There was a burst of yelling and confusion, followed by a renewed surge of Crimson Eagles seeing their apparent advantage and trying to push into storm our distracted defenses and destroy us. Tristan’s hand remained locked on that bloody knife shoved in his pocket. Quickly walking in my direction.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I turned away from the psychopath who just shanked the Captain to death while he was busy defending us. Running right towards the scuffle of fists and pain taking place at the back exits. My hands were shaking, if that bastard just stabbed Captain Till, I didn’t doubt for a second he’d slit my throat to keep my mouth shut. I needed an out.

I slapped my hands together, desperation breeding necessity. Blue lightning arced between my hands as I pulled them apart—the skin up to my forearms going numb. But more than that, relief flooded me. Fickle fate was on my side.

With that, I rammed right into the flying blows, cussing delinquents, and ducked under a soaring golfing club. Trying to ignore the fight, and scramble past the two fighting sides controlling the back exit.

Unfortunately, a Crimson Eagle with a broken nose decided to prevent that plan. Planting his dumb ass right in front of me, and keeping me firmly from escaping the psycho at my heels. I didn’t have time for him. “Move!” I screamed, tossing a quick feint. Lucky, he fell for it. My knee sprang forward, digging into his balls.

My foot slipped at the sudden movement—narrowly avoiding a blow from behind. I let the Crimson Eagle curl to the ground, uninterested in taking him out of the fight for good.

I afforded myself a glance at Tristan; the lieutenant broke into a jog. In a couple of seconds, he’d be close enough to stab that bloody knife into my lungs too. I didn’t fancy bleeding out.

I called upon Fickle Fate as I lobbed a fist at another Crimson Eagle—showering us both in red sparks as my knuckles connected with his side. Tristan moved quicker than I’d expected—I saw a flicker of steel out of the corner of my eye. The guy I punched reeled, stumbling directly into the point of Tristan’s blade. His misfortune body-blocked a stab intended for me, by that psycho fuck.

Poor guy. But I didn’t have much time for sympathy.

I turned and broke for the exit, seeing my clear path out of the hell-hole. Hearing a blast behind me as someone threw some unknown Soul Ability out. I ducked into the connecting alley. Luck to see that any of the Crimson Eagles that circled around this way were already pressing into the entrance. They didn’t care to track down someone actively fleeing from the fight.

My lungs burned but I slapped my shoes to the half-dirt alleyway, putting whatever distance I could between me and Tristan.

I turned the corner to a blast of light—headlights blinding me. A fast Crimson Eagle on a chopper, his shoulders hunched and with a wicked grin on his face. He spat a thick glob of sticky yellow onto the dirt.

“Running right to me! Time to make some Brass-King roadkill!” the engine revved as that grin grew more malicious.

I glanced behind me. Tristan hadn’t followed me out, yet. Thank the Immortals for that small favor. Even if it meant being trapped with a guy on a bike.

Romeo’s voice popped in my head. His instructions to keep my mind calm like the surface of a lake—one of the pieces of advice he gave as he beat my shit in. My breath slowed, my limbs already heavier from exhaustion after the brief burst of action. My body was sore and wounded, reluctant to continue as the adrenaline receded.

The bike began to lurch forward, the biker intending to ram me. But I kept my mind calm, dusting off my arm—and calling upon Fickle Fate.

A flash of red. Just as bad as rolling snake eyes. Fuck.

I tried to jump away, but my legs gave out. If I’d stayed in place, that bike wouldn’t have made a head-on collision, unfortunately, that small shift of movement caused it to ram into me directly. He hit with as much force he could muster in the ten feet it took to reach me at full throttle. My body tumbled over the ground, a loud crack from my shoulder bashing into a wall; gravel lacerated my skin in several spots.

Worse, my left arm screamed in pain as something went terribly wrong. My shoulder muscle spasmed as the bike began to turn towards me again. The fucker was laughing. I groaned, struggling on the ground, searing pain and unable to push myself up since my left arm refused to cooperate. I could lay there, and just let him beat me.

No. That wasn’t an option. Tristan would get to me eventually, if this guy didn’t end me, then that psychopath sure the fuck would. There was no choice. My life was on the line in this last stand. With a groan, I used my only cooperating arm to push myself up the wall. I took a second to admire my limp extremity. Like a linguine noodle—hanging off me. Immortals-damn. The motorcycle was now facing me again, I brought a hand to my eye to fight those damn headlights.

“Always wanted to try jousting! Why do only those Euro-fucks get to do the fun stuff! I’ll be the knight in shining armor, riding a Spirit Beast! You get to be a good-for-nothing peasant!

“Go fuck yourself,” I said through clenched teeth. He had the nerve to let loose another howl, before revving that deadly engine

The bike launched, intent to smear me against the wall. Time slowed, and I clutched my dislocated shoulder with my good arm.

Rather than feeling a sense of horror at the impending doom, the only thing I could think was how fucking great the euphoria and excitement made me feel. It was like I was on the center of the stage—the bike’s headlight my own personal limelight as I made the biggest bet I’d ever taken. A game of chance with death. The anticipation of rolling the dice felt more intoxicating than any mortal liquor could ever be.

Would it be red or blue? Would I end up a corpse rotting in this alley? Or would I win and have that sweet air of freedom. Tristan, the murder, his betrayal. None of it passed through my mind.

No. Just fate looking at me with its vicious love.

When I called upon my Soul Seed, it was more responsive than it’d ever been before. A single inch of will for it to activate. Blue sparks rippled out from my hand to my screwed-up arm.

I ran towards the bike instead of away, the Crimson Eagle’s eyes widened. No doubt thinking I’d turned suicidal.

Right before the bike slammed into me and spell my end—its front-wheel hydroplaned in a patch of mud beneath it. The guy driving overcompensated as he tried to right the balance—but it threw it off, and he lost control. The bike brushed past my side, then slammed directly into the wall he meant to squish me against at an angle. He screamed in pain.

I took in a deep breath of gasoline-scented air. A wide smile on my face. I took one look at his mangled body as he cried for help.

There wasn’t time to gloat or relish the feeling of being alive and winning. At any moment Tristan might turn out of that garage. I’d won. Now it was time to collect my prize. Escaping with my life.

I began to book it down the alley, and heard Tristan’s hoarse voice scream out, “Traitor!”

There wasn’t a point in turning around to defend myself. My word didn’t matter compared to his. I didn’t know what would happen later, but that hardly factored into my decision. All I could do was escape. Put distance between him and me, and lower my chances of taking his knife to my gut. After that, I could report that he’d stabbed the captain, for what it was worth.

Maybe somehow, against all the odds, that poor man lived through his betrayal. Right now, there just wasn’t anything I could do. Or so, I told myself.