3MA

3MA | Chapter 40

40
ELEANORA

The scent of smoke and blood pulls me from the darkness.

My eyes flutter open.

Mom, or the ghost who held her form, is gone. In her place is the world she sent me back to awaken.

Only now, as I peer around the Amphitheater, marveling at all the beautiful little details I had completely missed throughout my life, I realize I can see everything with a startling new clarity.

In the reflection of a twisted neon tube I see why; my dark brown irises have somehow been replaced by Mom's light gray eyes.

A gift from the Spirit.

I lift my chin to the sky and relish the dark, velvety spaces between the stars; the celebratory fireworks of thousands of fireflies igniting in the distant forest; the miniscule silver veins of the Amphitheater's steps catching glints of starlight; the watchful eyes of all the spectators around me, brimming with a desperate, secret hope I had never noticed before.

And the sweetest detail of all: Amaris's grinning face looking in my direction, full of more certainty than a face with a gun pointed at it has the right to hold.

I pull myself to my feet at the same moment Black Heart's body effortlessly rises from the flickering wreckage, slow and silent. He brushes aside an iron girder like it's a weightless matchstick and comes to finish me.

But even Carven's unnatural creation can't escape my new powers of observation. Across the smoky arena, Black Heart sprints toward me, his gaze locking with mine.

In a dizzying instant, I finally recognize those sad, strong eyes.

I hold a palm out to Black Heart.

Return.

An inch from my outstretched fingers, my opponent stumbles backward in shock. I watch as every muscle in the fighter's body violently quakes and then deflates; a bloated parade float ripped open with a razor.

Black Heart falls to his hands and knees, his head lowered to the canvas, as his pectorals, biceps, traps, quads, even his muscled jaw line, contract to reform the body of another man.

The shrunken fighter lifts his weary head. A crooked smile plays across a stubbled face.

A face that looks just like mine.

"I submit," my father proudly announces, collapsing into a heap on the canvas.

The audience releases a collective gasp as Aaron "Excalibur" Ambrosia's face is projected onto the arena's screens.

I kneel before Dad, thread my arm around his shoulders, and lift him to his unstable feet. He stares at me, blinking his eyes as if waking from a longer-than-expected nap. I pulls me into a vicious hug.

I run a palm across his stubbly cheek, checking that he isn't some kind of an illusion. But he is solid. And scarred. And real. Just the way I always remembered him.

"Weirdest family reunion ever," I say.

Dad takes my hands in his and squeezes them. "They feel ready," Dad grumbles.

"Ready for what?"

Dad nods up to the night sky. The Staff lowers from its vaulted position over the Octagon and settles just a few inches overhead.

"Ready to change the world," Dad replies.

I want to tell him that I'm scared. That I don't feel worthy. That an object of such power can't be trusted in my hands.