Excerpt

With a final breath, I step through the swirling mist and into the enchanted fighting ring.

The setting is different every night, and until this moment, I have no idea what to expect. Salty air fills my nostrils. Sea spray wets my skin. My gaze darts about and I take in a strip of beach battered on either side by a choppy sea. Though it isn't raining, bruise-dark clouds fill the sky and lightning flickers overhead. I can't see the spectators seated around the outside of the magical arena, but the distant roar of their voices reaches through the dome of magic, mingling with the crash of waves against the shore on either side.

Then my eyes settle on my opponent on the far side of the sandy strip. Tall, broad shoulders, muscular build. A simple black mask covers the whole of his face. No scales, feathers, glitter, or fangs. No animal or fae design. Unlike my iridescent bird-of-prey persona, he's made zero effort with his costume. Riven will not be impressed when he learns of this.

I tilt my head, watching, waiting to see what move he'll make first. He remains frozen for a heartbeat. Then another. And then he begins stalking toward me. I'll bet he's smirking beneath that dull mask of his. Probably thinks this will be the easiest win of his life. I almost smile. The bodybuilder types are always the slowest.

He heads straight for me, hands steady at his sides. No sparks, no elaborate magical displays, no impressive acrobatic stunts. Just a simple, no-nonsense stride. I cock my hips to one side, feigning boredom as I gather magic above my palms. I'm half-convinced that his plan is to simply walk straight into me, but then he comes to a halt a few feet away. He doesn't move.

"Well," I say, lips curving up in what I hope the audience interprets as a sultry smile. "What are you waiting for? Come and get me."

He steps forward. "Are you—"

I sweep both hands through the air, my magic scooping up sand and hurling it in two arcs toward him. His shield magic is up in an instant, faster than I would have thought possible. The sand blasts against it and rains down onto the beach. Then the rippling layer of magic is gone, and he's lunging forward, hands up, magic crackling—

I leap aside and dodge around him. Cartwheel, back flip, perfect landing. My head snaps up, gaze landing on him and lips curving into another smile as I straighten. All completely unnecessary, but unlike Mr. Boring over there, I'm here to earn my keep by giving the people a good show.

A lightning bolt streaks overhead, blinding me for a second, and when it's gone I see my opponent's fingers curled toward the water on my right. A wave rises up with alarming speed, and I barely have time to duck down and tug a layer of magic over myself like a blanket before the wave crashes right over me.

I straighten again, and suddenly he's a lot closer. I lash out with magic, transforming the sparks into tiny, sharpened twigs before they reach him. He knocks them aside with one arm and a powerful gust of wind. His other arm is already up, sending blue-green flames my way. They're swallowed up within seconds by another arc of sand.

And then the fight really begins. No weapons are allowed in here, but there are almost zero restrictions on magic. And that, of course, is more fun than any weapon. A rain of razor-sharp stones, a vortex of snow, a spray of glowing-hot lava. I'm limited only by my imagination, the speed of my thoughts, and the amount of magic I have—and I'm nowhere near running out of that just yet.

We're close enough now to strike out with fists and feet as well, darting forward to punch, and then dodging back to throw more magic. Spiny leaves, twisted vines, silvery needles. No matter what I throw at him, he's ready to hurl his own magic right back at me. He comes scarily close to hitting me with a flaming boulder, but I jump, and a burst of magic plus the enchantment woven into my wings carries me higher than a normal leap. The boulder soars beneath me and explodes into tiny pebbles. I land hard, forcing a pulse of magic from my palms so that the sand flies up around me. It's all about the show, I think, just as I hear the muffled Ooooh! from the crowd.

And then we're back at it, me and Mr. Not-So-Boring-After-All, dancing, dodging, lunging, kicking. He's certainly making me work harder than anyone else I've faced in this enchanted fighting ring. On an ordinary night, I have to remind myself to slow down. To give my opponents a chance. But not with this guy. He's good. Too good. As if he knows the space I plan to occupy before I even get there.

With a flare of irritation, I wonder if he's been here before. If he's watched me and taken notes. But that shouldn't make him this good, should it? Even the people I've fought multiple times—the people who should know my moves better than anyone else—aren't this fast. This guy wields offensive magic as if he's been professionally trained. Almost as if he's …

I take a split second to glance at his wrists, but his sleeves are too long for me to tell whether his skin bears the markings of a guardian. A guardian, in Riven's fighting ring. What an absurd idea.

Light streaks toward me, and my moment of distraction leaves me with no time to deflect it with magic. My right arm is up instinctively, and the bolt of raw, unformed magic rebounds off my wrap bracelet. A surprised gasp comes from the crowd. Yeah, it's more than just a few strips of leather, I think with a satisfied curve to my lips.

But then I feel something … different. The swish of hair against my shoulders is gone. One hand flies up, but I realize before it even reaches my head what must have happened: My opponent's magic struck the pearl that contained the glamour for my hair. My sleek black bob is suddenly a messy tangle of silver and white atop my head.

Well. Crap. That hasn't happened before.

My opponent pauses, apparently as surprised as the audience. Then he lunges forward, grabs my wrists, and tugs me closer. We're suddenly face to face, close enough that I can see the precise color of his eyes: flecks of yellow gold in amber irises. The color is so startlingly familiar that for a moment I'm too stunned to fight back. And that's the moment I find my legs swept out from beneath me.

I land hard on my back. He's on top of me, clamping my wrists together with one hand and pinning my arms down against my chest while his other hand reaches swiftly for my mask. What the hell? There may be close to zero rules inside this fighting ring, but removing someone's—

He rips the mask clear off my face. Then he goes utterly still. His words, a hoarse whisper when they finally come, chill my blood: "I thought you were dead."

His grip loosens. My hand shoots up and I tear the mask from his face. My breath seizes. His dark hair is longer, the angles of his face sharper, but I recognize him in a heartbeat.

Ash.

Another heartbeat passes.

Then I roll us so that I'm the one on top. I shove away from him, rise swiftly, and run.