The Villain
Trystan was going to die.
Vines and leaves constricted around his nose and mouth, cutting off his air, tightening around his chest, and squeezing his lungs. Black spots began to cloud his vision, and a desperate chant echoed in his mind.
Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.
But his body was betraying him. Without a breath of oxygen in the next few moments, his eyes would close, and there was no guarantee they would ever open again. His mind frantically searched for something to hold on to, something to keep him anchored against the encroaching darkness.
Revenge. If he didn’t survive, Benedict would continue to play the gallant leader beloved by all, doing whatever it took to stay on the throne, even if it meant spreading an incurable disease among his people. The prophecy was Trystan’s to fulfill—he had to live so he could carry out his revenge.
But he was slipping away…
Evie.
Her beautiful face appeared before him: her lips, her eyes, her smile. The way she’d snort with laughter, only to be shocked by the sound, as if she couldn’t believe she was capable of such unrestrained joy. He saw her pale, lifeless face on a marble table, hands clasped over flowers, eyes closed.
Black spots. No air.
She was alive. She was alive, and the makers of this world were in for a rude awakening if they thought he’d ever be separated from her again. His eyelids grew heavy, but his power did not sleep.
It awakened.
Black mist formed itself into a blade, slicing through the vines and freeing those around his middle and mouth, allowing him to gasp in sweet air. He’d never take a simple breath for granted again. He inhaled deeply, over and over, regaining control, regaining himself as he coughed.
Sage had tried to save him, but she had been forcibly stopped. A cry of fury escaped him.
The surge of anger fueled his magic, finishing the task of cutting through the vines until he was completely free, dropping him to the hard dirt ground. Stumbling to his feet, he blinked in the dim light of—
Where in the deadlands had those cursed weeds taken him?
He found himself in the middle of what appeared to be some sort of arena, surrounded by raised walls on all sides. There was no obvious way out. Above, a skylight let the sun beat down on his face. His shirt was torn in the middle, as though he had just battled a behemoth rather than an oversized houseplant.
On the far wall, a gate was lowered. He walked toward it, black mist probing the area, his power sensing ahead for any signs of life among the darkness. He had never been more grateful for his magic than in that moment.
“I wouldn’t go any closer to that gate if I were you,” a low voice called from beyond the raised wall.
Trystan searched for the source of the voice when an animalistic growl echoed from the darkness beyond the gate, sending him flying backward. What in the deadlands was that?
“State your name!” the same voice commanded. Trystan looked up to see two men standing outside the arena, perched on a viewing stage, staring down at him with crossed arms. Trystan guessed they were Rebecka’s other brothers.
“I’m The Villain,” he replied flatly. “Cower in fear, and once you’re done, kindly lower a ladder.” Something plopped onto his foot, and when he looked down, he nearly wept in frustration. “Kingsley, you’re killing me.”
The frog stared up at him, and he sighed, picking it up. “Is that a frog?” one of the men asked.
He tossed Kingsley upward as gently as possible. The amphibian’s foot gripped the side wall. Success. “Sort of,” Trystan replied. “Let me leave, and you can have him.”
The curly-haired man chuckled. “I doubt you’ll be leaving here at all, good sir. Or rather, evil sir, I suppose.” He stroked his chin, ignoring the glare from the other sibling, who looked at Trystan with utter disdain. It was a shame his HR manager would probably disapprove of him maiming these two idiots with his magic.
“I’m here on business, not to harm you… Raphael?” The quiet man nodded curtly. Trystan had guessed Rebecka’s eldest brother’s name from the little information she had shared when he hired her. Trystan always remembered names, even when he wished he could forget them.
“And I’m Reid,” the curly-haired brother said with a bow. “Since we’re exchanging pleasantries.”
Trystan crossed his arms over his torn shirt. “You find this pleasant?”
Reid shrugged, moving closer to the wall’s edge. “I do. It’s been rather dull 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 ominous to be anything good.
Trystan cleared his throat, glancing between the two men and the gate with the ominous growling beyond it. “I assume the anguish comes from whatever’s in there?” He pointed toward the gate.
Raphael let the question hang unanswered. “You shouldn’t have come here, Villain. Nor should you have brought my sister.”
Reid shifted, uneasy. Trystan noted the unease—it seemed to run deeper than just familial concern.
“Your sister’s choices are her own to explain,” Trystan called back to Raphael. “I’m here because our search for answers has led us to your doorstep.”
“You’re looking for a star,” Reid guessed. Was that the ridiculous rumor going around? They might as well have said he was looking for a birthday candle—it would have done less damage to 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 arena, accompanied by the creak of the lever he pulled back. “Villain, your magic is a blight on the people of Rennedawn.” The gate began to rise, and a low rumbling sound made the hairs on the back of Trystan’s neck stand on end. “I do not wish to harm you, but you brought this upon yourself. Now you will be tested by the hands of destiny, the world’s oldest magic.”
Fear washed over Trystan as booming footsteps echoed from the darkness. “And if I don’t pass…?”
Something emerged—something worse than Fate’s creatures, worse than death itself. He barely heard Raphael’s final words.
“You die.”
