Thunder roared in the sky below Fenaback as the arena games came to a close on Grimstaf VIII. The crowd was silent, enraptured, having just witnessed multiple gruesome deaths at the hands of their next generation. Prosef Vesev faced off against his last opponent in the final round, the Flameborn from House Tarnack. His burnt leg had caused him little issues so far, and he proved to be the most skillful fighter of them all by lasting this long.

Truth be told, Prosef was still surprised that the families had gone along with the idea of allowing the entire last round of contestants be killed off save for one. But of course, they were in close communication with the Magnates, and predictably . . . none of the family leaders had looked at all surprised when this twist had been announced. But he knew that many would be incensed that their champion had fallen their gamble wasted.

The fighting ring was cropped out in the central stone floor of the island. Prosef squared off against his opponent as they stared into his eyes for a hint of first intentions. Prosef still wore his belted waistcloth and loose trousers, nothing else, and had yet to receive a single scratch. The Flameborn, Veran Tarnack, had received a cut across his upper left pectoral area, which stained his light coat but otherwise hampered him no more than his leg. His flames were alive and flared, matching his sandy hair that stuck nearly straight up. He was taller and more heavily muscled than Prosef, being a few years older and coming from a large-boned family, but that only slowed him down. He wielded his two-edged hand-and-a-half longsword as easily as Prosef did his own katana.

Prosef ignited his purple-and-red wings with a gush of scarlet, just before Magnate Victus gave the starting signal. The two merely circled each other starting out, and Veran said with a frown, “What are those, anyway? You don’t have an ordinary Kinship, do you?”

Prosef allowed himself a small smile. “Perhaps you’ll see soon.” As he had resolved in advance, he’d held off on using his wings’ true power until this last fight. Would he need it? Likely not, but he planned to go out with as grand a finish as possible, if only to shock his father.

The Flameborn advanced with a textbook lunge, clearly a feint, and swiftly arced his blade in a sideways swipe. Prosef dodged it effortlessly, keeping his blade lowered. The swordsman lowered his own blade, still circling him, watching with patient observance. Both men were drained of much of their stamina at this late stage of the tournament, so this contest would be a battle of endurance as much as anything. If Prosef allowed it to go so long, that is.

He did. No sense in getting cocky before the win was in his hands. Veran had not gotten so far by luck. And considering his two injuries, Veran’s did not heave as much as the Vesev heir would expect.

The big man came in again, this time spinning with a flair of his fiery wings instead of his blade. Prosef nimbly stepped back, refusing to use his own yet. But as Veran pressed the attack, moving in a rippling combo of flame and sword edge, Prosef knew that he had to.

With a thrum and a downwards jet of energy, Prosef launched into the air, zipping to his opponent’s left side. He blocked Veran’s next sword strike and made a lunge of his own, following into a descending combo that forced the Flameborn backwards toward his edge of the arena. They traded back-and-forth like this for a minute, using their elemental wings to evade upward, backward or side-to-side with hot bursts.

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Prosef saw his opponent’s jaw clench, saw the solemn determination in his posture, and then he burst forth with flames, sprouting additional orange tentacles from the strategic holes in his coat. Like most Kinships, Veran was only able to produce appendages from his back, but he was evidently powerful and proficient enough to get creative with their number and uses. He lashed out with the fiery whips, chasing Prosef up to a dozen feet away and farther, and then rocketed forward with a hot blast. He was an artist with his Kinship, worthy of some respect from Prosef . . . but he was no true elementalist master like Callo Dolce, the famed Stormborn.

Prosef kicked off the ground, bending his arms and legs forward while reaching out with his wings to propel himself backward. The rapid oscillation of the energy wings threw him backward instantly, and a gust of violet energy and red sparks stopped his acceleration. Veran did not stop his attack, but his face showed a hint of astonishment.

Then Prosef took off the shackles.

His wings accelerated their buzzing and grew in length, becoming blurry shadows in the air that streamed with patterns of red and violet light and cascaded sparks. Veran Tarnack drew back, assuming a defensive posture while he assessed his rival’s threat level.

Prosef stepped forward and swung his right wings, leading with that arm and the long katana it held. Where the wings rose in an arc, they left a slow-fading shadow that mapped out the trajectory, tracing a burning line at the tip that melted through the stone floor of the ring and shot toward Veran. The Flameborn stepped aside barely in time as the line streaked past, burning into the floor even beyond the arena boundary. The line that the wings had carved in the air cut off Veran’s wing at the point where they intersected, causing the remaining portion to instantly fizzle out. The look that he gave Prosef was one of confused wonder, quickly concealed by determination not to show any fear.

Murmurs passed through the crowd, and Prosef could imagine what they were thinking: “What is this power?” He dashed toward Veran in a zizgag approach fueled by the power of his wings, sweeping and spinning unpredictably with his increased wingspan. Veran tried to stop the wings with his own, but, just as before, the red-infused violet light nullified the orange flames entirely. He tried to get in close with his sword, but Prosef blocked it and forced him further off-balance with his wings.

One booted foot took the Flameborn to the stone floor, and Prosef batted aside his steel longsword. Pointing his wings down into the ground, now static in their thrum of energy, Prosef pinned him to the ground with his blade at his throat.

“How?” croaked the beaten man. “What is that power? What do you call such a Kinship?”

He had no pitiful words of defense, Prosef had to give him that. Veran had known what he was getting himself into, and even now his face showed steel determination in the mix of terror and shock.

“I call it my violet flame. I believe it to be somewhere in between Flameborn and Waveborn.” He felt he owed the explanation to his foe, and he spoke the words quietly enough that only Veran could hear. The audience around them was silent and tense, awaiting the end. “But instead of waves of light or sound, or barriers between particles, my wings harness something else entirely, a sort of life essence. I suppose you could call me Lifeborn. Or . . . Deathborn.”

His wings had ceased their vibration and lessened in intensity, and he now closed them around his opponent, scooping his body into an embrace. Veran clenched his eyes against it, but Prosef could not say how much heat nor how much pain he felt from it. Then he commanded his wings to bring him the Tarnack’s essence, and they obeyed. Red light pulsed backward along the wings, streaking in interweaving patterns. A scream came from Veran’s throat, but it was almost immediately cut off.

As Prosef stood up straight, unfurling and then banishing his wings, the audience gasped. Even the Magnates looked shocked to see what he had done:

Veran’s body lay on the stone, a shriveled husk clinging to lifeless bones. Prosef had drained his essence away, leaving no life left.