“I don’t believe it.”

Ellsworth rose. Color was returning to his cheeks in one steady pulse after another. When he stood, his legs were firm.

“I don’t believe it,” Lord Yoquin repeated. “He’s… he’s done it. Capulet’s [Second Wind] is over. He’s finished.”

Finn was stunned. Sparks were being born in his chest, and he watched them go, scatter and glow. He stood as one might stand in the fragile calm after a tempest, wary and watchful for the storm winds to whisper and then howl back to life. He scarcely let himself dare to hope—could it really be over?

Then, he felt the caress of an emotion and turned in the direction Omri was looking. A numbness came over him, a suspicion of what he might see. He saw Dekker’s body… Dekker’s tether… blood, weapons… and then, in the far corner of the pit… he saw Rian.

The tether had been butchered, but Finn had expected that. Rian had taken as many wounds as Ellsworth had, but this was different. Tethers could not die from physical wounds. One barely noticed a bandaged arm, or a cut, or a burn, when one crossed a tether in the street. This was different.

Rian was translucent.

He was still there, but he had started to… blur. His form had begun to fade, as if one was staring at him from beneath the surface of a murky lake, or through mist, as if he was the mist. Finn knew what this was—everyone did—, but he had somehow managed to avoid ever having to witness it. Until now.

Rian had exceeded his [chaos]-meter. He had drawn on too much, filtered too much, and now he was dissolving, drowning in [chaos].

[Chaos] was a law of the natural world. It was wild, everything the name implied. Tethers could tap into that raw, untamed energy, filtering it into something harnessable for their masters, but not without respect for what it was, for their own limits. Whenever a student became too impulsive, too reckless with their usage, Master Wendell would remind them of the dangers, would remind them one could never become too comfortable with [chaos], regardless of the form—wild, or harnessed.

When Finn had been eight years old, the morning after a storm had ravaged Aonenbridge, Master Wendell had taken him and a few other sons and daughters of Aonenbridge outside, just before daybreak. The sun had not fully risen yet, and Finn had been entrusted with the proud task of carrying the lamp to light their way. It was a beautiful glass lamp, carrying the insignia of his House—the Mink and the Mallet. Even at such a young age, Finn had been able to appreciate the delicate craftsmanship.

Wendell had taken them just outside the walls of Aonenbridge and had shown them a spot where lightning had split a tree in half and scorched the ground beneath. Then he’d taken the lamp from Finn’s hands and smashed the glass on the ground. Finn had tried to be brave in front of the others, but the flames had begun to spread, burning an even larger area than the lightning had. He and the other children had wept and asked Master Wendell to put the flames out. Wendell had done so, then explained. If you let the glass crack, if you let the flame catch and spread too far, it would be just as difficult to control as any lightning storm.

[Chaos] was like this. It was always to be respected, always to be feared. One simple crack, one reckless usage, and there would be consequences.

Tethers, it was said, did not have to be taught this. Their fear was innate. Omri, who had been a tether since the age of six, had once told Finn that the fear never went away, not even somewhat. Certain pious sects took this innate fear to mean that tethers were, in fact, a corruption, a mistake made eons ago. A price would have to be paid, they said. Energy taken had to be replaced, and the scales would balance, in the end. Finn had once mentioned this to Omri, had once asked him about the innate fear.

Once, never again.

He’d seen something in Omri’s eyes that day that frightened even him.

One thing was clear to Finn. Something happened when one became a tether—when one’s eyes went white—something that made them fear death more than anything else. He wasn’t sure if it was a fear of retribution, of some sort of judgment, or if it went beyond the comprehensible.

Either way, watching Rian begin to fade into nothingness, Finn knew Wendell’s comparison about lightning strikes and glass lamps did not do it justice.

He had known Ellsworth had this technique. Ellsworth had told him about it once, had called it the most vile technique in the world. In some ways, it was the antithesis to Capulet’s [Second Wind]. Whereas Capulet had sacrificed his [Lifeblood] for more [chaos], Ellsworth’s [Rend and Renew] sacrificed his [chaos] for [Lifeblood]—sacrificed the tether for the master.

