up against a Hydrocaster. Zak Sirin, the Darkwater. The name wasn’t immediately familiar, but I was glad to face a Hydro instead of an Earth, Flame, or Blood.
It was ten in the morning when Micah swung by to pick me up. I had dressed in my best high-performance gear—sleek black trimmed with gold scales on the shoulders—tied my hair back from my face, and applied a layer of shimmery gold pigment over my eyelids. I completed the look with a bold liner.
Before I left, I stopped by the small shrine I kept on my bedroom dresser, where a tiny, silvered idol of Cygnus stood, her arms curled lovingly around a marble moon. Before her, laid like an offering, were artificial moonflowers and sprigs of fresh night-blooming jasmine, the best I could find in Eth Nalore.
“Wish me luck,” I whispered to the idol, and then I went down to meet Micah.
He was dressed all in denim, as usual, his hair hanging loose down to his jawline. “Got everything?” he asked me. “ID? Phone?”
I patted the respective pockets. “I think so.”
Satisfied, he pulled away from the curb. “You seen the bracket?”
“Yeah. Darkwater. I don’t recognize that name, but I’d sooner take a Hydro than another Earth.”
“It’s strange. He seems to have come out of nowhere,” Micah mused. “I wasn’t able to find much footage of him. Not sure if that’s part of his contract, or…what.”
“What about his last match?” I asked. “Any footage?”
He shook his head. “No. Nothing accessible to the public, anyway. Must be a clause in his contract. That’s the only thing I can think of.”
“But all matches are aired,” I pointed out.
“Aired, yes, but not all of them are required to be rebroadcast for public viewing.”
I frowned, watching storefronts and passersby glide past my window. “Why would Darkwater not want his matches rebroadcast?”
“To keep his competitors from studying his methods.”
My heart dropped into my stomach. “How the hell is that fair?”
“It’s not. But Spectrum still allows it.” He gave me a sidelong look. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like you could’ve prepared for him anyway.”
He was right. For high-profile matches such as these, brackets were usually not announced until the day of the match to ensure one competitor did not hold a sizable advantage over the other. For normal, everyday matches, brackets were announced as far as a week in advance. Even with footage available, I wouldn’t have been able to prepare for Zak Sirin—not properly.
Still, the notion that he deliberately went out of his way to safeguard his methods from potential opponents was nothing short of disconcerting. This was not the strategy of a caster who sought to reap attention from adoring fans. This was the strategy of a competitor hell-bent on winning.
On the drive to the stadium, I choreographed fights in my head, trying to accommodate for all possibilities. In the arena, Hydros tended to utilize ice more than water, as it made a more definitive weapon than its liquid counterpart. Speed and evasion would likely be my best defense. Micah offered his own advice, reminding me to keep my eyes on my opponent at all times. Ice projectiles were far harder to track than stones or flames; one distracted look and I could be impaled before I even knew what hit me.
We arrived at Spectrum an hour before my match. Micah escorted me into the lobby, where a riotous group of onlookers met us, brandishing their arms over the barrier as they fought one another for the best camera angle. Hand-painted signs jostled overhead, proclaiming support for several competitors, myself included. Micah and I waved at them but did not approach. I wasn’t about to be hooked into an interview without Darren present.
Darren himself was awaiting us on a bench near my private suite, peddling his publicity from the palm of his hand. His thumbs attacked his phone screen with all the zeal of a competitive gamer, but he stopped when he saw us coming and jumped immediately to his feet.
“Stormbringer! Right on time. You ready for this, man?”
“As ready as I’m going to be,” I said.
He gave Micah his usual perfunctory greeting and then hooked his arm around my shoulders, directing me to my suite. I swiped my ID, allowing Darren and Micah to precede me into the room. I shut the door behind me.
“So here’s the deal,” said Darren, helping himself to a drink from my kitchenette and plopping himself down on the couch. “No talking to anyone until after the match. Got it? Once you’re done, we’ll clean you up and set you down in front of Mia Larson for a quickie. Exclusive. Nothing you can’t handle, I promise. Sound good so far?”
