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The circle of flame has been burning so long Caleb can’t tell whether the sweat is from his exertion or the sheer heat.
God knows Phillip looks none the worse for wear, wiping Caleb’s blood off the blade with sharp, deliberate swipes as he paces back and forth along the edge of the flame like an impatient tiger.
Caleb forces himself to his feet, forcing the air in and out of his lungs, barely able to hear Flapjack’s worried twitters over the rhythmic, frantic thump of his own heart.
Phillip fixes him with an impassive glance, casting the pure white handkerchief behind him. It catches in the fire, becomes ash, rises…
“You know,” Phillip states, pulling a Caleb back to the earth, “your soul is not completely blackened.”
A dry, icy laugh rises from Caleb’s throat — one that trails off into a wet coughing. He swallows the iron in his throat, staining his teeth crimson.
“How unfortunate,” Caleb responds.
A piteous expression rises on his opponent’s face — mouth downturned, eyes narrowing to disappointed slits. A familiar expression — one Caleb saw every Sunday, in the front row of the chapel.
“Must it come to this, Caleb?” Phillip asks, a strange waver in his voice.
“It has,” Caleb responds, relishing every stolen breath. “And I suppose that falls on both our heads.”
Caleb clenches his jaw, rising to his full height before stumbling back onto his good leg. He spread his arms and raised them to the sky, halting, like a poorly puppeteered marionette.
For a few moments, there’s nothing but the crack of the fire and quiet, exhausted breath.
“Come, Cain,” Caleb whispers, soft and filled with regret.
“Slaughter your lamb.”