Finn could not believe his cousin had done it.

Ellsworth had been tethered to Rian his entire life, twenty-eight years.

And he’d…

He’d…

Finn looked at Omri, catching his thoughts before he let them unravel. But he saw the same feeling in Omri’s eyes… heard snippets of the same thoughts.

He turned back to the pits.

Capulet had not moved from where he had tripped. He began backing away in a quick, scurrying motion. Ellsworth followed. He looked as he had when he’d first entered the pit. Except for the eyes. Finn saw his cousin’s expression, and it scared him. Distilled hatred, a cold madness that eclipsed Capulet’s own…

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

If you let the glass crack, if you let the flame catch…

Finn shuddered. He knew, could feel, that there would be nothing left of Capulet to bury by the time the sun rose.

“Yield.”

Finn felt his brow furrow. He blinked. The word had come from Ellsworth. At his side, Omri’s jaw hung open.

Capulet’s expression faltered, bewilderment briefly unveiled. He stared at Ellsworth for a moment longer then turned, cautiously, to glance at Rian. Finn’s eyes followed. Saw… a twitch.

He’s alive!

Others had seen it too. A ripple ran through the arena. “The tether’s alive!”

Capulet turned back to Ellsworth. There was a glint in his eye. “I see,” he said, crooning. “Very interesting…”

Ellsworth’s stare was devoid of warmth. “Yield,” he commanded.

Oh, no, Omri’s thought came.

Capulet planted his hands, drew himself up to one knee, then the other. He rose to his feet, slowly, deliberately. Ellsworth towered over him. And Capulet’s smirk endured. Finn expected Ellsworth to strike him down again, found he longed to see it.

But Ellsworth remained still, the burn within his eyes held tenuously at bay.

The two men stared at each other.

Capulet’s shoulders began to shake.

And then he was laughing.

Ellsworth’s upper lip curled violently, then slackened. Capulet’s laughter rang through the arena, boisterous and insulting. Finn felt something within himself veer towards the fringe of breaking. He heard himself swear, shout, wish death upon this man.

He could not understand how Ellsworth was remaining so composed in the face of such effrontery.

Capulet’s laughter finally tapered off. The silence that ensued was worse. There was no fear in it. Somehow, the two men on the sands were still equals. It made no sense. Here was the Warden’s nephew, renewed strength and vitality, staring down at an extinguished foe, the same foe for the second time that night, and nothing had changed.

“So, we have arrived,” Capulet said. “How will you proceed, boy? I wonder…”

“Yield,” Ellsworth said.

“I do not yield,” Capulet said.

“Yield,” Ellsworth repeated. There was a slight tremor to the word.

“I do not yield.”

It was as if the wind was howling, and yet the night was still.

“You know what you must do, boy, and I am powerless to stop you,” Capulet said. “So do it, and live the rest of your days with this failure. You have not beaten me, and you know this. I may perish, but I take a part of you with me. I force a part of myself upon you. Live with it, suffer from it. Remember me.”

It was almost a plea, a request, and yet it was said with spite. Ellsworth’s face twitched again. He did not move. There was more silence.

“There is nothing to think about,” Capulet said, and he sounded almost angry. “You must kill me. There is no alternative. You must kill me, and you must kill him.” And as he spoke, Capulet raised a hand, and pointed.

And then Finn understood.

Rian had not exceeded his [chaos]-meter. Not yet. Not quite. There was the sliver of something remaining, the finest amount which allowed him to cling desperately to life. Somehow, he had managed to hold on as if from the edge of a cliff, fingernails dug into rock.

One move, one strike from Ellsworth would use up the remaining [chaos]. It would be too much, the two of them would come untethered, and Rian would be lost.

Ellsworth will survive. Rian won’t. Lord Yoquin had said something similar, had mentioned [Anchor Points], but this time the thought came from Omri.

Finn felt something within him fragment.

