Page 139 of The Fake Divination Offense
“Can you?” I ask. “Lightning, thunder, smoke, fire?”
He digs in his component belt. “Enough. Yeah. Keep them distracted.”
The room vibrates and we all lurch to the side, the walls almost entirely gone. The crowd is a dull rumble of noise, growing louder, and distantly, I spot a speck against the sky; one of the stadium’s cameras coming to see why the field’s moving so early.
They’ll record everything that happens. Broadcast it in the stadium and across the world. Which is what we wanted, toshoweveryone that this ritual won’t work—but in our plan, we were going to alter how Bel looks. Now, he’ll be at the center of this, in his true form, his identity shown to everyone. And Seb and Thio are clearly doing magic; but hopefully, those watching will think they’re working to undo the barrier, which they are.
I stay in a crouch by Seb and Thio but face the cultists. They’re still chanting, hands spread. Only Tem has his hood back, his face tipped up, eyes closed and a smile on his face.
Bel nods at me.It’s okay, he mouths.
The walls collapse until only the floor and the I beam remain, and we’re gliding past the field’s ground, lifting higher, until we come to a warbling stop at least fifty feet in the air.
An entire stadium’s attention is fixed on us, and several cameras broadcast what’s left of the room. On one of the massive screens, it’s clear that the runes on the floor under Bel are in the shape of a pentagram.
Aaron, Roesia, and Darian stay in a circle around the green arcane wall. Marlow’s crouched on the I beam, trying to pry at the chains holding Bel. They all eye me, then the stadium, but they stay. They stay and they’re ready, and I wish I could explain what’s happening, but with each passing moment of strain and worry immobilizing me, I face Tem, and wait.
“The blood of Galaxrien will free him,” the cultists chant. “The blood of Galaxrien will free him.”
“Now,” Seb whispers.
Lightning crackles around the cultists. A crack of thunder bolts through the air. Flames burst to life at the edge of the platform, billowing smoke around us. That’ll help hide what Seb and Thio are doing, at least.
Tem cackles with glee. “Rise, our lord!Rise!”
The flames flare higher, the lightning surges blindingly white—
And then it fades.
Shimmers, pulses, and retracts. The ritual, failing.
The cultists stop their chanting, confused. Tem’s smile fades and he shakes his head.
Breath saws into my lungs, fisted hands gouging my nails into my palms.
It’s not going to be enough, is it?
“No, keep chanting!” Tem urges.
They’ll keep trying. And trying, and Bel will never be safe,he’llnever be safe, not until they get exactly what they want: Galaxrien Vossen.
So… let’s give them Galaxrien Vossen.
Seb and Thio are both frantic in spell work, hands flying, components vanishing, and spells falling from their lips.
I lean over to them. “Voice projection,” I murmur. “A voice projection spell.”
Seb glances at me, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes slitted in confusion. “For—?”
“Galaxrien’s going to make an appearance after all,” I whisper.
Even over the rumbles of fading thunder, the noise of the crowd, all of it, Seb hears. Thio, too—he pats Seb’s forearm and goes, “On it.”
Seb shakes his head. “No, you keep breaking that arcane wall; I’ll do the voice. And Orok—”
Seb’s eyes flash behind me. And widen.
“Distract him!”
