JARON

West Incendia

Late Rainrise

As soon as the Storm unleashed her cloud, Jaron knew they would all try to get away.

Except for the archer.

He knew she would be coming for him amidst the chaos.

The emberbloods continued their ritual behind him, their words growing louder, the flames beginning to dim. Nearly all of Rove's men had run off into the fog, leaving only a couple back, including Rove himself. Not once did the man reach for the sword at his hip. Jaron began to think it was more of an accessory to him than a weapon he'd used, letting his men do all his dirty work for him.

With the reveal that the Turncoat was Dominic Rove and the emberbloods were sacrificing their magic, unease took root in Jaron, growing like a weed. Now was not the time to be doubting everything, but with the cards laid out in front of him, he didn't know what he stood for anymore. Only that he wanted to see his family again.

Movement in the mist caught Jaron's eye.

Was it her?

His hand went to the hilt of his sword without a second thought. She'd snuck up on him so many times before, she could do so just as easily now, but this time there would be consequences for him.

A rushed footstep behind him.

Jaron turned just in enough time to dodge the archer's sword. It nicked his shirt, tearing at the fabric. He glanced down, making sure she didn't get him, then back up at her.

"Caught you this time," he said, unsheathing his obsidian sword. "Are you getting reckless now, archer?"

Rove gasped. "Where did you come from?" He yelled for the few men who hadn't run off into the fog. "Get her, you fools!"

"No," Jaron said, waving them off. "I've got her."

"Busy yourselves and keep a watchful eye," Rove said to the three men. "We can't have anyone else sneaking up on us like that. The ritual is too important."

Jaron watched the archer carefully, waiting for her next move when a scream echoed through the dissipating fog. The sound clung to him, weighing him down from the pure despair in its tone. Figures moved through the fog in the distance, racing toward the scream.

"Csilla," the archer whispered. Jaron looked back at her, watching a range of emotions flicker over her face. "This has to end now." She turned toward the emberbloods, their backs completely unprotected.

He jumped forward as she raised her sword, knocking her blade aside before her swing could strike. "What are you doing?" he yelled at her.

"How many unarmed people will die when Magnus is freed?" the archer said. For a moment he thought he saw tears in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a mask of pure hate. She moved to go around him and he stepped back in front of her. "How many more people will suffer?"

"But they are unarmed!" He held his sword at the ready as she angled hers once more. "Would you attack a defenseless person? I'd begun to think you all were better than that."

The archer hesitated. "You're right," she said. "Perhaps it's you that needs to die." She twirled her sword in her fingers as she stepped back, preparing to launch an attack on him.

His heart sank to his stomach.

"You are his vessel," the archer said. "What will Magnus do when you no longer exist?"

She attacked, sword slicing low. He barely had enough time to nick her blade to avoid his thigh from getting sliced open. Her words muddled his mind and he didn't see her fist coming before it connected with his face. He stumbled back from the sudden blow and shook his head clear.

"I'm not his vessel," Jaron said. "I'm his champion. He chose me to wield this sword. He chose me."

"He's using you," the archer said, repeating the words the Storm had said earlier. "He's been using you from the start. Can't you see that?"

She swung her sword and he countered, but she quickly attacked again, stabbed the air next to his head. His eyes followed the blade as she pulled it back.

After digging up this sword, after killing men he didn't want to kill, after everything he'd done, Jaron could not accept that he was being used. Magnus promised him things he would never be able to achieve on his own. When the nights were at their darkest and he was on the brink of giving up becoming an emberblood all those years ago, it was Magnus who whispered to him and brought him back. It was him that gave him a purpose. His god wouldn't betray him.

He couldn't betray him.

Could he?

The silence in his mind was a trigger to a flame.

"You're holding back," he said to the archer. "If you want to kill me, then do it already!"

The two of them clashed, their swords crossing. He swiped her sword down and she came at him again, swinging high this time. Again and again she struck, her swipes and slashes becoming easy to predict. Their swords clashed in the middle once more. He made eye contact with her through their blades.

