Sha Miara materialized—not in her waiting room, but in her Monarch platform. She was surrounded by opulent decorations: stained glass, gorgeous furniture, ornamental spirits, and light of every color.
She trembled with rage.
Royal madra blazed up around her as space warped and cracked. Her veil faded, the restrictions on her falling away as her oaths were completed.
Sha Relliar tackled her.
Her Herald was a big man, and he tackled her more than just physically, pitting the full might of his spirit and will against hers. In her weakened state, it was enough to disperse her power.
The impact didn’t rattle her, though she stared up at the ceiling several hundred yards from where she’d started.
But the extra seconds she’d been given to consider her actions cooled her off.
Her ancestors—her mother—lent her their wisdom. They couldn’t speak to her, though she sometimes wished they would, but she could borrow their instincts. She felt their collective reaction to her behavior.
They disapproved.
She shouldn’t show her anger in front of the other Monarchs. Not only could they shut down anything she tried, but she would look like a petulant child. And not just to the Monarchs, but to a heavenly messenger as well.
Just like in the arena. She’d let herself be knocked around like a helpless child.
Embarrassment fueled rage, but the sense of her ancestors brought her back to herself. The Luminous Queen wouldn’t lose control.
Dignity came from maturity, and maturity meant accepting reality. Her mother had taught her that.
Sha Miara repeated those words like a mantra as she pushed Sha Relliar away. “Thank you, Relliar,” she said, unwilling to look him in the eye. She levitated to her feet. “I apologize, that was unbecoming of me.”
Though she wasn’t watching him, she knew he was looking at her in suspicion. “I apologize, Your Highness, but I believe you may wish to veil yourself again.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “A gracious queen would not let something like this rattle her.”
Even if she had been beaten by an Underlord for all the world to see, she wasn’t an idiot. She had put herself in a scenario where it was possible. Forced herself into that scenario, really. Seeking vengeance, even petty revenge, would be unbecoming and dishonorable.
“Your…pardon, Monarch, but a truly gracious queen would send the winner a congratulatory gift.”
With a brief flex of soulfire-controlled aura, she hurled a piano at him.
Sophara coiled herself in the center of a circle of eight natural treasures. A stone head wept tears of diamond, radiating earth aura, opposite an old weathervane that spun in the wind it generated. Water opposite fire, life opposite death, light opposite shadow.
There were many ways to balance aura, but this was a classic. The aura was strong and stable. Perfect for advancement.
The Gate of Heaven elixir spun through her madra channels, a living ball of liquid silver energy.
Sophara was in her serpentine dragon form, which had taken her most of the day to achieve. She had to make herself more human when she advanced, and it was easier to start in a body that was further from her ideal.
Her grandmother Xorrus, a Herald, watched in her perfect human body. Her golden hair shimmered like the sun, and her limbs were in flawless proportion. Even her eyes were human circles instead of draconic slits.
Sophara hoped to be so beautiful soon.
“This is only an attempt,” Xorrus said. “Be cautious. If it feels like advancement will be too much of a burden, then do not begin.”
To win this tournament, Sophara’s family had stuffed her with powers, elixirs, Divine Treasures, and enhancements of every description. They had pushed her beyond the maximum capacity of an Underlady.
And she had performed flawlessly.
Anyone with less skill and willpower would have collapsed, unable to bear the weight, their spirit ruined. The fact that Sophara could use the sacred arts at such a level was testament to her greatness.
But even for her, there were side effects.
Supposedly.
Sophara had seen none. She trusted her grandmother and was cautious, but she had felt no pain in her spirit. Whoever decided where the limits of the Underlord stage were, they had never met her.
She could handle even more.
“You don’t need to worry about me, Grandmother.” If Xorrus had a flaw, it was that she cared too deeply about her family.
The Herald frowned. “It’s not wrong to have limits. Only to show them to the enemy.”
Sophara knew she must have limits, she was just certain they hadn’t reached hers yet.
Advancing while bound to more power than she could control would only worsen the imbalance, causing permanent spiritual damage. If this advancement went wrong, then she would—at best—find herself unable to ever advance to Archlord.
The longer she stayed at the Underlord stage, the more stable her spirit would be. If she were cautious, she would wait to advance.
But no other Underlord could handle the amount of power she already had.
She had the will to do this.
“I’m ready to begin,” Sophara said, settling her chin onto the floor and tapping into her soulfire.
Xorrus’ disapproval was silent.
The Gate of Heaven elixir seeped out of her spirit and into her body, and the pressure of the surrounding aura felt ten times stronger. She could feel it so clearly, the power of the world cradling her, resonating with her spirit.
Her madra channels fractured immediately.
Before she could even scream, Xorrus had wrapped her will around Sophara and pulled the Gate of Heaven elixir back, the advancement canceled before it began.
Sophara’s screams lasted for several minutes before they died down, and then she hurriedly inspected her channels.
She visualized them as a network of bright orange lines running throughout her spirit, and now tiny hairline fractures—so small she could barely see them—ran up and down the length of those channels.
The pain subsided quickly, but the fear was worse.
She hadn’t even come close to successfully advancing. The pain was instant.
Xorrus sighed. “Do you know what would have happened if you had been here alone?”
“I would have failed,” Sophara said. Her words shivered.
“Not quite. You would have successfully advanced to Overlord, but your Path would have ended there.” Xorrus put a hand on the side of Sophara’s snout—in this form, Sophara’s head was practically bigger than the Herald’s entire body. “Do not be afraid. Let this encourage you.”
Sophara didn’t see how this could possibly be encouraging.
“If you are so damaged, then only the collective attention of the Monarchs can restore you. Which is the prize of the victor.” Xorrus gave her a comforting smile.
“You have a way to defeat any opponent for certain. But if you use it, you have to win. Win or die. Isn’t that comforting?”
In a strange way, it was.
4
The Akura cloudship was so sleek that it looked smaller than it really was, though it had carried Lindon along with hundreds of Akura tournament visitors and their servants.
Now, it hovered at the end of the dock as people boarded it again. Many were members of the Akura family, but Lindon had also seen members of the Frozen Blade School and others he didn’t recognize.
Mercy’s brother Pride directed most of the traffic. The short Underlord shouted orders constantly while lifting luggage or leaping around to attend to a task himself.
Lindon had tried to get his attention several times, but it seemed Pride was deliberately ignoring him.
Then Mercy ran out onto the dock, waving. “Good-bye, everybody! Sorry I’m late!” She came to a halt by Lindon, grinding her staff on the stone of the dock.
Immediately, Pride landed in a crouch next to Lindon.