"At last, we find ourselves at this momentous event."

The cacophony of the audience drowned out Dustfur's voice; Achilles strained to make out words. He took a moment to gather himself, planting his feet firmly in the sand and trying to quell the vertigo that threatened to overwhelm him. His hand sought the hilt of his blade, securely fastened to his back. Perhaps he should have approached Longclaw to delay the battle. Perhaps he should—

"On this very day, we witness the greatest champion to ever step foot in any arena, renowned across lands and drawing such a massive crowd that we can barely contain them!" Dustfur laughed, and the audience joined in. "Today, he may claim his fiftieth consecutive victory in our esteemed establishment!"

Perceiving the frenzied cheers only through a haze of mist, he pondered whether it was his own control over his filters or the fever that had greeted him that morning, numbing his senses. You may forget about that battle; tell the bastard—I mean Longclaw—to reschedule. It cannot be that much of a hassle for him. But under no circumstances are you fighting in this state.

Please, as though a minor fever could ever incapacitate him. Achilles made an effort to reignite the urgent craving for action—to find something to do rather than lying around and wasting away—that had plagued him before, but now he couldn't help but think that lying down seemed like a much more appealing option than being here. Battling . . . now.

Swallowing hard, he contemplated whether it was a mistake to be here now. His hand brushed against the tight bandage wrapped around his left hand, then traveled up to the one on his forearm. The injury was recent, merely a few days old, and far from healed.

"And thus, let us give a resounding welcome to the Great Achilles!"

Gripping the hilt of his sword, Achilles automatically staggered into the blinding light of the braziers, where he was greeted by a resounding cacophony of cheers. But . . . something was amiss. With a furrowed brow, he searched for Longclaw among the spectators. Since when was the reigning champion called in before their opponent? The gnawer arenas adhered only to a handful of rules . . . Yet in all his fifty battles, he had never once seen this rule broken. But the arena master was out of sight, and so he had no one to ask.

Well, it was not like it held much significance in the long run.

Keep your head up, back straight, and feet firmly grounded on the floor; if needed, dig in your toes to stay rooted, it automatically replayed in his head as it did before every battle.

He took a deep breath, disregarding the hotness of his dry skin, and straightened out his mask, then drew his sword and raised it above his head; the blade glistened red in the flickering fire of the braziers that illuminated the arena.

It was by far not as satisfying as it had been at first—listening to the cheers of the audience—but it still enraptured him. If only his blade would not feel cold and heavy and his forehead would not already be pearling with sweat . . . In and out, he ordered himself to breathe calmly and lowered his blade, eye on Dustfur.

Achilles knew this was his incentive. Kismet had not seen him leave—she would have never let him leave in this state—so she could not be watching.

So she could not intervene.

He had long made up his mind; this would be it—his fiftieth battle, his fiftieth chance to die. He willed his parched lips to form a smile.

This time, he would have the strength to take it.

"And now—" Dustfur exclaimed. "We are beyond elated to present to you—!"

Achilles' attention was fixed on the other exit until he was momentarily startled by a sudden movement overhead, casting a twisted shadow on the tall ceiling. He stood frozen in place, utterly immobile, because he recognized that sound. A sound that painted a stark image in his mind, vivid unlike any other. But . . . this was not a sound that belonged here.

"One very special volunteer—the first of his kind to test his skill in our establishment. To become the fiftieth mark on our Achilles' great tally—or to become He Who Strikes Him Down!"

One more swift circle above his head, followed by a rapid descent and a maelstrom of white sand beneath the flier's talons as he landed in the heart of the arena.

Achilles stared at his crouching form in shock and jumped when a ghastly scream pierced through the flier's mask. His massive wings spread menacingly before he ducked, then vaulted at him with no warning. Had his echolocation not alerted him, compelling him to twist out of the way at the last moment, Achilles may have been lost then and there.

