It is Pisces who reaches Sonya first. I don't have time to consider his atypical behaviour; Water can protect her from Fire. He lets out a roar and changes into his monstrous form midair, his trident sweeping out in a circle, spraying down a wall of water around Sonya’s cowering form.

I don't see what happens next because Mikkos is on me. Pyrkagia surges and clashes. He fashions a spear of flames and thrusts it towards my stomach. I manage to raise a shield of Fire before me, deflecting his blow. But he is fast. He attacks again with a pulse of Pyrkagia, managing to clip my shoulder and spin me away.

I flick my hand out, and a sword appears in it; the metal folded over five hundred times; the blade wreathed in flames. I swing it at Mikkos’ approaching head and have it deflected off an upraised arm encased in a fire licking gauntlet. The ring of metal on metal sounds out. The crackle of Fire surrounds us.

We circle each other. I am vaguely aware of Isadora in battle with Leon and Nico grappling with Melita. I’m thankful they have paired off that way. Leon was once a Scout; Isadora, though, can match him. I don't have time to locate Aktor and Sonya because Mikkos reaches down and scoops up a handful of dirt and then throws it in my eyes.

A boot connects with my ribs as my vision is hindered. I don’t lower my sword tip, so when Mikkos follows through with a thrust of a dagger, the ring of metal allows me to gain my balance.

I strike hard with my free hand; a closed fist that connects with cheekbone, and then swing my blade to meet his dagger. He fights swiftly, economically. With minimal effort. Once the initial shock of battle lessens, we both fall into an easy pattern.

We come together with a clash of metal on metal and then spring apart with a flare of Pyrkagia heat. The crowd has pulled back, allowing us room to manoeuvre. The ground is scorched black, a few tents already reduced to ash. Mikkos may be quick and efficient, but he is also uncaring of where his Pyrkagia ricochets. Twice now his Fire has hit a bystander.

He only laughs.

I double my efforts to end this, drawing on that which makes me heir to the Pyrkagia throne. There are no other Ancients such as my father in Pyrkagia; long ago he removed any opposition to that claim. Mikkos is powerful, well trained, and arrogant enough to believe he can win this. But he is not my father. He is not me.

I don’t allow the thought to shift my focus. Less powerful he may be, but he is cunning. A blast of Pyrkagia spins off the edge of my sword into the crowd watching, making me flinch at the screams. Mikkos notices and starts targeting the audience instead of me.

Every cry of anguish makes me angrier. Every time someone screams, I rage.

Mikkos knows this and is goading me, uncaring of who he injures in his attempts to reach me.

I’ve had enough of these games; I need to end this.

I increase my efforts to break his defences. My speed picks up, sweat beads my brow, my body is wreathed in flames. The sword blazes through the heated air between us, the clang of metal as it strikes rings out, the roar of Pyrkagia sounds as it flames. I draw blood on his right arm and then immediately after strike his left thigh. Neither hit is life threatening or even debilitating.

But I don't stop. I strike again and again and again. Sweat drips into my eyes and then evaporates. The salty residue obscures my vision. But I am calm now. The sounds of onlookers frantically trying to get out of Mikkos’ way do not reach me. I strike and strike and strike, then parry, then strike again.

Fire meets Fire. I hear the hiss of Water as only a distant note. My mind is focused on Mikkos and Mikkos only. On ending this once and for all. On stopping the poison that my father is spreading throughout Pyrkagia. The poison I see in the Athanatos before me.

We battle. He begins to rage. The angrier he becomes the calmer I am. I am centred. Pyrkagia surges through me. It builds in a crescendo of Elemental power. It dwarfs all those around me. I have him; I know it.

And that is why I miss Melita as she ducks in under Mikkos’ arm and stabs me with a stiletto blade.

Nico stumbles after her. Battered and bloody, his clothes scorched, his eyes wild. For a second, the sight confuses me. Nico is not untalented in battle. He was never a Scout, but then Melita was never a warrior, either. But she has somehow bested him.

And as my vision wavers and my head becomes fuzzy, I realise she has bested me, as well. I stumble. A pain pierces through my chest. I look down and see the stiletto poking out of my left breast, above my heart. My knee hits the dirt. My Pyrkagia flickers. Blood stains my shirt in an ever increasing circle.

I look up at Melita; a woman I at one time loved. I do not see her. I see only the creature she has become. Melita is not who I thought she was. Not merely a betrayer but worse. She holds two more stilettos in her hands. She holds them confidently. She holds them as though she has fought with them for decades.

Or, perhaps, fifteen-hundred years.

Who is this Pyrkagia?

She smirks. Then steps forward. I realise I am still gripping my sword, but the blade is no longer wreathed in flames. I reach for my Stoicheio. But something is wrong. It’s as if it is blocked from me somehow. My free hand comes up to the stiletto. I feel the poison now as it seeps into my body. Works its way through my veins.

My heart beats erratically. Dark smudges appear at the edge of my vision.

I lick my lips. Melita laughs.

“Not so princely now, are you?” she sneers.

“End this,” Mikkos says dismissively.

He has a boot on top of Nico’s chest. My cousin looks unconscious or dead, I cannot tell.

I try one final time to reach my Pyrkagia. I feel nothing.

I cannot see Pisces. I can only pray to Aetheros that he and Aktor managed to get Sonya away. At least my death will count for something. At least Aether’s sword helped save a human. Casey’s human.

Casey.

Strength of a sort surges through me, but it is short-lived. It is only enough for me to lift my chin and whisper, “Hubris.”

I know my whispered word has reached those Pyrkagia still close enough to hear. Perhaps Aetheros has aided me somehow. But then a swirl of scorched dirt turns in lazy circles before me. Air assisted then. I can’t look for Hippolytos; my eyes are all for Melita.

But knowing the Aeras may be near gives me strength.

“Hubris,” I say louder.

“The Rigas is not here to face your accusations,” Melita snarls.

I shake my head. The world tilts alarmingly. Whatever the poison is, it’s working fast. I cannot reach my Pyrkagia. But I also know I am about to lose consciousness. Maybe the final act of the toxin is fatal.

“Not the Rigas,” I manage. “Not this time,” I say.

“End this, Melita,” Mikkos says, but I see it in his eyes. He knows my accusation has weight.

Hubris to the ancient Greeks is an act of shame. For many centuries, hubris has not been called upon in battle. But there are rules. Rules when two sides engage. Honour is important to an Athanatos.

And Melita has dishonoured herself in battle.

Perhaps she does not realise this. Perhaps, not being raised a warrior, she does know the old ways. She has clearly had training since we last met. But from whom, I cannot say. And they have failed her. Because Melita has made a grave mistake.

“Hubris,” I say again, this time it is spat at her.

She blinks. I do not spell it out for her. Using poison during an honourable battle is a death sentence. I can’t stand, but I manage to lift my sword enough to point the tip at Melita’s face.

She looks to Mikkos. His face is blank.

I pull the sword back, and it is when I have the tip at its furthest point, readying for the strike, that she acts.

Darting forward, she raises one of her stilettos and lets out a cry of rage.

Mikkos shouts something. It’s not a warning to me but to her.

It is too late.

I roll to the side, just missing the poison coated tip of her weapon, and swing my sword with what is left of my strength.

I am thankful my eyelids are too heavy to remain open. And then I chide myself because even in death, Melita deserves to be looked in the face. But I cannot open them. I cannot move again. I lie on my side, expecting Mikkos to end me.

Melita may have deserved her sentence, but I also deserve to pay.