“What if he yields?” Finn said out loud. He hadn’t been speaking to anybody in particular, but it was Yoquin who responded.

“Capulet?” he asked.

“No,” Finn said. “Ellsworth.”

Lord Yoquin shook his head. “He won’t. He can’t. He said it himself, the people need a victory.”

“Fuck the victory,” Finn heard himself say. “This isn’t a victory. There has to be another way.”

Lord Yoquin turned away. “Only Ellsworth can make that choice,” he said.

Ellsworth won’t make the choice, Omri thought. Rian already has. It’s gone too far. Even if... Omri shook his head. It's gone too far. Finn, I… I don’t think it was Ellsworth who activated [Rend and Renew].

Finn was unprepared for this. Rian would do that?

A faint smile touched Omri’s lips. Is it that difficult to believe?

But… was he not afraid?

A quiet breath. Perhaps he believes there are forces in this world more powerful than [chaos], Omri thought.

Ellsworth turned his back to Capulet, who watched him go. With quiet footsteps he moved across the sands, past the remnants of a battle which had already claimed two lives and would soon claim more. Dekker’s broken shield lay forgotten. The shards of Ellsworth’s own blade, which Capulet had tossed aside. Splatterings of blood. Whose blood, it could not be known. Then the body of Dekker, the body of his tether, both corpses lying inanimate as the hammer which lay beside them. Undamaged. Ellsworth passed it without a glance, but Finn felt himself drawn to it.

If only Dekker had smashed Capulet’s head in, instead of offering the yield, Finn found himself thinking. There was undirected venom in his thoughts.

Don’t blame Dekker, Finn. If you need to blame someone, don’t blame Dekker.

Then who?

Omri did not respond. Finn felt his anger rising, but then he felt beyond. He remembered Omri’s silence after Dekker’s tether had fallen, remembered what Omri had felt when Rian followed his master into the pits. Finn raised a hand, placed it on his tether’s shoulder. A memory then, a distant memory of himself, aged four, the first time he’d seen Omri, the first time he’d raised his hand, placed master’s palm to tether’s forehead, the day he’d claimed him. Omri’s eyes going white, white forever.

Omri’s face cracked, an attempt at a smile.

I don’t regret anything, his tether thought to him. I’ve told you this.

Ellsworth continued towards Rian. His tether’s form—which had been growing more and more indistinct, seeming in danger of seeping into the sands or rising into the air like a column of smoke—seemed to stabilize for a moment.

Ellsworth crouched and reached out. He hesitated before his hand made contact, then forced himself onward. His fingers touched something that was barely there. A sound escaped him, a choke. Finn shut his eyes, blinked back what he felt rising. When he opened them again, Ellsworth was cradling Rian’s neck.

Seeing all this, Finn knew Omri had been right. Ellsworth had not been the one to activate [Rend and Renew].

He heard the distant murmur of Ellsworth’s words, but did not strain his ears. He hoped, perhaps naively, that nobody else would either. He thought he saw Rian’s eyes flutter, but he did not strain his own to check, and he never asked his cousin whether he and Rian had managed to communicate in those final moments. Those moments were theirs.

Time passed. Ellsworth got up again. He placed Rian’s head down delicately. He stared, seemed unable to move, and then finally ripped himself away. His steps were violent, forceful. He came up to Dekker’s body again. Paused. Paused again at Dekker’s tether. Spoke. Picked up the hammer.

Then he turned towards Capulet.

Capulet was looking away, towards his own tether. Alun stared back. There were many things woven into that shared look of brother and brother, master and tether, but little anger. Capulet had let go of his smirk. His expression was blank.

Then Ellsworth was there, Dekker’s hammer in hand. The spirit of Aonenbridge incarnate.

Capulet faced him. He whispered something else then, too low for Finn to hear. Ellsworth murmured something back.

Then he let the glass crack, let the flame catch.

And swung the hammer, [chaos]-fueled.

Finn had been right. When the sun rose that day, there was nothing left of Capulet to be buried.