A sea of branches wrapped in green energy and furious will burst out from inside Hrafn.
The first was a wooden spear as thick as the legs of an adult man. The white voroir before him managed to tilt his head to the side in time not to lose it, but almost half of his cheek was torn away in the process, his flesh opening to the teeth and pouring blood. But that had only been the beginning.
When the warrior raised his sword to cut the branch and firmed his stance to finish the movement, the second part came, the part that silenced even the crowd. From the thick body of the first branch, several other smaller and sharp branches split off with a crack, they grew so fast that Alva barely managed to follow the movement until it was too late.
The cheek, the eyes and the neck of the white voroir were pierced by them, and his skin assumed soon after a sickly tone of poisoning. The miracle within him reacted by pure instinct, a thick and desperate white shining in the man's flesh, trying to heal him and fight against the inevitable. The hand even rose for one more instant, but fell soon after, with the body remaining standing only because the head still hung by the branches.
The arena stopped and even the other participants stopped. Her brother Hakon widened his eyes, the other voroir threw himself backward as fast as he could, retreating out of the reach of the branches that spread through the air in all directions. The crowd, which before screamed for blood like one body, went silent, as if they had received more than they asked for.
Alva brought a hand to her mouth, at her side even Astrid seemed astonished, such a young voroir should not be capable of manifesting the miracle that way in the world. Alva suspected that perhaps he really was not capable, at least not in the way one would expect, perhaps Hrafn had found some trick, an especially petty and intelligent way to work around his powers.
Which coming from him seemed almost predictable. "Perhaps there will not be time, my lady," whispered Astrid.
Her cousin was speaking of the poison, they had been feeding Hakon with it little by little, Alva had made a point of ensuring her brother's death by several paths at the same time. The poison, Hrafn, and other darker methods, left waiting in case the first two failed, but seeing the arena in that state, perhaps all of that had been excess.
Perhaps… "Do not rejoice so early, dear sister," a voice sounded at her side.
Alva turned her face to Loki, one of her many older brothers, he was a man greedy enough to want to tear from her even the little she had gained. A few seats behind him at a higher point, was the father of both, the marquis, observing the arena with cold and mathematical eyes. The slight furrow in his lips was the only thing that revealed displeasure.
He was also the reason they were in that specific arena, for it was one of the largest in Sahirid, large enough to hold thousands of people. Her father had wanted to turn that into a debut, he wanted to display Hakon to the world, show that the family blood still carried divinity, that their name remained fertile in miracles, after all, Hakon was the third awakened child in a single generation of eighteen.
"Did you hear a flatterer, Astrid?" Alva asked.
"I cannot hear effeminate man, my lady," Astrid answered, with venom equal to hers.
"We shall see if you mock like that when we sell you, sister," said Loki, hatred leaking unchecked from his voice. "And when she is gone, servant, we shall see how much you will hear me. I want to see you keep that attitude naked in my chambers."
Alva did not bother wasting more time on him, but the concern grew, for there was something wrong in all of that, and the wrong came from long before the arena. Hakon should not be a voroir so soon, Hrafn was rare, one among ten of the selected perhaps would awaken so quickly, less even, and that already being generous. That meant the father had spent a fortune in grains of light, artifacts and perhaps methods even less confessable to make his son what he now was.
That worried her, the first white had died through arrogance, since he had trusted too much in his own capacity to heal the blows, to bear the pressure and win on time against the younger ones. But now...
Now Hakon and the other voroir looked at the dead on the ground like men who had finally remembered that the combat was lethal. They seemed determined to unleash everything they had, and by the way their energy distorted the air around them, like heat over a road in summer, they still had much.
Hrafn and his friend on the other hand were at the end. The small warrior snorted with his hand on his chest, he had given good blows, that Alva could not deny. During the cripple's attack, he had even managed to split the white's shield in half, but now he remained bent forward, barely managing to keep the axe raised.
And Hrafn was not much better, after that strike he fell to his knees, surrounded by the branches that formed a protective dome around him. It was a very impressive sight, but Alva knew that without megin to feed them, those branches would be as fragile before Hakon as glass before a boot.
"Surrender Briorn" Hrafn said, loud enough that the sound reached where she was weakened.
"I surrender!" the small one answered. Right after, he dropped the axe, as if he wanted to rid himself of the weight to flee faster, turned his back and ran off.
The cripple, however, rose slowly and took a few steps forward, reaching the mace that was within the dome's reach. Hakon and the other warrior exchanged a few words, deciding whether it was worth pursuing the fugitive, even surrendered, to avenge the death of their companion. Alva would have felt better if they had decided to divide their forces.
But to her displeasure, both focused on Hrafn.
All that remained for her was to pray to the Star that the young voroir was not playing the hero, though she doubted that a man like him would commit so great a stupidity. Then she hoped he would be what he had always been until then, that he would be clever and venomous once again, and even worse to chew than he had seemed until then.
That he would be Hrafn, always clever, Hrafn.