He veered back, and his mouth opened in protest, looking out for Dustfur. He was yet to initiate the fight! But all he perceived from the announcer was laughter and a nonchalant "Seems like he did it for me!" . . . And so, Achilles remembered that complaints were for those who couldn't deal with circumstances.

He ducked and squinted, slicing at the flier halfheartedly. This battle may actually be interesting, for this was a new kind of opponent. Fliers did not fight without humans. But this flier did; Achilles dug his soles into the sand, watching him keenly.

Opponent a considerable distance away, assessing. It is recommended to wait.

Achilles tauntingly raised his sword at the imposing shadow that circled overhead, concealed amidst the dim shades and flickering lights of the arena. Despite the mist at the back of his head, his spine suddenly tingled with anticipation. "Enough stalling!" he yelled. "We are here to do battle. Let us battle!"

Who was this flier? Achilles squinted but could not be certain of his color. It may be that of dried blood, clay, or of charcoal. Before he could properly ask himself why he wore a mask, the flier put on his wings and shot downward.

Achilles' blade collided with his outstretched talons, producing an ugly crack. His sword twisted and sought the flier's wing in counter, but cleaved a gash into his shoulder instead. Achilles was momentarily taken aback by his sorry state, which had only become apparent as he had drawn nearer. His fur was tangled and dusty, and his razor-like talons were stained with dried blood.

Only then did he process that Dustfur had announced him as a volunteer. Obviously, or he would simply fly out of here. And despite his disheveled appearance, the flier fought with surprising agility and viciousness. One, two more times, his blade collided with claws, with teeth.

Achilles released a breath, allowing his opponent's wings to paint his vision. He sensed the imminent tempest around and within him awaken and slightly corrected his stance.

. . . And then Achilles fought.

As he had anticipated, his adversary was agile, aggressive, and clearly proficient in solo combat. However, even in his weakened state, Achilles effortlessly evaded or countered all attacks. Although his echolocation wasn't functioning as flawlessly as it did without a fever, it was still enough to provide the desired spectacle for the eager audience.

He let his body take over, moving left, swinging right, ducking, and slicing down. When attacked from above, he rolled off, and his vision blurred. The fever left him panting and dizzy, and he spat out sand, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

Only at the last moment did he register the poised talons and barely scrambled up to dodge. He perceived the sound of sand scattering where his head had been mere moments ago. Achilles gasped for breath. The weight of his sword was a burden that he suddenly found heavy.

His attention was so consumed by the pounding in his head and the dampness that sullied his palms that he scarcely noticed the flier appeared to be granting him a respite. When he next looked up, what he perceived was his opponent, with drawn-in wings, zeroing in at his heavy head.

His mind was too clouded to process the array of possibilities his echolocation presented him with so quickly. But . . . it was too soon to die. The performance wasn't meant to come to a close so early. The spectators would be disappointed.

Before Achilles could muster even one reaction, his storm betrayed him. The eye of a self-made tempest had always been his sanctuary, but this rage was not of his own creation. It was the flier's, as he descended and coiled around him with ferocious intensity. The storm swept him up with a violent force, numbing his senses and his mind. He stood in the eye . . . but for the first time, he felt imprisoned within it.

In the very instant Achilles grasped the intention of the impressive maneuver and jerked his sword up, an intense pain surged through his shoulder. He dropped to his knees as the tempest subsided and the flier retreated. Drops of crimson dotted the white sand, and Achilles exhaled, searching within himself the clarity that he had taught such pain to bring him.

Around him, he felt the agitated tremors of the audience. Uncertainty encased him from hundreds of eyes that had long blurred together into a single mind . . . a single will—a will that craved a show.

But . . . the show was not over yet. Achilles dug his aching fingers into the sand and reached for the sword he had dropped, only for the flier to seize the handle with his mouth. Part of his delusional mind expected the solid steel to crack beneath his teeth.

Achilles stared at his sword between the flier's jaws as though it had betrayed him, then barely dodged when it came for his head. It sang a song of bitterness, and along echoed a note of boiling sorrow that stabbed into his heart like an icy thorn.

