Through the slits of his flaming cocoon, Thornborne saw it—a faint blue light climbing from Caeruleus's core to her beak. Cascade's Wrath was gathering.
The molten strings, puncturing his body from all sides to connect with the circling spikes, began snaking to his palms in an eerie, organic flow—phasing through muscle and bone like spectral limbs. When the last of them settled into his grasp, he seized them—taking the reins. Instantly, the fiery cocoon stalled, its loose spikes clattering to the stone in a ringing shower.
The glowing wires wrapped tight around his fingertips, pulsing with barely contained heat. With a guttural grunt, he hauled his arms into a crossed 'X' over his chest, muscles straining like taut cables. Across the arena, the remaining spikes scraped and skidded forward—dragged by the molten tethers in screeching protest, kicking up sheets of debris that billowed like dust storms. When the motion locked, two enormous bundled hives of spikes hovered in position, anchored at a distance behind him—lethal pendulums, poised to swing and reap.
He tore the 'X' apart.
The lines snapped taut. With a shriek that tore through the steam, the two barbed bundles scissored forward in a vicious pincer attack.
Above, Caeruleus cut her charge short. Her wings flared, lifting her in a clean upward slip as the twin flails smashed together beneath—fire and spray crossing in a catastrophic X where she'd been a heartbeat before.
Thornborne twisted his wrists, palms to the sky, and swept both arms up. Obedient to the cords, the spikes surged out of the smoke in an ascending rush—ranked like a forest of spears driving for the heavens.
Caeruleus skimmed across the sky; the spikes gave chase. Like homing shots, each head that neared her burst in a molten bloom. She threaded the explosions by inches, fireworks strobing the air to the crowd's awed cries.
With a hard yank, Thornborne recalled the tethers. The weapons slingshotted back, drawing toward each other midflight until they locked into two massive, bristling maces that snapped to ready behind him.
He punched his left arm forward. The left bundle screamed upward; Caeruleus slipped laterally, effortless and precise. Below, Thornborne ran a lateral track, feet carving scorched crescents in the stone. His torso unwound; his right arm hurled the second bundle.
She dove. The spikes hissed past.
What followed was a relentless rhythm. Thornborne became a conductor of chaos—one arm ripping a bundle back as the other flung its twin, the paired orbs pinging through the sky on molten tethers. Caeruleus could only weave: up, down, cutting S-curves through the air.
She cinched her wings tight, corkscrewed around another volley in a clean 360, then unfurled and climbed—twirling into a tight, spiraling ascent—drips of water trailing like liquid comets from her form, the air humming with the rush of evasion. Spikes whistled past, grazing her tail in near-misses that sent shivers through her essence, each one a hairsbreadth from disaster. She pressed on, charging her Essence Core with every twist, building power like a tide swelling to crest—until, at last, she halted her climb, unfurling her wings in a dramatic flare that scattered droplets like rain from a storm cloud.
Shifting her stance mid-air, she faced Thornborn below, her beak parting as she unleashed the incantation's fury: "Cascade's Wrath." A beam of brilliant blue light erupted from her maw, laced with spiraling flows of water that twisted around it in continuous, hypnotic motion— a torrent of liquid force hurtling downward like the sea's vengeful judgment.
Thornborn yanked back the left mace of spikes mid-swing, his armored form straining as he launched the right one airborne with a grunt. The two bundles hurtled toward each other, clashing in a grinding fusion to form a massive wall of thorns—jagged and impenetrable, a barricade of spiked horror towering above him like a fortress born from nightmare.
The beam slammed home, colliding with the cradle of spikes in a cataclysmic roar—fire and water warring in a symphony of steam and sparks, the impact shaking the arena like an earthquake's prelude. Thornborn struggled to hold, muscles bulging as he poured every ounce of Flameonic Essence into the barrier, but cracks spiderwebbed through the thorns, the blue light searing through gaps like relentless waves eroding stone.
Finally, with a deafening crack, the beam pierced clean through—pulling back only after carving a path of destruction, the wall shattering in a burst of splintered obsidian and molten shards.
The beam hurtled toward Thornborn like a vengeful comet, its blue light twisting mid-air as Caeruleus's form rematerialized—her palm leading the charge, slamming into his chest with a resounding crack. A burst of fluids erupted from his back, sap-like blood gushing in viscous sprays, staining the arena floor in dark, glistening pools.
She pushed off, gliding backward with ethereal grace, her feet skimming the ground as she landed lightly. Thornborn staggered, clutching his chest, his cracked skin splitting further under the impact. He dropped to his knees with a heavy thud, spitting a mouthful of blood that splattered the stone, his piercing dark eyes dimming as he watched his spikes—once symbols of his unyielding strength—sink slowly into the red sea below, vanishing beneath the undulating waves like forgotten relics.
"T-thank you," Thornborn rasped, his voice a broken whisper, gratitude laced with the release of a man unburdened at last.
Caeruleus offered no reply, her serene gaze unchanging as she dematerialized in a shimmer of liquid silver, flowing back to her spectator seat amid the hushed stands.
Ezmelral's breath caught, her eyes wide with horror. "I-is he...?"
"He's dead," Raiking confirmed, his tone flat, devoid of pity.
She swallowed hard, confusion mingling with grief. "Then... why did he thank her?"
Raiking's crimson eyes remained on the fallen warrior. "Perhaps he knew victory was impossible. No cure in sight, his life a ticking curse. Fear of repeating his ancestors' mistakes gripped him. Death... it was a release—not just for him, but for his people too. Freeing them from the worry of his burdened path."
The arena fell silent, a heavy pall settling over the parted red sea like a shroud. Ezmelral's gaze drifted to Thornborn's people in the stands—their faces etched with raw pain, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Yet they held back, jaws clenched, refusing to let their emotions spill. They would not dishonor his sacrifice by crumbling now. Instead, they watched their fallen prince with stoic resolve, the agony in their hearts a silent tribute to his final act.
Then, breaking the stillness, an orb materialized in the air—its holy light blinding, a radiant sphere pulsing with ethereal warmth. A faint tether of luminous energy extended from Thornborn's body, coiling upward like a soul's last sigh, drawn into the orb before it floated back toward the GodKing.
The GodKing caught it gently, the light reflecting off his star-forged armor like captured stars. "This young prince would have made a fine king," he declared, his voice booming across the arena, carrying a rare note of respect. "So I grant him the chance to prove himself in an unburdened next life—where his thorns may bloom without curse."
Thornborn's people dropped to their knees as one, bowing deeply, their voices rising in a chorus of gratitude. "Thank you, GodKing!" they chanted, tears finally breaking free, mingling relief with sorrow—a final homage to their lost heir.