The Summon

Sylas

This was all his fault. He had thought he was helping Ryn because he wanted him to win. All his life, he had been called names for not having a dragon, and he hated it. But now, the poor omega was lying on the glowing stone bed in Master Lynsander's sanctuary his breath shallow, and his body limp.

His pale skin was marred with cuts and bruises, and a dried trail of blood stained the corner of his lips.

Sylas stood off to the side, his arms folded, and a familiar knot of guilt was tightening like a chain around his throat.

Why hadn't he stopped the trial? Would Ryn have been fine if he had canceled it? The moment he had seen the other team, he had known the odds were against him, but he had said nothing.

Done nothing.

"I should have stopped it," Sylas muttered to no one.