“I guess.”
He nodded, pausing to take a swig of his drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Keep things civil. Civil and vague. We don’t need you to have a heart-to-heart with the camera, though it wouldn’t hurt to mention an influence or two. You know how this works.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Once the interview’s done, I want you to spend a little time with the fans. Sign some autographs, take some pics, kiss some babies, whatever. Evans, I need you there, too.”
Micah turned from the window, scowling. “I’m not the one competing.”
“Doesn’t matter. People go nuts for the coach-athlete dynamic, and we’re gonna milk it for every cent it’s worth. Besides, people still remember you. There’s no such thing as a retired champion, Shockhunter.”
Micah bristled, looking ready to throw a punch. He shot me an icy glower and then forced his gaze back out the window, his shoulders hiked up with tension. Darren, smiling smugly, took another draft from his drink.
“And that’s it, really,” he finished. “There’s more stuff, but we’ll wait until after you win to cover all that. Any questions?”
“None that I can think of.”
“Good. Then go kick some ass, Stormbringer.”
***
Micah and I were, for the moment, alone in the locker room.
I took advantage of the privacy to warm myself up. There was nothing like a good routine—a tangible task—to keep my nerves at bay. Micah joined me, if only to stop pacing.
It occurred to me that this was now the most definitive moment of his career as a coach. Sure, he had elevated me from rookie to champion, but anyone with enough skill and persistence could attain that. For his protégé to compete in the Invocation was another feat entirely.
These thoughts were on the verge of tanking my confidence when I received the five-minute warning chime from an overhead speaker. Shortly afterward, the voice of today’s commentator rang throughout the stadium, audible even to our ears.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the preliminary finals for the 3053 Invocation tournament! We’ve seen a lot of gripping battles this past week as we narrow the competition down to just twenty-four talented champions, who will then move on to face each other in a single-elimination tournament. Trust me when I say you don’t want to miss this.”
After a short round of clamorous cheers from the audience, the commentator continued, “We’re kicking off today’s finals with a match between dark horse challenger Zak Sirin, known as the Darkwater, and illustrious superstar Nikkeah Taranis, the Stormbringer. Last week, we saw Taranis smite Earthcaster Griff Cadigan while Sirin snuffed out Flamecaster Anastasia Alvarez. If you happened to miss those matches, they’ll be streaming later tonight on SBN.”
I made my way into the corridor toward the arena entrance, pulse quickening. At the door, Micah turned me around and clapped his hands down on my shoulders.
“You’ve got this,” he assured me. “Just keep your eyes open and don’t get overconfident. The rest will come naturally.”
Another chime from the overhead speakers announced the start of the match. The arena door slid open, flooding the corridor with the roar of a ravenous crowd. Micah gave my shoulders a supportive squeeze and then stepped back.
I fixed my expression into one of humble pride and marched out onto the field, the bright white stadium lights nearly blinding me. The stadium, I noticed, had reached almost half capacity—an upgrade from last week’s match. Hundreds of tiny lights glittered across the crowd as spectators snapped photos from their seats.
Strutting toward me was Zak Sirin, a twenty-something challenger whose appearance aptly suited his title. He had the look of a drowned creature, a mop of limp, dark hair shadowing his sallow face, and rheumy eyes sunken into his skull. His gear seemed to hang off his body like a second skin. I wondered if he was sick and then felt a surge of hopeful anticipation. Perhaps his illness would give me an advantage.
It was a nasty thing to hope for, but all the same, Zak clearly thought himself well enough to compete. I’d have likely done the same were the roles reversed. No champion in their right mind would forfeit now.
We met at the center of the field beside the referee and shook hands. Zak’s grip was tremulous, and I began to feel the first inklings of guilt trickle through me. I was about to raze a competitor who looked seriously ill. What satisfaction was there in that?
But we were already taking our places, positioning ourselves roughly fifteen feet apart while the commentator conveyed our movements to the audience. I slipped my shield glasses into place, the dark lenses dimming the stadium’s glare. The referee assessed us, raised his arms high, and swept them down, his whistle blaring sharply.