The flier was in front of him, and his very own blade raised to plunge into Achilles' heart, as he was suddenly all too sure would happen.

. . . Because he was here to kill him.

Achilles dove and rolled off, crying out as his injured shoulder connected with the ground. That shoulder . . . it had been injured before. Had he another pair of scars that layered over each other now?

Achilles screamed, but this time out of desperate rage. He flung himself at the flier who had remained within reach, connecting his foot with the side of his face. The flier howled, and the sword was flung from his mouth.

You cannot injure that shoulder, he meant to scream into the flier's ear. Sizzleblood beat you to it all those months ago.

Achilles gripped the root of the flier's ear and let out another agonizing scream.

Sizzleblood's assault had rendered him unable to grip his sword, leaving him with no choice but to utilize his sling.

He had no sling, either. Achilles tightened his hold, digging his nails into the flier's clumped fur. He had no dagger . . . no second weapon. Or the flier may have died then and there. So Achilles hauled him along through the sand toward his sword.

A firm blow to his lower back compelled him to let go and sent him hurtling forward. His sweaty fingers barely found the hilt of his sword, but his world spun with the sand around him, and once more he wished to have sat today out, listened to Kismet . . . Achilles heaved, spitting out bloodied sand.

But he could not cease thinking of that other arena. Of landing and collecting stones, of a . . . a . . . maneuver. His head shot up, and he scrambled to his feet, sword clutched firmly in hand. A maneuver, like . . .

The flier cowered down and launched himself in the air again, but this time, Achilles had the mind to cut the coiler short before it could have imprisoned him like last time.

Achilles released a sharp breath and angrily threw his sword from right to left. His head screamed as his eye locked onto the flier. The flier who . . . This maneuver. This coiler—had using it for disorientation become a common practice among fliers now? But how did that come about? It was his creation, and it had only been employed once.

He screamed and barely dodged the reaching talons. They did not land, but the flier's shrill howl speared his ears and bore into his heart, not with the hatred or fury of an adversary but with unrelenting despair. It nestled deep within him and took hold, constricting his chest and winding around his throat until he could no longer move.

Only when he managed to parry another blow did he realize that his echolocation had been screaming all along.

Achilles cursed and banished the odd sorrow, dragging his mind back into focus. He was here, in the middle of a battle that required his full attention. And he had to stick to the routine, to give the audience a show.

His sword deflected the flier over and over, nearly on its own, thwarting yet another coiler. How could he know this maneuver? There was no shoving aside this thought anymore. No flier should know about it. None except . . . one.

The inevitable consequence of this realization swept over him like an icy tidal wave, and he had to muster all his will to not allow his hand to relinquish his sword on the spot.

His gaze met the flier's mask . . . Then focused on his wing . . . the left wing. He vaulted aside, dodging another blow, and counter-struck immediately. The flier sounded a pained hiss as the sword sliced open his leg, and he reeled forward, nearly losing balance. It was only for the extra moment he so gained to look closer that Achilles saw it: a nearly invisible stitch; black fabric on black tissue.

But as short a glimpse as he had caught at it, the image burned itself onto his inner eye like a hot iron seal. You will look like a patchwork rug, but if it works . . . ?

His hand involuntarily darted to the back of his hip, and a fresh thorn pierced his heart as he again became aware that Mys was no longer there. Mys . . . at the bottom of a crevice where he had discarded it. Mys, with its handle wrapped in fabric . . . from that very wing.

Memories cut his mind like scorching knives, shredding the so carefully erected walls of false strength that should have kept the images at bay. Images of . . .

A blood puddle . . . and a violent tug by his leg.

An arena . . . not unlike this one.

A . . . true alliance.

. . . A bond.

Achilles barely dodged his next attack, staggering back to a safe distance. He jerked up his sword. Frowned, and hesitated for a single heartbeat. Then he shook his head. He must have imagined it.

Surely it was the fever. It had him see things . . . Things he wanted to see.

