Between Smoke and Shadow

30. Harrick

THIRTY

HARRICK

After Rune leaves to deliver the map, I walk the 182nd floor with Joran. I’d much rather be with my wife , whispering that word in her ear while I fuck her senseless. I’ve been consumed with thoughts of it, of having her under me, now that she’s officially mine. It’s more than that though, obviously. Soon, all of Savoa will see Rune for what she truly is—a queen—and all who hurt her will be forced to beg her for forgiveness.

I stop in front of one of the small storefronts. This floor has a variety of shops, selling everything from bouquets of flowers to basic weaponry. There are something like eleven jewelry stores, but Tora insisted only this one has rings fit for a queen. I’d smiled at that, and as soon as Rune left with my map, I headed here.

I scan the rows of glittering jewelry. Gems in all shapes and colors, bands of all widths. I select a simple ring for myself, handing it to the blushing cashier.

After asking for Joran’s opinion on a few for Rune, and getting lackluster responses, I browse the rings alone. Most options have green stones for the elite class or purple for the royals. There are several red rings, and a few of random colors. Dark bands with orange stones. Red bands with translucent stones that catch the light.

I stop at a thin-banded ring, black like mine. Rather than a red gem, as typically worn by members of the crown, this one has a delicate blue stone. It’s shaped in an oval, and it’s vibrant, shocking, alluring. The color reminds me of Rune’s eyes.

“This one,” I say to the cashier. Despite being several cycles my senior, she smiles coyly at me.

“Lady Viana is a very lucky woman,” she says. She’s clearly fishing for information, trying to see if my betrothal is back in place.

I don’t respond. I have nothing to say to this woman—or anyone else—about Viana. An undercurrent of relief pulses through my body that soon, everyone will know the truth. Rune Ealde is my queen, not Viana Llroy, and Rune will be the one to raise Savoa from its ashes. I only have to beat Malek in one more battle. Though I don’t know how yet, I can feel it in the pulse of my magic. I am going to defeat my brother, no matter the cost.

Once I’ve settled both rings, Joran and I leave the shop and head for my quarters. I steal a final peek at the blue gemstone before tucking our rings into my coat pocket. I want to wear mine now, though not half as much as I want to see this ring on Rune’s finger.

I enter the lift, fingers tapping against my thighs. In my head, I’m planning the next several hours. Once Rune returns, I’m going to enjoy her, uninterrupted, for the rest of the day. I don’t let myself stress over the fact she’s with another man right now. He might not know she’s mine, but she does. She doesn’t want someone else—she wants me, and I’ll be eternally grateful for that.

“I want lion steak,” I tell Joran. I’m studying my reflection in the mirrored ceiling. “Have two sent to my room this evening. And nightwater. Wyhel. I doubt she’s ever tasted hard drink. Just a single bottle then. And a dress. Even if only for the night, I want her to feel?—”

Joran’s hand clamps over my shoulder, hard and sudden, like he’s done a hundred times during earthquakes or storms. I tense, bracing my hands against the glass walls. But it’s perfectly still, everything moving slowly and gently as ever. It’s Flood Season, after all, and we’re rarely affected by it here.

“What is it?” I demand. He doesn’t respond, and I finally notice the faint mark on the side of his mask. He’s getting a message, and by the red hue, I know it’s from the Architect. He rarely sends a system-wide message.

The lift settles at my quarters, and the glass door slides to reveal the scarlet corridor around my room. I make no move to get off, glancing from Joran to the patterned wallpaper. There’s a beat of silence before he closes the door and enters a new address for the lift. I track the numbers across the keypad as he types.

I close my eyes, hard enough that spots break through the darkness. He’s directed us toward the low courtyard. It’s too early in the season for a planned execution, which means someone has done something terrible. Something requiring an instant, public death.

Without opening my eyes, my next words are a harsh whisper.

“Tell me it’s not her.” It’s not a question. It’s a pathetic hope against what I already feel deep in my bones. It’s like my magic can sense her—a tangle of fear and panic—even as my brain tries to convince me otherwise. It’s a creeping, nauseating pulse that thickens when Joran doesn’t respond.

I curse, slamming my hand against the wall of the lift. My hand glows red against the glass, and I thrust us toward the ground in a freefall. Magicked wind, stolen from the Wilds, sends us hurtling downward. I count the seconds in my head, catching us occasionally to ensure we don’t crash.

Joran clings to the corner, muttering rushed prayers to the heavens as we fall. Catch. Fall.

