Crucible of Fate

as he strode by, intent only on reaching the forum as quickly as possible. I couldn’t stop the contest even to have a word with him, with my absent maahes. It was not permitted. As I followed after him, I started devising all the creative ways I was going to kill him.
    I held my breath. The trial was like nothing I had ever seen. It was called warriors of the Sun-God, or Khatyu of Ra—and it would not be bloody but was instead fast. Every challenge I had ever seen in the pit was beast against beast or semel against semel, shifted werepanthers trying to carve out each other’s hearts. I had never been witness to a race.
    The challenge was simple: Elham’s best man against Crane’s.
    I sat on the throne, Mikhail on one side of me, Jamal on the other, knowing that once Elham won, he would demand Crane’s head and then take his place in my circle, thereby able to spread venom and claim Ebere, by law, as his mate. Rahab Bahur would have access to everything I did, and between he and Elham, they would slowly siphon off my power a little at a time until I was left a prisoner in my own home. Worst of all, they would, eventually, come for Yuri after they stripped me of everyone else.
    I was sick.
    I was furious with Crane for allowing his pride to make a path not only to his destruction but mine. I could taste the bile in my throat.
    Jin would never forgive me if Crane died, and even worse than that, there was Logan.
    I shivered even though the sun scorched me from overhead. “You swore you had an answer for this challenge,” I called down the steps to Crane.
    He was silent as the two riders entered the packed arena, each seated atop a stunning Arabian stallion. I had never seen such beautiful horses, one black, one white, as was fitting.
    Crane stood five steps below me on my right, Elham on my left. He glanced over his shoulder at me and smirked.
    “Domin.”
    Head up, I found myself swallowed in the dark-green gaze of Koren Church.
    “May I stand by you through this challenge, my lord?”
    I nodded, the lifeline so very needed.
    “Good.” He stood at my side and put his hand on my shoulder.
    The priest of Chae Rophon, Asdiel Kovo, stood up three seats away from me as trumpets sounded. The riders quieted their mounts and then moved them to the starting line. There was a second blast as both animals flew forward. It was beautiful to watch such a gorgeous display of strength, the fluid movement of man and beast becoming one.
    No one spoke, no one made a sound, and only the breath of the horses, the thunder of their hooves striking packed earth and the urgent cries of the men were heard.
    Everyone watched as the horses thundered toward the turn. The riders were supposed to dismount, strip, shift, and then race back to the steps where their “master” stood. The first one back won. The khatyu of Ra, in legend, were supposed to have been able to fight in either form—man or panther—at a second’s notice. Only the Shu were thought to be capable of such a display of shifting prowess in this the modern age, and Elham had been lucky enough to find a former member of the Shu to stand in the challenge for him.
    Watching Crane, I realized how proud he was as he lifted the robe that was supposed to receive his rider. Elham did as well, his sneer of contempt as he regarded Crane easy to see.
    “Here’s the shift,” Koren whispered.
    Both men steered their mounts, and both leaped from the back of the horse, but that was where the similarity ended.
    Crane’s rider hit the ground already shifted and burst free of the flowing robes, the turban, and all other articles of clothing, sliding out from under the flutter of white to reveal the sleek, muscular lines of the only black werepanther in the world.
    The crowd came to their feet as one and the roar was deafening as Elham’s rider shifted almost instantly. It would have been impressive if the other—the change of the nekhene cat— had not been on display. He moved in a blur, streaming up the steps as the other panther raced in futile attempt to catch him.
    He was already cocooned in the robe, had it cinched at his waist, and was facing the crowd, his long, thick black hair whipping back from his face by the time Shahid Alon reached the bottom step and lifted his eyes to Elham.
    Everyone screamed as Jin Church, reah of the tribe of Mafdet, mate of the semel-netjer, turned to me, and along with Crane Adams, bowed low.
    “The claim of Elham el Masry is denied,” the