Chapter 60

Chapter 60

The Villain

Trystan was going to die.

Vines and leaves closed over his nose and mouth, cutting off his air, wrapping around his middle and squeezing at his lungs. Black spots clouded his vision, and a chant began in his mind.

Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.

But his body was failing him. If he didn’t get a breath of oxygen in the next few moments, his eyes would close, and there was no telling if they would open again. His mind reached for something to hold on to, something to sustain him against the creeping darkness.

Revenge. If he didn’t stay alive, Benedict would continue playing the gallant leader adored by all. Doing whatever was necessary to stay on the throne, even if it meant infecting his people with an incurable disease. The prophecy was Trystan’s to fulfill—he had to live so he could continue to seek revenge.

But he was letting go…

Evie.

Her lovely face appeared before him: her lips, her eyes, her smile. The snorts that came out of her and the shock on her face that always followed, like she didn’t realize herself capable of such untethered amusement. He saw her face pale, lifeless on a marble table, her hands clasped over flowers, her eyes closed.

Black spots. No air.

She was alive. She was alive, and the makers of this world were in for a true surprise if they believed he would ever be separated from her again. Heavy lids weighed down over his eyes, but his power didn’t sleep.

It woke up.

Black mist angled itself like a blade, cutting at the vines and releasing the ones around his middle and his mouth, allowing him to choke down sweet air. He’d never take simple breaths for granted again. He drew another and another, regaining his control, regaining himself as he coughed.

Sage had tried to save him, but she’d been forcibly stopped.

A cry of fury left him.

The surge of anger was enough for his magic to finish slicing away at the vines until they freed him completely, dropping him to the hard dirt ground. Stumbling to his feet, he blinked in the dim light of—

Where in the deadlands had the blasted weeds taken him?

He was in the middle of what looked to be some sort of arena, raised walls all around him. There was no clear means of escape. A skylight above let the sun beat down on his face. His shirt was torn in the middle, like he’d just done battle with a behemoth and not an overgrown houseplant.

On the far wall, there was a lowered gate. He walked toward it. Black mist searched around him, his power feeling ahead for anything living among the darkness. He’d never been as grateful for his magic as he was just then.

“I wouldn’t go any closer to that gate if I were you,” a low voice called from beyond the raised wall.

Trystan was searching for whoever the voice belonged to when an animalistic growl echoed out from the blackness beyond the gate, causing him to fly backward. What in the deadlands was that?

“State your name!” the same voice commanded, and Trystan looked up to find two men standing outside the arena, perched on a viewing stage, staring down at him with crossed arms. Trystan would hazard a guess that they were Rebecka’s other two brothers.

“I’m The Villain,” he said without feeling. “Cower in fear, and when you’re done doing that, kindly lower a ladder.” Something plopped onto his foot, and when he looked down, he nearly wept for the frustration of it all. “Kingsley, you are killing me.”

The frog stared up at him, and he sighed and pulled him up.

“Is that a frog?”

He tossed Kingsley, his friend, upward as gently as possible. The amphibian’s foot gripped the side wall. Success. “Sort of,” he replied. “Let me leave and you can have him.”

A chuckle sounded from the curly-haired man. “I’m afraid it’s unlikely you’ll leave here at all, good sir. Or—rather, evil sir, I suppose.” The man stroked his chin and ignored the glare from the other Fortis sibling, who looked upon Trystan with the most disdainful expression imaginable. His HR manager would likely frown upon him maiming these two dolts with his magic. That was a shame.

“I am merely here on business, not to harm you…Raphael?” The quiet man nodded curtly. He’d guessed Rebecka’s oldest brother’s name from the meager information she’d shared of her life when he’d hired her. Trystan always remembered names, even when he wanted to forget them.

“And I’m Reid.” The curly-haired brother bowed. “Since we’re exchanging pleasantries.”

Trystan crossed his arms over his ripped shirt. “You find this pleasant?”

Reid shrugged, nearing the wall’s edge. “I do. It’s been rather boring around here, and I’m not the one in the Trench of Anguish.”

“Reid. Shut up,” Raphael snapped, moving toward a lever that looked too menacing to initiate anything good.

Trystan cleared his throat, looking at the two men and back to the gate with the unfriendly growling beyond. “I assume the anguish comes from whatever is in there?” He pointed toward it.

Raphael let the question fall unanswered. “You shouldn’t have come here, Villain. Nor should you have brought my sister.”

Reid shifted, uneasy. Trystan filed that unease away; it looked deeper than familial obligation.

“Your sister’s affairs are her own to express to you,” he called back to Raphael. “I am here because our merry chase through the kingdom looking for answers has brought us to your doorstep.”

“You’re looking for a star,” Reid guessed. Was that the blasted rumor spreading? They may as well have said he was looking for a birthday candle—it would be better for his reputation.

He had to correct them. “I’m looking for a woman.”

Reid’s mouth flattened. “Aren’t we all?”

“Reid! No more talking.” Raphael’s commanding voice boomed through the room, as did the creak of the lever he angled backward. “Villain, your magic is a scourge to the people of Rennedawn.” The gate raised, and a low rumbling prickled the hairs on the back of Trystan’s neck. “I do not wish to hurt you. But you brought yourself here and left us no choice. Now you will be tested by the hands of destiny, the world’s oldest magic.”

Trystan felt a wash of fear as booming steps echoed in the dark. “And if I don’t pass…?”

Something appeared—worse than Fate’s creatures, worse than death itself.

He barely heard Raphael finish his sentence.

“You die.”