A strange yet familiar voice whispered in his ear. A voice he had locked in the deepest depths of his mind, behind an impassable door. Because it was a voice he would never hear again. Especially not here.

He would never be here, never be doing this.

Achilles sucked in a breath, lunging at his opponent. He sliced, landing a hit across the flier's back. Hot blood speckled his face. He wanted to howl out a battle cry, but he was not strong enough.

The flier twisted and knocked his talon into his sword, sending him flying.

He would never even condone this. Because he was not a killer, not a killer, not . . . like him.

Upon landing, Achilles fought to stay upright. He swiftly dropped low and then straightened up. Channeled all his strength into holding his position. Imagined roots sprouting from his soles, as Kismet preached. Yet the floor beneath him swayed. The world spun worse with every passing second.

His head clogged with questions, contradictions, and more questions. The mist in his mind grew. Heavier with every uncomfortably hot breath he forced in and out. Pearls of sweat dripped from his chin. The world swirled. The fever would soon take him if his opponent did not.

But suddenly, he thought he could not afford to die yet. First, he had to see. To be . . . certain.

Achilles forced the questions out of his mind. He focused on the strap of the flier's mask. He would only glimpse his face. He would only take one look. . . . To be certain.

As soon as he forced himself to focus again, impressions and perceptions flooded his senses. They measured speed and distance effortlessly. Calculated his moment to strike. Achilles banned the last mist from his mind . . . and seized his moment.

A leap to the side. A swift strike. Then the flier's mask whirled up sand where it hit the ground. He gave a harrowing cry, then veered sharply to conceal himself.

Turn . . .

Achilles silently screamed. He gripped his sword so tightly that his knuckles shone whiter than his skin. It hung at his side, leaving the tip to brush the ground.

Just . . . turn.

At last, the flier whipped around and charged at him. His mouth was distorted into a grotesque grimace . . . And his senses failed the boy. Sounds and impressions whirled around him. Tugged at his skin. Burrowed into his eye and his ears. Banged at the gates of his mind. But he was powerless to acknowledge them . . . To move. To even avert his gaze.

The imminent impact catapulted him backward. The sword was flung out of his hand. It almost threw his own mask off and forced all air out of his lungs. He gasped. His fingers dug into the ground. He attempted to get a hold of . . . something. But all he found was sand. It slipped through his grasp no matter how hard he clutched it.

The boy could barely roll off to dodge the claws. They flared in the braziers' firelight and pierced the ground, singing soundly.

The claws of . . . Thanatos. The name emerged from where he had buried it. So that he would never think it again.

. . . The name . . .

The boy pulled up to all fours. He blindly reached for . . . something. For . . . his sword?

Everything spun. He retched as the drops of his sweat on the ground were amplified by a hundred. His echolocation pulsed. It beat against his sweaty palms. Smashed into his mind, attempting to flood him with information. It screamed. But he couldn't hear anything. He was barely holding on to his mental dam. It was moments from crumbling, from breaking. From overwhelming him with pains from a past that he couldn't . . . couldn't afford now.

Because he was in control. Screamed a voice at the back of his head. He had worked, and sweated, and bled to obtain this control, and yet here he was—vulnerable. He couldn't let anyone see that. That it had all done nothing for the weakness of his mind.

The boy clutched a hand around his mask. He pushed forward and let out a hoarse scream, forcing his legs to pull him up. He barely scooped up his sword from where it had landed. His vision sparked, and his mouth opened. Yet the next sound remained lodged in his pulsing throat.

He whipped around.

Black fur. A white face, torn by a vicious scar. Eyes colored like amber. He knew that, from . . . somewhere. That face . . . He knew him! He knew that face, from . . .

He barely got his sword up in time to block the wide-open mouth. His blade produced an awful crack as it collided with teeth.

He knew that face! That face. It had a name. It was . . . Thanatos. He opened his mouth to call it out.

Maybe . . . he froze, eye widened. Maybe he could afford to lose focus! There were more images that escaped his crumbling dam. It would fall soon, together with the last functioning bits of his mind. Images that provoked emotions, which clashed with the prevailing sentiments of the arena.

