KELEIR HELD THE ruler tightly, though the Alar did not struggle. The man heaved angrily in the Fire Mage’s grasp, too afraid of the blade at his throat to move. “They aren’t listening,” Keleir muttered, casting a glance to Luke. The knight shrugged and shook his head, offering no means for which they could gain control of the city other than pressure the Alar to order them to their knees. Keleir pressed the blade tighter to the Alar’s throat. “Order them to put down their weapons and accept defeat.”
The Alar growled. “So you are the Vel d’Ekaru. Clever actor.”
“I am Keleir Ahriman. Nothing more.”
The Alar turned a desperate glare on Luke. “You cannot let him be king! You cannot let him have the book. This is what he has always wanted! Don’t listen to him! He’s a demon.”
“Shut up!” Keleir barked. “I am not a demon. You brought this on yourself. You locked me away! You threaten Adrid.”
“He will take Mavahan’s throne. He won’t need the Adridian princess to make him king. He will have the book and with it he will have the Artifacts and keys to the universes beyond ours! He will destroy everything. Kill him. You know it is true! I see it in your eyes, boy!”
Luke’s eyes widened, and he turned an unsteady gaze on the Fire Mage. Keleir knew that look well. In seconds, he saw his ally morph into an enemy. He could see the unsettled uncertainty falter in the boy’s eyes as he tried to decide if killing him would protect the world.
“I’m not a monster,” Keleir spat. “I don’t want that stupid book. I don’t want to be king of anything. I just want Saran safe, and an army is coming for Yarin’s head in three days. They will kill her when they kill him, Luke. They will not care what it costs to see the king’s head piked.”
Luke swallowed and turned his eyes back to the Alar.
“Lies,” the Alar growled. “Lies! Clever deceiver. Demon!”
Keleir’s hand shook, and the dagger in his grip wobbled. Luke’s faith faded by the second, and the Fire Mage knew only one way to restore whatever the young turncoat had left …
Keleir gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes. If he killed the Alar, he would be their new king. Claim what is taken—the basis of all Mavish law. That is how this Alar got his power, and the Alar before him. It was the source of the Deadlands curse on their kingdom. The Alars of Mavahan had not been legitimate rules or bound to the Core since stealing the throne centuries ago from the rightful king.
If Keleir killed the Alar to earn his freedom, it would not look like freedom to Luke. Luke would see it as the Oruke grasping for power, and he would turn on the Fire Mage. Keleir would lose what allies he had in Mavahan, and he’d die well before reaching Saran.
“Fuck,” Keleir growled and drew the dagger away from the Alar’s throat. He took a healthy step back, tossing the blade away, and fell into the Alar’s throne with a heavy, sober sigh. Red eyes looked upon the king. Keleir could read the plan forming in the Alar’s mind as if he’d drawn out a map on his face in bright red ink. Keleir settled comfortably into the chair—his grave—accepting of the end after struggling for so long. Better to die a quiet man on a throne than a power-hungry villain.
The Alar snatched the dagger at his feet and lunged for Keleir.
Just as he meant to plunge the dagger into Keleir’s chest, a glinting sword swiped between them, and the Alar’s arm fell away from his body. It landed on the stone flooring with a splattering thump. The Alar screamed and stumbled back into the balcony railing. Luke shoved forward, driving his stolen, bloody sword through the Mavahan ruler’s belly. The Alar toppled over the arena wall, grasping hold of Luke’s tunic. The knight yelped and fell after him. The Fire Mage bolted from the throne as fast as his legs would carry and grabbed hold of Luke’s shirt. The fabric made a horrifying rip, but the Fire Mage managed to drag the knight back from the edge, and the Alar fell screaming to the earthen arena floor.
For a long while, Keleir could only hear the sound of his heart throbbing in his ears and Luke heaving great shocked breaths into his lungs. The poor young knight stared over the arena wall at the Alar’s lifeless body. Slowly Luke lifted his brown eyes to the soldiers around the arena pit and to the crowd in the stands. Luke worked to find his voice before so many eyes, and Keleir gave his shoulder a strong, comforting squeeze.
“Say it,” the Fire Mage goaded.
“I claim what was taken,” Luke said in quivering Mavish. The Fire Mage squeezed harder, like he was squeezing water from a flask, until Luke shouted, “I claim what was taken!”
The crowd murmured among themselves, the murmurs growing louder until they were deafening. Keleir held his breath as they turned angry. In his mind, he’d imagined this part to be the easiest. He imagined they would fall to their knees and accept a new king, as they had all the others before. But who would accept an outlander as meek as Luke Canin?
“Strength,” Keleir urged. “They will only respect strength.” He pushed Luke forward. “Be strong.”
Luke nodded. He bent and lifted the severed arm of the Alar and stepped toward the platform edge. He stood taller, if only by a bit, and held his head higher. He lifted the arm to the sky and cried his right to the people in their native tongue, “I claim what was taken! Blood on my hands. Body at my feet. I am Alar Luke Canin. I am your king.”
The arena went silent, as if every man, woman, and child had lost the ability to speak. They stared at Luke and then between themselves. One by one the people in the stands fell to bended knees, and one by one the soldiers lifted their swords and pressed the blades to their hearts.
Xalen and Aleira locked hands and dropped their bloodied weapons to the sand. They walked through the crowd of stone-still soldiers toward the arena gate and their freedom. It sat beneath the platform that the new Alar stood upon, and they had to step over the lifeless body of the old one to cross its threshold.
Beyond the arena, the sun began to drift into night. The day ended, and Mavahan welcomed its new king.