Fire burns through my bones. It pours through my arm like lava, sluggishly spilling into my chest and dripping through my limbs in an intense, concentrated heat. Shirasil lets go of me, and I sink to the ground, squeezing my wrist as if I can cut off the burning sensation that’s crawling up my arm.

But it doesn’t hurt. Like the fire that had fueled my revenge, this heat is blinding and fierce, yet also empowering. A lifeforce of its own. I grit my teeth against the intense sensation, turning my hand over to look at the spot Shirasil had held. There’s a black brand there: a spell circle like the one Maru had marked me with. I rub my thumb over it, as if that can smear the lines away. At my touch, the spell circle illuminates with the green light of my magic, and the heat within the rest of me dims, coalescing at my wrist. A green mist spills from Shirasil’s mark like one of my smoke bombs. Instead of dissipating into the room, however, it hovers before my hand. No, in the shape of a hand.

[Noxious Gauntlet activated,] Echo says.

A ghostly green claw is layered over what’s left of my hand. Two glowing fingers of mist encircle my thumb and pinkie like a glove, while three more ethereal claws float in the space where my lost fingers should be. The fire under my skin dies down to a flickering heat. I flex my hand in awe, and the wispy hand flexes, too. I imagine squeezing the hand into a fist, and the mist obeys.

I shake my head. Deactivate, I think, and the hand vanishes. The warmth vanishes from my bones, leaving them feeling cold and numb. Only Shirasil’s mark still glows with a faint, tempting warmth.

“See? Not so bad!” Shirasil says. “My, you can be so dramatic.”

“I don’t want this,” I croak.

“Please, it’s a gift,” Shirasil insists, as if speaking to a child. “Given freely. Think of it as a present from a friend.”

I hold my arm to my chest, glaring at him. “We’re not friends.”

“Oh,” he says with a grin. “I think you’ll come around.”

I slump in defeat, looking at my hands. Am I still human? What did he do to me? I Check myself over, but there’s only two changes to my stat sheet:

[Title: Demigod]

[Allegiance: Shirasil]

“Whoops,” Shirasil says, chuckling to himself. He flicks a finger my way. “Let’s set that one to Private as well. Can’t have Widengra realizing I was the one interfering with his Champion, after all.”

[Allegiance set to private,] Echo reports.

I glare up at him. “I won’t do this. I won’t be your puppet.”

He snorts. “I should hope not. That wouldn’t be any fun!”

“I’ll go back to the Starlight Inn,” I say. “Live a quiet life. I won’t use your gifts or become your weapon.”

The smile vanishes from Shirasil’s face. “Is that what you want?”

“Maybe,” I say.

“You’d be happy cooking simple meals in a simple inn the rest of your days?” he asks. “Becoming a slave to your Role?”

“Better than a slave to you,” I shoot back.

“Hm.” He looks displeased, which I count as a victory. “Alright then. I’m willing to call that bluff. Make your choice.”

He walks toward the study’s double doors, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve four minutes left until Widengra leaves. I’ll be taking mine now. But don’t expect the gods and their champions to ignore your existence just because you’ve decided to throw in the towel. You’re involved, whether you like it or not. For your sake, and for my entertainment, try not to die.”

Instead of pushing the doors open, Shirasil simply steps through them. They ripple, like the surface of a lake momentarily disturbed by a skipped stone, then shudder back into stillness once more. I wait another ten heartbeats, but he doesn’t come back.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I gasp in a shuddering breath, shaking from fear and anger. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, unable to settle on anything that’s happened within the last half hour. Lisari. Talia. Jules. Maru. Widengra. Shirasil. And now I’m his Champion? What does that even mean? What will he make me do?

It all devolved so quickly.

I take a couple of steadying breathes. Shirasil is gone. Maru is dead. And I’m still alive. At least there’s that. At least I can still walk out of here today.

I look up at the door. Is it safe to venture back outside? Shirasil’s last warning rings in my ears. Widengra is still out there, and now he knows my face.

Weariness sinks into me all at once. I just want to lie down, pull a blanket over my head, and shut myself away from the world. I just want to be somewhere warm and quiet and safe. I want to be back at the Starlight Inn. I want to be in Iski and Gugora’s embrace. And maybe I still can. But first, I need to make it out of here.

With a tired groan, I push myself to my feet, heading for the same doors Shirasil vanished through. I grimace, leaning against the frame. I’m out of potions. Weaponless. I’ll have to hope I can find a crowd to blend into. Despite all of Shirasil’s warnings and ‘help,’ I feel woefully unprepared. Still, staying hidden in a storage closet all day only delays the inevitable. I push on the door.