The arena was artificial revelry. It was frantic and desperate. Dull with death and ultimately empty reverence.

But Thanatos . . .

The boy wanted to feel it. All the emotions this face evoked. He wanted to feel happiness. To feel comfort. He wanted to laugh. To cry. To open his mouth and tell all these fears and insecurities to his flier, even if it meant exposing his vulnerability. Suddenly, this was no longer too high a price. Because . . . he paused.

He . . . was safe.

. . . No?

His sword lowered and his mouth opened, but out came no words. For a heartbeat, his flier didn't move. He couldn't make his face out clearly. It was cast in the shadows of the flickering braziers that encompassed them.

Then, in rhythm with the arena's twisted, deadly choreography, he vaulted into the air. He veered and put on his wings, lunging down. The boy stumbled back and ducked, yanking his sword up to shield his face. He barely withstood the following collision.

Why was he . . . attacking? He exhaled and meant to wipe a trembling hand over his eye that burned with sweat and heat. With exhaustion. But he only found his mask.

Suddenly, an overwhelming wave of happiness swept over him as the realization sank in properly. Of who this was. Tears of joy pooled in his eye, because he needed not to die! He needed not to die, and he needed not to remain in this wicked cycle of joyless rage and pain either.

It was . . . his flier. He was . . . here! All he needed to do was show him who he was. Then it would all be alright. He took a step forward and felt himself smile. Then they could end this ridiculous battle and fly out of here together.

Together, they could . . .

could . . .

Sand whirled up where his own mask hit the ground.

"Death, it's me!"

A soft breeze hit his exposed scar. For a moment, he became acutely aware that everyone saw it now. Saw him, in all his unconcealed repulsiveness. Was that not what he had neglected to display? thought the boy numbly.

Vulnerability.

Once, it had terrified him out of his mind, yet at that moment, he could not care less. Should they all see! Should they laugh and taunt and be disgusted if they wanted. He would show his face to the whole world if it meant that his flier would recognize him.

He didn't pay the audience any mind. They were screaming and booing. Tails lashed, and claws trampled the dusty ground. Shrill voices pierced his ear and infused the image he perceived with livid fury. They hadn't come here for the battle to end like this. But he didn't care.

"Death!"

He had exposed himself, fully and truly. His flier had to see! He . . . had to . . . The boy stepped forward, closer. Maybe . . . he could not see yet? It was dark. The light of the braziers created more shadow than brightness. Maybe . . .

"Death?"

He allowed his sword to hang limp once more. He wanted to see his eyes. There would be recognition in them. There had to be . . . But then his flier raised his gaze, directly at him, for the first time, and . . .

. . . the amber was empty.

"Death, it's me!"

His flier didn't even flinch.

His hand darted up to wipe loose hair strands out of his face. "It's me!" the boy pleaded. "Death!" He barely stopped himself from dropping his sword. From extending his hand. From running at him. From dropping to his knees in surrender.

But . . . what would happen if he did?

His head clogged with questions. More tears welled up in his eye. And they weren't happy, all of a sudden. Why did he hold his attack position? Why did he not respond? Why could he not perceive any reaction whatsoever? Any familiarity? Any . . . sign that his flier hadn't known it was him all along. That he . . . didn't want to hurt him.

The boy nearly tripped over his mask as he blocked the claws of the flier he had once called bond. Only in his periphery did he register the crack of bone under his foot. He had meant to get out of here. To be free of death, of pain. The pain—

The force of his parry catapulted his flier backward; he landed on all fours and sounded a livid hiss. The sand creaked and ached under his merciless claws. His breaths were pants, and for a moment, the boy wondered if he was seeing him after all.

Then he spread his wings and, from his mouth, erupted an unworldly scream.

The boy jumped back. Stumbled. Nearly tripped over the remains of his mask again. He saw his flier only through a blur. Like through the surface of a—

At first, the boy thought what now dripped from his chin was sweat. Only in hindsight did he recognize that it was not.

