GAVIN GRIEVE
Every dead champion deserved to be more than a name crossed out on a pillar.
A Tradition of Tragedy
With two champions dead, the scarlet of the Blood Veil had weakened again, and the blue of the afternoon sky behind it had rendered Ilvernath a deep, reddish purple.
And Ilvernath had noticed. Pedestrians crowded the streets—residents, cursechasers, reporters alike. They pointed overhead and whispered, rumors about Elionor Payne’s death already spreading through the city’s gossip network like wildfire.
None of these onlookers noticed a blood-soaked Gavin Grieve stalking the streets beside them. He grimaced as he fought to maintain his Shrouded from Sight spell despite the throbbing pain in his right arm. Even through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, he could feel his veins bulging from his skin, pulsing with magick.
The others had tried to get Gavin to join them, but he’d declined. He wanted no part in Reid MacTavish’s manipulations or Briony and Finley’s heroic delusions. From now on, it was back to basics. Back to relying on the only person he could trust: himself.
Gavin made for a row of shiny storefronts, all the spellshops that had turned him away just a few weeks ago. He paused before the gleaming window display of Walsh Spellmaking Emporium. His face was still splattered with Elionor Payne’s blood.
Elionor was part of the reason he was here, she and Carbry Darrow. When they’d died, their life magick had been drawn to him, and ever since, he’d been chewing on an idea. That Gavin could refill his hourglass, not with his own life magick, but with someone else’s.
And now that all the tournament’s rules were breaking … his options for acquiring that life magick had gotten a lot more interesting.
The shop bell tinkled merrily as Gavin trudged inside, and the cashier glanced toward the door. Their brow furrowed as they realized that no one was there.
“That’s odd,” the cashier murmured.
“Who is it?” called out a thin, reedy voice. A moment later, Osmand Walsh emerged from the back room, his cheeks slightly flushed, smoothing down the folds of the same purple suit he’d worn when he’d mocked Gavin at his sister’s wedding.
Gavin waved a hand, unmasking himself to Osmand Walsh alone, smiling at the look of panic that crossed the spellmaker’s face.
“Surprised to see me?” he asked smugly.
Then, before the man could so much as blink, Gavin grasped him by his lapels and cast a Here to There spell. Another gift from Alistair Lowe.
They landed in the Castle dungeons.
They were nothing like the rest of the Landmark. The dank stone walls were coated with filth and rot, the packed dirt floors littered with animal bones and cast-off bits of manacles and chains.
Osmand was a powerful man, a respected spellmaker. But he was so startled by his ghastly new surroundings and Gavin’s wicked smile that he only managed a rough, terrified, “H-How?”
A rush of satisfaction swept through Gavin. Osmand had made a fool of Gavin in front of half of Ilvernath. It was fitting, then, that his only purpose now would be ensuring that Gavin was never laughed at again.
For a moment, Gavin’s thoughts veered to Alistair. Was this how he’d felt when he’d turned on them? When he’d proven to be exactly the monster that Gavin had always suspected? The exhilaration of knowing there was no turning back, and yet beneath it all, a trace of doubt?
No. Alistair didn’t doubt anything, and neither would Gavin.
Before Osmand Walsh could truly gather his bearings, Gavin cast Trancewalker on him. His eyes went glassy, and he slumped against the wall, frozen beside a pool of murky water that had dripped from the ceiling. His purple suit dampened with muck.
The spellmaker was so far gone that he did not move when Gavin searched around the floor for something sharp. He found a cast-off sliver of iron and pressed it thoughtfully against the spellmaker’s throat.
He had never killed a person before.
He was pretty sure he wouldn’t have to. Not yet.
He lowered his makeshift weapon to Osmand’s collarbone and pressed it gently against the spellmaker’s skin, smiling as a line of blood welled up against his flesh. He waited, staring impatiently at the wound, until a curl of white emerged. Life magick. Gavin reached a hand forward, letting it sink into his arm. Immediately, the pain of his magick being drained began to fade away. He gasped with relief.
The most difficult part was not going too far—he didn’t want to kill the man, not when he had so much life left to give him. So he forced himself to stop after just a few precious seconds, quickly stepping back. The spellmaker slumped to the ground, unconscious.