"You're still holding back," he said.

"I thought you were the chosen one," she said with a growl. "So, why haven't you killed me yet?"

"Finish her," came Magnus's whisper. "You're this close to having what you desire. Don't let her stand in your way."

Jaron lowered his gaze and watched flames travel up the obsidian blade of his sword. The archer seemed shocked at first, then her face set with determination. She lunged away, taking a new stance, daring him with her gaze to come at her.

He darted forward and their swords became a flurry of steel and flame. The archer moved just as quickly with a blade as she did with a bow, blocking each of his attacks and launching her own with ferocity. He knew she'd be able to keep up with him, but seeing her in action like this for himself was more than he'd imagined. She didn't wield weapons. She was a weapon.

Their blades crossed once more, both of them pushing against the other. His gaze traveled up the blade, watching as her steel began to warp against the flames. The fire licked the archer's face, but she didn't pull away, continuing to push forward with all her strength.

Suddenly, she kicked his ankle out from under him, knocking him to the ground. His sword fell from his hand. She crawled on top of him and held her warped sword over his head. The side of her face was red from the flame. Her eyes filled with hate as she prepared to plunge her sword into him.

Yet, she hesitated.

Jaron took the opportunity to his advantage and rolled them both so that he was now on top of her. He reached for his sword and brought it between them as he lifted himself off of her. She looked at him, her face a mixture of defeat and confusion.

"Why have you stopped?" she asked, desperation in her voice. "This is your chance. End me now and nothing is stopping you from getting what you want from Magnus."

He didn't respond. His mind was washed with so many conflicting thoughts.

"Why aren't you killing me? What's stopping you?"

He slowly lowered his sword, remembering the words she'd told him that night on the docks in Baltessa. "If I wanted you dead, you would be dead."

The archer paused for a moment, as if holding her breath. Then like rainrise after a harsh frostfall season, her frost melted away. Her gaze softened, the harsh line of her mouth curving up into an almost smile.

He realized then that he wanted her to have more smiles. He wanted her to keep fulfilling her purpose. He wanted her to live.

The emberbloods' chanting stopped. He glanced over to them, watching as they each fell over limp to the ground.

The ritual.

"It's complete," the archer said, but he couldn't really hear her. When he glanced back at her, she wasn't looking at the emberbloods or the volcano. Her worried gaze was for him only.

The ground below him trembled.

At the same moment, he began to feel warm. No, hot. Something wasn't right. Heat radiated from his core, spreading through his veins like a wildfire, growing stronger, moving faster as the ground continued to shake.

Jaron understood then. They were all right. He was the vessel. Magnus had manipulated him specifically for this purpose and he'd been a fool. He suddenly felt sick, his face clammy. The ritual was already done. The volcano was actively rumbling. There was nothing he could do to stop what was already happening. His legs went weak, and he fell to his knees.

The archer crouched by him, putting her hands on his shoulders.

"I should have listened," he admitted, breathing raggedly. "I should have—"

The archer's hand slipped into his. She gave it a squeeze.

"I'm afraid." His voice cracked.

She looked at him softly again. "Try to stay with me. Maybe if you push Magnus aside, don't give him permission, he can't take over."

Jaron closed his eyes and tried to push the heat back, calling his own flames to him, but it was no use. Magnus was too strong. Jaron was only a mortal.

He thought of Alrik's curious eyes and Sera's smile once more. He thought of his growing fondness of the sea, and of the archer who hated him.

Jaron opened his eyes and looked at her. "What is your name?" he asked.

She gazed at him for a moment, a look of understanding passing over her face. She knew he'd lost his fight.

"Nara," she said, her voice softer than he'd ever heard it. "My name is Nara."

Jaron nodded, swallowing back the lump in his throat. His voice was barely a whisper as her name left his lips and everything went black.

"Nara."