"D e a t h !"

No . . . He almost succumbed to the temptation of releasing his sword again. This was not what should be. This was not what he wanted. His gaze was on his . . . bond.

He didn't want to fight.

But his flier . . . Had he . . . been here all this time?

It was you who I waited for, at the lake. It was you, he couldn't bring himself to scream. Had he been . . . here all along? In this very arena? What was he . . . doing here? He took a stance halfheartedly. He didn't want to fight. Why was . . . Longclaw?

Longclaw's words . . . Longclaw's special battle.

The words dropped onto his chest like boulders. Like a heavy boot that stomped on and squeezed the last life out of his already half-dead heart.

The crowd was cheering again, he registered. The stone bleachers wailed. As though they could fan the aggression within if they shook the earth hard enough. They screamed. For the entertainment that was brought by the nigh defeat of the Great Achilles.

Just then, Thanatos lunged toward him and the boy braced himself. One strike followed another, at an unprecedented speed. Every clash of their weapons, every cut ripping through his skin, added another fracture to his heart.

The boy would have ripped it out of his chest with his own hands for it to end.

But his flier would not have it.

He blinked through the hazy blur of weapons. Of rage and sorrow. The tip of his sword dripped with blood. He . . . didn't want to fight.

But . . . was it what his flier wanted?

Words cut through the mist in his head. They tore the last remains of his dam, his control, to shreds. You are a parasite. He heaved. A parasite, who has attached itself to me, draining every last bit of what I have to give. Every ounce of life that I still have and will not let go! Will not allow me to let it go! Let me . . . go.

The last remains of his dam crumbled to dust. It slipped out between his fingers. He couldn't hold on to a single piece.

And . . . he understood.

This . . . was how it would be, then. His teeth clenched. He wouldn't allow the tears to fall now. He had to retain his control.

His grip on the sword tightened until he could barely stand it. "Is this what you want then?!" Faintly, he sensed the scars—the white lines he had counted so many times. An unprecedented jolt of energy surged through him. It sparked from the place he had least expected: from the depths of his bleeding, dying, shattered heart. It rekindled his determination . . . because he was rage.

Now, he would fight like it.

"Is this what you want? Are you here to kill the parasite?"

Thanatos hovered above him. He could not make out his expression well enough to be certain. Yet he thought his eyes narrowed to amber slits. Then he drew in his wings and shot down.

The boy watched his flier in slow motion, and at once, his head cleared. It made way for his focus. His control. His heels dug deep into the sand. He wiped a sweaty palm over his mutilated, broken face.

Today, one of them would die. And, no matter the times he had wanted . . . attempted to die in this wretched place—today it would not be him.

. . . And then Achilles fought.

Had he fought mostly for show before, now everything within him was out to kill. It soon became clear that, despite the fever, he was the superior fighter. Driven by his rekindled rage that bled out of his heart, his sword sang a twisted ballad of frenzied vengeance. It sliced through fur and flesh and left its mark, over and over . . . until the white sand specked with red blood. It glistened in the brazier light, almost black.

Yet Thanatos had never been one to be dissuaded by injury.

Each mark that Achilles' blade drew only fueled his flier's own rage. Beneath, there was still the pungent howl of sorrow that stabbed into Achilles' ear with each strike, but he refused to listen any longer. His weapon sliced and ripped each fragment of sorrow that his flier sang apart. Achilles nearly gutted him twice, then his flier caught his leg and twisted upward, almost dislocating it.

He was yanked up and around; Thanatos ripped him off his feet and smashed him into the fuming sand. Achilles released a frenzied scream, lashing at his face. Claws tore his unprotected flesh as his leg slipped out of his flier's grip, and he let himself fall back before the limb would rip off.

Something ran down his leg; the trail it left burned unbearably. He did not have to look to know it was blood.