Finally, we reach the ground. The lift shudders into place and Joran slouches, hands to his knees like he might vomit. When the lift doesn’t instantly open, I send another gust of wind, this one shattering the glass doors into the corridor. I break into a run, Joran’s footsteps only a breath behind mine.

“They’ve caught rebels, several of them,” Joran says. Holding my pace, he adds, “They’re going to execute. My prince?—”

“If I fail, they’ll kill me,” I interrupt, looking over my shoulder. I take a sharp left, away from the Tower’s main entrance and toward the low courtyard. I’m not sure Joran is still behind me. I don’t look back to check. I only pick up the pace and say the rest in bursts. “And anyone. They see. With me.”

“I’m with you,” he says. There’s no hesitation in his voice. Even if there was, I wouldn’t have time to reason with him. He speaks louder now. “There are others. Once they’ve apprehended them all?—”

“Save my wife,” I say. “That’s our goal. Everything else is secondary. Even me.”

“Understood.”

Another turn, and we’re there. I force myself to stop and take three full breaths.

“Don’t reveal anything.” It’s barely a whisper, but I know Joran heard it. I don’t wait for him to respond before I push into the courtyard.

Forcing a relaxed posture, I tally the opposition. Six high guards, five with descendent crests, one without. Three line the bottom of the stage, two stand with the prisoners near the fenceline, and one stands beside a pair of thrones. The Architect’s chair of bones is empty, but Malek occupies the black one. He looks bored, his crown lopsided over messy hair and his dress shirt wrinkled. His mouth is twisted into its trademark grimace, and a fresh scar decorates his throat. He grins when he sees me though, leaping to his feet with arms spread in a welcoming gesture.

“Brother!” he calls. His guard shadows him, leaving little space between them. My brother may not hold our close match against me, but his guard certainly does. Magic dances beneath his palms, close enough to the skin I can see it. Malek strides closer, hands loose at his sides. “Shall I call for another chair?”

“I hadn’t been informed of an execution,” I say. I keep my voice carefully level, but I have to put my hands into my coat pockets. They’re vibrating with tension, the magic burning for release. I don’t allow myself to look for her in the huddle of servants. “What’s the occasion?”

“Another rebel cause,” he says, voice mocking. He turns, giving me his back, and I’m tempted to strike him down right then. It’s too dangerous when I don’t know where the Architect is. Malek settles into his throne, sighing. “There’s always something, isn’t there?”

“It seems that way,” I say.

I finally look at the servants. Three of them, all knelt in a shallow pool of water. Their heads are bowed: two men, one woman. Rune is in the front, mask removed, eyes focused on the ground before her. I want her to look at me, if only so I can see if she’s injured.

It’s better she doesn’t. I force myself to return my attention to Malek.

“Call a throne for me,” I say after a lengthy pause.

“Delightful.” He nods to the guard beside him, and the man hurries from the stage. Once he’s crossed into the Tower, I join my brother, standing between him and our father’s chair.

“There are supposedly several more,” Malek says. He tilts his chin toward Rune and the other servants. “The Architect has instructed us to wait for him, but…”

He glances at me, that horrible, mischievous glint in his eyes. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he waves for the servants to be brought before us. The guards shuffle them to their feet, and for the first time, Rune’s eyes find mine. Stark blue and utterly terrified.

It’s all right , I try to convey. But it isn’t all right, not at all. Unless I can play this exactly right, she’s going to die, and I’m going to die trying to save her.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Malek says. He settles into his chair, smirking at me. “Servants die of natural causes all the time. Who’s to say it didn’t happen on our watch?”

I stiffen, not at Malek’s cruel words, but the fact he’s saying them to me. He’s baiting me, I realize. Goading me into action, and that can only mean one thing.

I don’t respond. I tighten my jaw and look at Joran, who remains near the Tower entrance. His stance is steady and casual, but I can tell he’s cataloging every detail in this courtyard. His hands are balled into fists, and flickers of red dance between his clenched knuckles.

“I am not playing your game, Malek,” I say. When I turn back to him, he’s still grinning. “If these servants are guilty, the Architect will punish them. Not you.”

“If?” he asks, eyebrows lifting. “I didn’t take you for a servant sympathizer, Harrick. Then again, you’ve given one our fucking name, so what do I know?”

I can’t keep myself from reacting. I lunge forward, grabbing Malek by the throat and ripping him from his throne. He makes a horrible wheezing sound, and I squeeze, feeling his life pulse against my palm. There’s something ridiculously satisfying about the thought of killing him, not with magic, but with my bare hands.

His hand lifts, and at first, I think he’s going to lash against me. But then, I realize he’s waving off the guards. Three of them are on the stage now, one to each servant. Rune and the two other rebels stand against the far corner. A quick glance finds her at the center of them, hands braced as if she’s holding them behind her.