A dozen icy daggers jetted toward me with such speed that they’d have inflicted serious damage on me if I hadn’t already been retreating far out of range. As it was, they left punctures in my gear and shattered uncomfortably in my face. In the brief seconds before I reacted to this, Zak was there, raining hell down upon me. He banished me into the air, where needles of ice fell in sheets above me. I banked and evaded, trusting my gear to keep me safe from the worst of the punctures.
“Darkwater explodes into action!” the commentator’s voice blared.
While I rode the currents, I gathered lightning into my hands. Zak was still planted firmly on the ground, his arms writhing as he continued to fling glinting projectiles my way. Keep your eyes open, I reminded myself, but it was easier said than done. Zak gave me no quarter. I would have to strike on the move—preferably from the ground, as I was beginning to realize that forcing me into the air had likely been his plan from the start. As long as I was airborne, I was twice as vulnerable. I couldn’t give him that advantage.
So I angled my trajectory downward, condensing my magic and waiting for him to strike. But while I saw his arms moving, I did not see any projectiles coming at me from below. A brief glance upward confirmed my suspicions; I darted to the left and narrowly evaded an icy comet that would have likely snapped my spine or given me a concussion had it impacted. It smashed into the earth instead, sending icy shrapnel exploding in all directions, some of which stung my face like frigid bullets.
I hit the ground at a run, pooling more magic into my palms. I was suddenly desperate to land a strike—any strike, so long as it gave me a reprieve from Zak’s relentless onslaught.
No, I thought restlessly. I couldn’t get impatient. If Zak wanted to play offense, then I’d wait him out until he wore himself down.
“Darkwater keeping up the pressure,” observed the commentator. “Stormbringer hasn’t had much room to maneuver…”
I focused my energy on deflecting shards, backhanding them with controlled gusts. Some of them I managed to reflect back at Zak, but he commandeered them before they struck and sent them careening in my direction once more. My breaths, quick and shallow, were fogging the air. The temperature had dropped sharply.
Underfoot, the grass became slick with thick frost. My boots were not tailored for such conditions, and so, caught in motion, I slipped and fell hard onto my front. I immediately rolled aside on instinct just as an icy stalactite impaled the ground where I fell. I scrambled upright, trying to gain traction on grass that had all but frozen over. Panic sent my heart lurching into my throat. I had gravely underestimated my opponent.
Moments after I managed to get airborne again, piercing cold shot into my lower back as Zak struck me with an unseen projectile. With a swell of rage and impatience, I whirled and unleashed my first spear of the match, thrusting it down at Zak’s feet. That was clearly one blow he hadn’t expected, for he staggered backward, slipped, and landed flat on his ass on the frozen field.
I pushed my advantage. I was angry now, humiliated beyond belief. Even Griff hadn’t been this infuriating to deal with. Drawing on air currents, I propelled myself forward, charging straight for Zak. A ball of lightning coalesced in my hand. I swept low, aimed—
—and crashed straight into a sudden wall of ice.
The impact shattered the wall and grounded me instantly. I barely had time to shield my face before the shards came raining down in glinting needles and hailstones. Overhead, the crowd roared in exhilaration, and the commentator’s voice pitched toward urgency. The speed with which Zak had cast that wall unnerved me, and yet his energy didn’t appear to be flagging at all.
But I had no time to dwell on it. Zak was on his feet and advancing toward me with all the menace of a stalking jaguar. Rotating above one hand was a stake of ice, glimmering with a strange violet tint. I would have thought it a trick of the light had the ice surrounding me not radiated the same hue.
“Surrender,” he said in a raspy voice. I almost didn’t hear him over the crowd’s cacophony. “Surrender, and you’ll leave the arena in one piece.”
Threats like Zak’s usually came from competitors who were young and cocky or felt they were approaching their limit. I suspected it was the latter for Zak. He was trembling and white-faced, practically cadaverous.