And then his flier was above him again, slashing down. Slicing up. Cutting back. Their weapons wailed in pain as they clashed. Achilles followed the lead of his echolocation impeccably when it painted his path and guided his hand and his sword. Yet Thanatos dodged in the last moment, and Achilles had left his right side vulnerable.

Then his arm was caught between his flier's teeth. He flung him around and dragged him through the hot, white sand. Achilles flailed and screamed until he almost went deaf, but his flier's grip was iron and unrelenting. Thanatos rammed his face into the sand, pinning him down.

His nose flared with pain, and something wet seeped out of it—something hot and red. The sand beneath the fingers he dug into the ground wailed, and Achilles twisted out of the way just in time before sharp talons pierced the sand. Nigh blindly, he flung himself up and caught the root of Thanatos' ear in his bloodied hands. A hoarse scream ripped out of his mouth as he tugged with all his might, sword poised.

Thanatos howled in pain and barely managed to shake him so that Achilles' sword left only a violent red mark directly across his face. He extended a hand to catch himself, jabbing it on his own blade's edge.

Achilles' arm throbbed, and his hand released red drops into the white sand. Flickering fire painted it black. As he glanced back at Thanatos, he beheld Death Himself in the blazing glimmer. For all the injuries he had suffered here before, nothing had ever hurt as this—an unbearable sting of a thousand needles someone was driving into his hand . . . His eye . . . his ears . . . his head . . . his heart.

A broken scream escaped his burning throat as he forced himself back into focus, then leaped at his sword. The wings, what remained of his common sense screamed as his hand closed around the hilt; he should have long taken out the wings! Once on the ground, he would not pose much of a threat.

Achilles gritted his teeth and battled the pain. He had told himself showtime was over; why hadn't he long taken out the wings? He would rip out every bit of tissue by hand if he had to, even the carefully stitched part he had put in place himself.

Specks of blood flew from his hand as Achilles ripped his blade up and swung it with both hands, leaving an eight-inch tear in Thanatos' left wing. His flier wailed and stumbled back. Achilles registered red on white; it glistened in his fur, on his sword. Dripped from the tip.

It was one moment of vulnerability, one weakness, that Thanatos allowed himself . . . and Achilles didn't hesitate. This was it—his flier was down and defenseless; he barely got his uninjured wing up to shield his face . . . But not high enough.

Like in slow motion, Achilles registered the opening. His instinct took over, analyzing and charting out exactly what he had to do: he clutched the sword with both hands, so hard it hurt, and lunged forward, blade aimed at Thanatos' exposed neck, and . . .

. . . missed.

The boy stood, unmoving, for what had to be a full five seconds. He held his sword raised, fervently attempting to stand his ground on the swaying floor. His eye remained widened, unbelieving . . . On his blade . . . His blood . . . His bond.

He . . . had missed. On purpose, of course. He had . . . His gaze fluttered up from the dripping steel.

. . . How could he have not?

His rage was swallowed by the overwhelming wave of sorrow that he could no longer deflect. No longer deny . . . He was sorrow too. The torrent turned his limbs into lead and dissolved the iron of his determination, his control. When he raised his eye again, there was not an ounce of rage left in him.

Instinctively, the boy staggered back and blinked. It didn't do much for the rising tears. His hands trembled so hard that he could barely hold his blade.

This . . . No, he blinked more frantically. This was all wrong. He did not want to fight. Why would he ever want to fight him? This was . . . his bond.

Was fighting him and finishing this the strong thing to do? The boy stared at him and realized that he did not care. That he did not want to be strong. He wanted to be whole.

An eternal moment later, the sword slipped from his grasp. The sound of metal on sand tremored the ground on which he stood and his very soul. But the boy held his gaze only on his flier.

Once upon a time, he may have been terrified of being so vulnerable, but in that moment, the boy had no fear. He stood there, utterly exposed. Defenseless. His vision blurred and fragmented, his legs would give way any second, and his fight had faded. All he wanted was to collapse, curl into a ball, and cry. Should they all stare! They, who whistled and booed now. Should they laugh! Should they do whatever the hell they wanted. The boy looked only at his flier.