As if she could possibly protect them from the malice that’s about to be unleashed.

“How.” The word drops from my lips before I can stop it. I know it doesn’t matter how he knows, only that he does. Only that my options just became excruciatingly limited.

Don’t be rash , I remind myself. Learn what he knows.

“You thought you could hide it?” he asks. “From me ? I’ve been watching you, Harrick. Fucking a servant was one thing, but having a marriage agreement drawn…I had to intervene.”

I tighten my fist, relishing the way his breath strains. Malek, of course, only grins at me. His words are rough, choked from my hand, but his eyes light with manic glee.

“The Architect was furious. Didn’t help when he realized the rat-whore had a whole scheme built up with her friends.” Malek grabs my wrist, sending a flicker of magic from his palm. I flinch at the raw sting of heat, but I don’t loosen my grip. “The only question now is…did you know, brother? Were you in on whatever pathetic scheme they’ve spent cycles building?”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say, nothing that will get me out of this horrible reality. One where Rune dies if I say the wrong thing, one where I’m imprisoned and she’s slaughtered and?—

“The Architect will be here soon,” Malek continues. Both hands are on my wrist now, his eyes wide. He can still breathe, and I hate that I’m letting him. I can almost hear Tora in the back of my mind, whispering you held back . Malek lets out a wheezing laugh when I look away from him, my eyes settling on Rune. He sparks my wrist again. “If you’re smart, Harrick, you’ll back down. Admit defeat. Beg for his mercy. He’ll kill you if you don’t.”

I look at Malek now, not because he’s stung me but because his words awaken something in my chest. I can’t remember the last time he’s spoken like this, like we’re just talking, not verbally sparring. He’s not taunting me, I realize. My brother, the cruelest of jokers, is being serious.

I think, in his own twisted way, he’s trying to save my life.

“You made an error,” I say. It comes out as a snarl, ripping from my throat. “You made a fatal error, Malek, in targeting her . I will fucking die before anyone harms her. I will kill anyone who tries, and that includes you.”

Malek’s eyes narrow and his upper lip curls. He sends a wave of magic against my wrist, shocking me hard enough I lose my hold and stumble backward. We’re both casting before we’ve fully regained our balance. Red mist swirls from Malek’s palms, transforming into a bear-wolf hybrid. Standing on massive haunches, the creature looks down at me, baring long, curved teeth. Its eyes are translucent, and yet, I can feel the hunger in them, the rabid determination.

I take another step back, casting thorn-covered vines from each hand. Distantly, I’m aware of the guards, their palms lit with magic, and the servants, still huddled in the corner. I whip my vines around us, smacking them against the wooden stage and forcing everyone else back.

“He’s mine!” Malek shouts. The guards don’t release their magic, but they maintain their distance. “Nobody fucking interfere.”

“I wanted us to be brothers!” I scream. I don’t look at anyone else, just Malek. He stares back at me, the rain pounding harder over the courtyard.

“I wanted that too,” he says, surprising me. There’s something unreadable in his expression. Pity, perhaps. Or maybe it’s guilt. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this, Harrick, but you make it too hard to let you live.”

Panic flares in my chest. I’ve lost to Malek too many times, and if I don’t win now… I shut the thought out. There’s no time to be scared or hesitant. If I’m going to do this, I can’t be afraid.

I look at Rune in the corner. Her blue eyes are already on me, and her lips are moving. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but she’s crying. Her shoulders tremble, and she steps toward me, against the guard’s hold, like she wants to help. Like she might try .

I look away. Raising my arms, I feel every ounce of magic pulse within my bones. It collects like a rising storm, like the brutalest of seasons in this godsforsaken land. It builds to the point I’m vibrating, until my vision tints red.

Malek’s eyes light, not with fear, but excitement. For a moment, we are children again. We’re standing in the Royal Training Arena for the first time, and the Architect is pitting us against each other. We’re gaping at each other, shocked at what we’re expected to do.

Like then, Malek is the first to strike now.

His beast surges across the stage, reaching me in only three lumbering steps. It is almost twice my height, with the body of a bear and the gaping jaw of a wolf. It swipes me with its massive paw, launching me across the stage. I don’t even attempt to block the blow. I crash against Malek’s throne, using my vines to keep me from falling over the edge.

I lurch back to my feet, forcing my movements to slow, as if I’m injured. He needs to think I’m hurt, that he’s already won.

