“I will speak the name of Elyon freely, for the Most High reigns—and you, Fallenstar, do not!”

A hideous scream erupted from the twisted titan. He pushed Marcus aside like a rag doll and slapped his large hand against my injured left shoulder, causing an explosion of pain. I flinched but refused to cry out.

“When I conquer your King, puny one,” he raged, “I will not forget your blasphemy against me. My arm is long—I can crush you at my will.”

“At his will only,” I said, drawing my knife and holding it out at him. He laughed loudly.

“Do you believe you can hurt me with that?”

Moved by gut-felt hatred, I stepped forward and thrust the knife into his chest, surprised at how easily it pierced his skin and sank all the way to the handle. I felt his skin, cold and sticky, the skin of a snake. Black blood flowed, staining my hands and burning them. I stumbled backward.

“Fool! Such weapons only give me more power over you!”

Hitting me with the back of his hand, he batted me to the ground, sending me sprawling. “I am your King’s equal opposite, the heir apparent. I will defeat him!”

I pulled myself up and faced him again, book in hand, my only recourse.

“Equal? You are the equal opposite of the King’s general, not the King. He is creator, you are creature. Conquer the King?” I laughed all the more when I saw how angry it made him. “You are more powerful than I, but what does that mean? The dung beetle is more powerful than the grubworm. But does either pose a threat to the Lion? Your minions are a small cloud of gnats to be smashed with the clap of his scarred hands. You are no more than an inconvenience—no, you are his tool, which he may use for whatever purpose he chooses and dispose of when he wishes!”

I was stunned at the words, marveling they’d come from my mouth.

“Shut up, runt!” he screamed at me. “I am no one’s tool. Do you not know? I killed the King!”

“Yes, and I helped you do it! But do you think we could have done anything against him unless he chose to endure it? And did you keep him in the grave? No. You bruised his heel. But he came back to crush your head. You’re a murderer on death row, ranting about your prowess. I’ve read the book, I know how the drama will end—you’re a cancer about to be removed and cast into the burning garbage dump of the cosmos!”

I heard a terrible scream. Before my eyes, fire consumed the Pretender and burnt off the remaining layers, mask after mask, until I saw evil unveiled, a putrid dripping mass of blood and pus. I smelled the stench of rotten flesh.