At my touch, they both swing open. Only, what’s on the other side isn’t the underbelly of the Stadium. I blink rapidly and take a step back, trying to make sense of the double-vision I’m presented with.

On the left is the stadium—the seats of the stadium, as if I’m already sitting in the bleachers. A stir of whispers and unnerved murmurs is rustling through the crowd.

“The guards are saying there’s been an attack,” a dryad tells their companion.

“Someone in the spectator box was killed,” another says.

“What? Impossible. The Champion is up there.”

“Sabotage.”

“A coup.”

“Rumors. Merely rumors.”

“What’s going on?”

This last voice I know, and my heart leaps when I pick the goblin out of the crowd.

“Are we too late?” Iski asks. “Why aren’t the fights happening?”

“Sal,” Gugora says. “A young girl. Have you seen her?”

The nearby spectators shrug at their questions, disinterested. “One of the candidates damaged the field; they’re repairing it. Should be starting back up again soon.”

“But a girl,” Gugora asks in desperation. “One of the candidates. Is she…”

“I don’t recall,” the spectator says, waving him away. “Say, did you hear anything about what’s happening with the guards?”

I nearly step through the image. Something about the vision tells me that if I do, I’ll be there, outside, able to sweep Iski and Gugora into a hug. And I yearn for that comfort and safety.

At the same time, an image appears in the doorway on the right. This setting is more dimly lit, and I immediately recognize the underbelly of the stadium. A shadow moves along the lattice: Cyros. The dryad moves silently, his wooden surroundings ushering him along and bending to assist his climb. There’s a gash in the stadium floor ahead of him: he’s making for the nearly-repaired hole.

For a moment, I’m confused by his presence. So much has happened in the last hour. Then I recall his promise before I was pulled into the tournament: he’s here to help me.

I scowl at the sights. There’s only one way out of this room, and Shirasil has made his message clear: I need to pick which way I’ll be leaving.

“Ass,” I mutter, glancing between the options.

Cyros will be fine. I don’t know what his plan is, but he can take care of himself. Gugora and Iski need to know I’m okay. The choice is clear.

The room shakes, a layer of dust snowing down from the rafters. Gugora and Iski whip around, while Cyros looks up. Everyone stops in their tracks.

“You all.”

I hear the words twice, first from Cyros’s side, and a moment later echoed through Iski and Gugora’s door. It’s coming from somewhere on the stadium field: from Widengra.

From Iski and Gugora’s side, I can make out a new figure on the arena field. The god is looming over the candidates still gathered there. In a panic, I touch my forehead, but Maru’s mark is gone. I’m safe.

But no one out there is.

“So you’re the pathetic excuse for candidates Maru could scrape together,” Widengra says. He doesn’t seem to be speaking loudly, but his voice reaches everywhere. A stir goes through the crowd. First it’s only a few, then it’s dozens, hundreds, nearly all of them: the crowd throws themselves to their feet, bowing before the deity. Even Gugora and Iski are on their knees, heads tucked low. Cyros doesn’t bow; beneath the stadium floor, he doesn’t dare move.

I grind my teeth. If Shirasil is right that not all gods are the same, that some are worth the worship they receive—well, Widengra’s certainly not one of them.

Several of the candidates on the field have also prostrated themselves. A handful seem unsure.

“Disappointing,” Widengra says. “I’d expected more.”

His blood whips out, almost too fast to track, then all the still-standing candidates collapse to the ground. On Cyros’s side, blood begins to drip between the boards in the ceiling. Even then, he doesn’t twitch a muscle.

If Widengra realizes he’s down there eavesdropping and not bowing reverently, what would he do?

Nothing good.

I glance again at Gugora and Iski. They came here looking for me. They don’t owe me anything—they’ve barely known me for two months—but they still wanted to help.

A big part of me wants to go to them. To follow through on Shirasil’s challenge. To really just give all this up and live a quiet, happy life at the Starlight Inn, with new friends, who might not be a new family, but could become one.

But Shirasil and I both know that’s just a fantasy. I won’t do it, not while there’s gods like Widengra out there who will kill me on sight. Not while unjust gods like him are still breathing.

That said, I don’t have to play Shirasil’s game either. Pick a side? No. I don’t have to pick just one.

“Hold on,” I tell Iski and Gugora. “Just a little longer.”

Then I turn to Cyros and jump through.