Crush the King (Crown of Shards #3)(94)

But the Mortan prince thought he’d found a way to win, and he snapped up his hand and blasted Paloma with his magic again. And then again, and then again, until Paloma was hunkered down on her knees like a wounded animal. Worry twisted my stomach, but there was nothing I could do to help her.

“Why isn’t she morphing?” Zariza asked, still sitting beside me. “That’s the only way she can beat him now.”

“Paloma doesn’t like to morph in front of strangers,” I said.

“Well, she’d better do it now,” Zariza replied. “Because that’s the only way she’s going to keep him from killing her.”

Zariza was right. That first blast of magic had stunned Paloma, and Mercer easily could have stepped forward and sliced his weapon across her arm or leg, drawing first blood and ending the fight. But he hadn’t done that, and it didn’t look like he was going to stop blasting her with his magic until he had fried her to a crisp.

“Come on, Paloma,” I muttered, even though she couldn’t hear me. “Come on. Get up. Morph. Show that bastard how strong you really are.”

But she remained huddled on the ground, and Mercer kept blasting her with his lightning.

I looked over at Maximus, who gave me a thin, satisfied smile. I wondered if he had told Mercer to use his magic to try to kill Paloma. Probably.

Mercer must have thought Paloma was dead, or maybe he simply needed a break from using so much magic for so long, because he finally released his power. His purple lightning vanished, and he lowered his hand to his side.

A hush dropped over the arena, and all eyes fell on Paloma, who was still hunkered down on her knees, with her arms wrapped around her chest, and her head almost touching the hard-packed dirt.

“Come on, Paloma,” I whispered. “Get up. Morph.”

Her right arm twitched.

I blinked, wondering if I was imagining the small motion, but her right arm twitched again. And then her left. I drew in a breath. The hot, caustic stench of Mercer’s magic lingered in the air, but another scent was now flooding the arena, like a soft peony perfume mixed with just a hint of wet fur.

Paloma’s scent. Paloma’s magic. Paloma’s power.

My friend remained hunkered down on the ground, but she quickly grew larger and larger. Muscles bulged in her arms and legs, while the ones in her back strained against her fighting leathers. Her braided blond hair took on a bright golden sheen, and long, sharp black talons sprouted on her fingertips.

Paloma slowly lifted her head. Her amber eyes gleamed with a fierce light, while jagged teeth now filled her mouth.

Everyone in the arena gasped, including me.

Paloma climbed to her feet, now several inches taller than normal, her entire body hard, thick, and strong with muscle. She loomed over Mercer, who took a step back, then another one. Paloma stared at him a moment, then walked over and picked up her mace. Then she crooked her finger at the prince in a clear challenge.

Mercer froze, as though he didn’t know what to do, and a few titters of laughter rang out. The guffaws snapped the prince out of his stupor, and he raised his hand and blasted Paloma with his lightning again. But morphing had made her even stronger, and Paloma stood still and tall and absorbed this blast.

Mercer snarled and hit her again and again, but Paloma absorbed each and every one of his attacks. Finally, the Mortan prince ran out of magic. He lifted his hand to hit her again, but only a few sparks flickered on his fingertips. Paloma cocked her head to the side, a smile stretching across her face and showing all her many jagged teeth.

With a loud, thunderous roar, Paloma surged forward, raised her mace high, and smashed it down onto Mercer’s left arm. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought I heard several audible crack-crack-cracks as his bones shattered.

Mercer screamed and tumbled to the ground, clutching his arm to his chest and writhing in agony. Paloma towered over him, making sure that he wasn’t going to get back up, then held her mace out to the side where everyone could see it.

Several drops of blood—Mercer’s blood—oozed off the spikes and spattered onto the dirt.

“And we have first blood!” Cho’s voice boomed out, and he hurried forward, grabbed Paloma’s arm, and lifted it high into the air. “Our new champion! Paloma the Powerful!”

The crowd exploded. The cheers, yells, claps, screams, and whistles thundered so long and loud that they seemed to shake the entire arena. People also tossed crowns of white daisies, purple gladiolas, and blue laurels down from the bleachers, along with Bellonan pennants and small stuffed ogres. In seconds the trinkets covered the arena floor like a colorful, fragrant carpet.

Paloma bent down and picked up one of the stuffed ogres. Her long black talons gently curled around it, and she straightened and lifted it high overhead, along with her bloody mace.

The crowd roared even louder. My friend stood in the center ring, still in her ogre form, her eyes wide and a huge grin on her face, soaking up the attention. She had more than earned it with that performance.

“Paloma! Paloma! Paloma!” I started yelling her name over and over again.

Beside me, Zariza and Heinrich took up the chant, along with Sullivan, Serilda, Auster, and Xenia. Soon it had spread throughout the arena.

Down below, Paloma kept her spiked mace raised high in the air. She stared up at the royal terrace, and her gaze met mine. Paloma grinned at me, then dropped into a perfect Bellonan curtsy. That only made the crowd cheer even louder, especially me and the rest of the Bellonans.