Grimstaf X had seen enough death that morning, yet the Magnates wanted more. Enough blood, but the blood-crazed people wanted more. The Sun was just reaching its full shine in the infinite eastern slit before it entered the clouds, reflecting off the bloodstains decorating the arena like a mirage of battle fear. The stone floor had drunk its fill of violence this morning. Cytha’s mind was already too numbed for the day to be intimidated or sickened by it, however. She glanced around at her companions, eight, who would be fighting for final place.

  The announcer, Magnate Hevseth, beckoned them out, and Cytha looked up as they strode from the waiting area to see a black-robed man with black wings, hovering above the Magnates. For some reason, he looked familiar . . . could it be?

  “Our guest here is the Harbinger from Above,” said Hevseth, “And he will be overseeing this final round to choose a winner. This victor shall be granted the privilege and burden of Ascending into the Earth.”

  The remaining contestants spread out at the center of the arena, and the Magnates motioned them back until each was standing at one of eight black markers. The one near Cytha smelled of charred blood, as Magnate Kilshah had burnt the circular marks into the stone following the second round of the tournament. The kept the same weapons, so Cytha wore her iron claws over both hands. The bladed tines reached just past her natural Eclipsis claws, and thus extended nearly a full handspan past her knuckles when she clenched them.

  The wind had stilled to a faint breeze, felt only upon her thin, leathery wings. Even the wind is holding its breath, she thought wryly, eyeing the opponents on either side of her. The birdmaster boy, Pock the Beastborn, was across from her. He was her greatest concern. The elementalists had largely come in after her initial round, so she hadn’t had to fight any till the second game. On her left now was the Dustborn, the only other woman left, some five or six years Cytha’s senior. She was tall, a healthy and well-fed member of the Noctis Order, not as scrappy as some. Wingless, her main fighting skills appeared to come from a high level of experience with her Kinship. On Cytha’s right was the remaining Cragborn, a thickly built Eclipsis with a bat head, just like Magnate Kilshah of the Eclipsis.

  Cytha decided on the woman for her opponent. Kilshah gave the call to begin, and Cytha rushed her way. Seeing her coming, the Dustborn gave her a greeting snarl and rolled one shoulder, silently raising dust and pebbles from the ground about her in a vibrating tide. The effect was disorienting, but her wings swiftly took shape, massive branching wings like a butterfly, with clawlike protrusions. They rushed each other, and Cytha flapped her bat wings, rising to glide down upon her opponent with clawed hands extended to either side.

  The Dustborn made a dusty evasion, sweeping the debris of her wings into Cytha’s eyes. It nearly blinded her, and she scrambled back, dodging to the side as a second sweep, this time a direct wing attack, nearly caught her. She could feel the greater tension in the air from it, the dust staying contained in her wing unlike the first sweep.

  As the dust cleared, Cytha saw the elementalist circling her, watching to see what she would do. Cytha leapt in once more, closer now than she was at first. She made it almost to her before a dusty wing beat against her, firm and only barely breaking against her. It blew her to the ground, but she caught herself and scampered around the woman’s blind spot, aiming a claw slice at her lower back. With a gasp, the woman turned and received instead a raking blow on her arm, the one not gripping her spear.

  Cytha lunged in again, but felt the ground quake below her. Both women were thrown off their feet as stones were pulled out from underneath. Sure enough, the Cragborn glided up, hands moving in time with the chunks of stone which he held airborne over his victims. Using her opponent’s surprise against her, Cytha moved in to snag the Dustborn’s wounded arm and swing around her, pivoting her body directly into the path of a two-hundred-pound stone. Cytha did not question how this man was able to move such weighty stones, far greater in mass than any such feats she’d seen before, but instead used it as it came. The poor woman was crushed to the ground, her arm jerking from Cytha’s grasp. She let her go, hands slick with her blood, and turned to face the Cragborn.

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  He was now approaching at a run, a greatsword in hand, still holding stones in the air in front of him. Cytha evaded his shots as he fired a few more, then ducked in underneath his sword swing, grabbing his thick leg with one wing while she clawed his lower abdomen. The incisions produced a high-pitched hiss from the batman’s fanged head. Cytha let his leg go just before he could slice her wing, circling farther behind him. She tried to climb one of his own wings, but had to duck as he nearly crushed her with a mass of stones. She retreated as he formed vague wing forms in front of his wings and beat his right wing, spinning toward her. She didn’t know if Cragborns could fly with their powers, but it was a creative use of the small stones in any case.

  Her foe powered forward with his greatsword, and she was on the defensive once more. There was no blocking such a weapon with simple claws, and the range of it endangered her black wings. As he swept downward for the third time, however, she guided his arm away from her with her wing and slipped in, once again ducking his own wing, and proceeded to shimmy up his back. As he struggled and grabbed at her, she reached under his chin and sliced with her claws—once, twice, three times. Now he was grabbing not at her, but at his own throat, only succeeding in coating his hands in his lifeblood as she had done.

  For a moment, as she felt the Cragborn’s strength ebbing away and listened to his pathetic attempt at a cry or shout, she wondered numbly if she’d really just done that. She slipped down his back, landing hard on her rump while he sank to his knees, and stared at her left hand, which was stained red. He would have killed me too. Just like that woman . . .

  The Dustborn had crawled from the rock, back likely broken, and medics were now picking her up to get her the attention she needed. At least the game directors had some manner of basic mercy. Unlike Cytha. Over the dead Cragborn’s body, she saw that there were only two more contestants standing: The Beastborn and the Dewborn. The Dewborn was bleeding from numerous wounds, wings swirling like midair whirlpools as he repelled the other man’s wild sword lunges and flock of black birds.

  Cytha watched warily, slowly stepping around her slain foe. Before she neared the battle, however, the Dewborn’s watery “shield” broke following another vicious stab from Pock’s saber. The water fell from the air and the Dewborn—the larger of the two—slumped backward, clutching his chest with a pained hiss. Medics hovered just outside the battlefield’s bounds, looking to the Magnates to see whether they should go in after the fallen man. Pock gave him a moment, twirling his blade in an almost idle gesture, and then looked Cytha’s way, eyeing her up.

  She stared him down. She couldn’t tell how young he was, but he couldn’t have been past his late twenties, and he was not much bigger than her. His hair was a wild tangle, his eyes displaying the same animalic madness that his fighting did. All Beastborn were said to be like that, but in his case the rumors were entirely true. Neither spoke anything nor made a move, but their imminent clash was more a fact than a question.

  Suddenly, a deep voice roared like a lion from above: “Stop!”

  All eyes turned upward to see the Harbinger, now in the form of the massive, black-haired creature, treading air on his sweeping wings of night. One of the Magnates motioned to the medics, and they swooped in to grab the wounded Dewborn.

  Why now, though? Cytha wondered. Why not finish this? Even the Magnates seemed a bit confused.

  “The games are done,” spoke the Harbinger. “We have eliminated the chaff from the Bat Tribe’s selection, and have arrived at a superior party worthy to Ascend.”

  Cytha’s eyes flicked back to Pock the Beastborn, who stared back now with the same confusion she felt. “We’re, uh . . . you and me, then?”

  He scoffed. “Together? Not a chance.” His voice was thin and ragged, somehow suiting such a one perfectly.

  Neither made a move, of course. For the Harbinger had spoken, and disobeying him seemed unwise.

  “Cytha of the Eclipsis and Pock of the Madrugada shall ascend together into the Earth,” Hevseth said with a note of finality. “This is the decision of the Harbinger and the Magnates, and cannot be contested. On behalf of the Nebula Magnates, congratulations to you both. You will leave on the morrow.”