The bear-wolf hybrid charges me, knocking me back down. Its clawed paw slams into my ribcage, and I feel every bone crunch in my chest. I cough, straining my lungs, waiting. Because even though I don’t understand Malek, I know him well enough. I know that no matter the circumstance, he can’t help but treat everything like a game. Even this.

He has to taunt me, to tease me. Maybe because he’s a monster, but maybe just because he’s my brother.

“Is that all, Harrick?” he calls with a pitying laugh. Right on cue. “And here I thought?—”

He’s so busy watching my face, he doesn’t see my vine until it’s too late. It’s wrapped around his throat, cutting his sentence in half. With my teeth gritted and the edges of my vision going black, I force all my attention on my brother. Twenty cycles of him expecting me to lose, of me being too afraid to win.

“I wanted us to be brothers,” I say again. I’m not sure why.

As Malek struggles to breath, his beast shudders and fizzles, dissolving into mist above me. I suck a full breath of air into my aching lungs and rotate onto my elbow. Malek is staring at me, face purple and eyes bulging.

“I’m sorry, Malek,” I say. I hate that I am. I hate that for so many cycles, I hoped we could end any other way. “I’m sorry .”

“Harrick—”

He barely manages to speak the word, but even if he says more, I don’t hear it. I scream, unleashing every drop of magic and energy and hatred I have in my body. For the first time, maybe in my entire life, I don’t hold back. I clench my fists, tightening my vines against his skin. I don’t watch his dark blood seep over my magic. I stare only at his eyes, at the way they look when the light finally goes out.

A rough sob breaks from my throat.

Malek is dead .

A strangled scream follows, bringing my magic back into my palms.

I killed him .

I lurch onto my knees.

I killed my brother.

I crawl across the stage, not letting myself think. I act on instinct alone, on the pure need to find her, to save her, to protect her. I stretch for Malek’s magic as it swirls above us. With my hand extended, I capture it all, pulling it deep into my bones, taking more than I probably should. I’m nauseated, even as the magic soothes my wounds and sharpens my spent magic. I lurch to my feet, drunk with power, overcome with immense magic.

I don’t let myself look at Malek again.

Instead, I survey the mess around me. In a matter of minutes, everything has changed.

I am alone on the stage with my brother’s corpse. The servants have disappeared, and the courtyard is overrun by guards. Thirty of them, at least, some in their usual attire, but many without their masks. I waver on my feet as I watch them, sure that I’d be unconscious without this rush of adrenaline—and stolen magic.

I blink at the chaos. It takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing through the excess of crumbled rock and root, hazy shadow and sharp magic. Those with masks are fighting against those without, and it is only when I see a familiar face that I put everything together.

Joran shouts orders from the center of the battlefield. His head is exposed, revealing the bright red hair I haven’t seen since before he entered the military. The maskless guards are fighting, not against me, but for me.

I launch off the stage, throwing myself into the madness. Through the blur of violent magic and wielded blades, I search only for her. With every guard I kill, I scan the surrounding area. I find two bodies of male servants, their corpses sprawled near the stage. She isn’t with them.

Get out , I plead silently to her. Don’t let anyone find you.

A hand clasps my shoulder, and I spin, palms raised and ready. I lower them when I realize it’s Tora. Dae stands at her back, blocking her from the onslaught of approaching guards.

“Tora,” I say. Her name is a breath of relief and terror at once. She’s okay, but she’s here.

“Joran had me take her inside,” she says. “She should be safe.”

“Where?” I ask. I glance over her shoulder, checking for threats, for Rune, for anything. When she doesn’t answer, I demand louder, “Where?”

Before she responds, a chilling voice breaks through all else.

“Stand down,” the Architect calls. His words are no more than a whisper, and yet, it becomes the only thing I hear. Tora stumbles against me, and Dae blindly steps closer until she’s shielded behind him. The Architect’s voice raises, “Anyone who is not on their knees in the next five seconds will be slaughtered.”

Tora stares up at me. She’s crying, lips trembling as she tightens her hold on my shoulder.

“Five,” the Architect calls.

“What do we do?” she asks, the words almost impossible to make out.

“Four.”

“Kneel,” I tell her. Before she can protest, I roughly shove her to the ground. Dae’s exposed eyes meet mine. He’s somehow more terrifying without his mask, his features so much sharper than I remembered. His jaw is clenched as his gaze flickers between me and my sister, and it is only then that I realize I’m not the only one here he’s protecting.

“Three,” the Architect says.

Behind Dae, almost the entire courtyard—masked and not—kneel before my father. He is so much weaker than they realize. His magic could infiltrate half our minds at once, but the rest of us could kill him if we struck at the same time.