If this is what you want . . . His fists tightened, and his nails dug into his palms until they dripped with blood. Then . . . kill me.

If it is you, I will not be afraid.

He had told himself that he would take the chance today. The corner of his bloodied mouth twitched up.

I won't resist. Not anymore . . .

. . . Not for you.

The famed champion had signaled his surrender. Even though he had steeled himself, he was still taken aback when his senses were then numbed by a sting of scathing pain. He attempted to combat it like he always did . . . but this pain was not like any pain.

Not . . . any pain?

His memory forced him back to the worst pain he had felt so far, to the waterway . . . the serpents . . . No, not even that pain could compare.

Something wet made its way down his stomach, then his leg.

Red . . . on white sand. Red on . . . white. He stared at the oddly familiar contrast that had become so characteristic of the arena and everything in it until his misted brain had made sense of what he was seeing: a talon . . . the boy shakily lifted a hand toward it. A black talon . . . It nearly lifted him off the floor as it twisted and drilled deep into his flesh, below the ribs.

His gaze flew up and, had he been carrying his weight on his own, his legs would have given way at that moment.

Then something struck his temple, and a much number pain engulfed him as his vision momentarily went black. The impact with the floor left him dazed; lights sparked before him, and when he next opened his eye, his flier was already over him.

. . . He stared into amber.

As the boy processed the image, the face, his hand moved to reach up . . . like before. Like . . . the last time his flier had hovered over him.

The boy's mouth distorted into a smile. It would be alright now. His flier was here; he would carry him out as he had last time. He would take his hand and order him on his back, as he had . . . had . . .

Moments later, his hand fell back . . . . . . empty.

The boy blinked. Something was not right. Why was his hand empty? Why was . . . the amber so empty?

"Death . . ."

Empty . . . Empty as the eyes in his dream, from beyond the ice. The amber that had watched him die. The boy's lid fluttered. After he had driven a blade into his own chest, his flier had watched him . . .

Something wet slid down his cheek. It burned his flesh and left a salty taste on his cracked, slightly parted lips before it dripped into the sand beneath. His vision blurred again, and he found it had all crumbled now—his entire dam, every single brick he had so meticulously piled up to lock out the pain, the truth.

What he had lost . . . What he had done.

It couldn't be. He was Achilles . . . He Who Had Conquered Pain. He who . . . was in pain. This pain . . . This pain he could not suppress, not fight. It drowned him, suffocated him, drove a seal of hot iron into his heart over and over:

He who had not cared.

He who did not learn.

He who was not wanted.

In his periphery, the boy registered Thanatos' gaping mouth over him. And suddenly, he wanted nothing more than for the bite to come at last.

When it would come, it would absolve him of the pain.

His eye squeezed shut . . . He was ready. Finally ready.

A different scene flashed before him—Thanatos' talon at his throat, poised for the kill. He had been scared then. So hesitant, so scared. He was not anymore.

He was . . . vulnerable. Now he was. Was that not what he had to do? What he had not done before?

"You . . ." His eye flung open and his voice barely obeyed him, yet he squeezed it out of his throat with force. "Forgive me . . . but here is my word. My . . ." A coughing fit overwhelmed him and he retched, squirmed, palms pressed into the blood-soaked sand.

But he had to . . . He gathered his last energy reserves to raise his free hand and reach up again. One last time, then you can kill me. His mouth opened to speak the words yet out came no sound. Just one last . . .

He could not truly hate him so much that he would deny him this . . . could he? His bond. His . . . life. He was . . . his bond.

"I bound to . . . you."

It was all he had the strength for, despite his rekindled determination to speak on. If he recited more of the familiar words, maybe his flier would understand! Understand what it meant, what it . . . Our life and death are one . . . Are one.

We are one.

It was the last thought the boy could conceive before his hand, that Thanatos had not even acknowledged, fell back at his side and the black oblivion of unconsciousness swallowed him.