“Two.”

We’re too divided. It’s too late. We’ve already lost.

“Kneel,” I snap at Dae. Then, louder, to the remaining soldiers, “Everyone, kneel! That’s an order!”

The remaining guards do as I say, kneeling with their heads bowed. Once Dae is on his knees, he adjusts, placing his head against the top of Tora’s.

“One,” the Architect says.

With everyone knelt between us, I have a clear shot at my father. His suit is not red in color alone. Splatters of blood cover his clothing, but it’s clear he’s only just arrived to the fight. He moves his head slowly, as if surveying the dozens of guards between us. His magic collects at his palms, and I already know he’s going to kill them. All my unmasked men, whether they’re bowed or not, have made an unforgivable statement.

“Don’t,” I say. My voice is a sharp crack through the slanted rain. “They’ve kneeled.”

“They have,” he agrees. He steps between the guards, leisurely working his way toward me. “And yet, you have not.”

I’m the only one strong enough to open the Architect’s portal—especially with Malek dead—but I’m not sure he cares in this moment. His magic pulses, until there’s a swirling mass at either hand. I can feel his attention on mine too. It’s brighter than his, but less contained. I have too much of Malek’s magic mixed with mine, and it’s making everything sloppy. Still, I don’t dare release it. If I’m going to kill my father, I’ll need every drop I have.

“I will not kneel,” I say. “But I will offer a trade.”

“Is that right?” the Architect asks. He chuckles, head tilting not in confusion but amusement. “You think you’ve something to offer?”

“Yes,” I say. My voice rasps as I lift it, making sure all can hear. “You cannot escape Savoa without me. If you leave everyone alive, I will do it. I will open that portal, even if it fucking kills me.”

The Architect halts. He stands halfway between me and the Tower, and I wish now, more than ever, I could see his face. He is utterly motionless, but whether he’s debating my offer or readying for the kill, I have no idea.

“You cannot do it without me,” I repeat. “I’ve killed Malek. Tora and Mother aren’t strong enough. No one is strong enough. But let them live, and I will do it.”

The Architect begins walking again. His steps are as slow, as unconcerned as before, and yet I notice the way his magic pulses. The guards around us might not know what I’m talking about, but I’m giving them enough to wonder, to question whether this man truly has their best interests in mind.

“You think you’re irreplaceable?” he asks. A few more strides, and he’s here, standing on the other side of Dae. He presses against my guard, as if he’s nothing more than an inanimate barrier between us. “You think I can’t fuck another woman? Make myself another set of heirs? It will be easy to replace you, and I’ve got nothing but time.”

I step away from Tora and Dae, carefully leading my father a few steps to the left. He pays them no attention, shadowing my movements until we’re close enough I could lunge for his throat. I don’t. The Architect is not Malek. He’ll kill me before I leave a bruise.

“You’re dying,” I say. I spit the words like they’re poison, like they might kill him faster, and I make sure everyone can hear me. “You need my help now , and if you want it?—”

“I don’t want it,” he interrupts. “I have it. I own you, child. You are mine, and you are here to serve me.”

I don’t respond. My chest heaves, my magic burning hotter with each passing second. I need to strike, but I already know I’ll lose. He’ll see any attack coming. He’ll block it before it lands.

“I won’t,” I say. I lower my voice. “So if you ever want to leave this wretched place, you’ll take the deal.”

The laugh that leaves him now is different from the first. It’s ragged and spiteful, and it’s clear he’s tired of this conversation.

“All right, Harrick. You’ve made your point,” he says. He steps away from me, and for a moment, I think he’s going to agree. “How about I offer a deal of my own? You stop acting like a petulant child, and I promise to let your whore live. You get on your fucking knees, right now, and I won’t murder her, like you did your brother.”

Everything inside me goes cold. My mouth opens but nothing, not even breath, comes out. A flicker of movement catches my attention, and then I see her. Framed by two bulky guards, she struggles to keep up as they drag her across the yard. She’s lost her shoes and her hair is a tangled mess around her face. The sleeve of her coverall is torn, and even from here, I can tell she’s crying.

“Fine,” I say, the response immediate. My voice is hoarse, the word barely a whisper. It is opposite the chaotic rage of magic and fury, swirling within me. I don’t let the Architect see my terror, my wrath. I keep my face perfectly neutral, revealing nothing at all. With my eyes still on my father, I lower to my knees. “Fine. You win.”

My mind races as we sit in momentary silence. There’s nothing but the sound of heavy rain and dozens of ragged breaths. I can barely see Rune from where I kneel. They’ve taken her to the stage, and she stands in front of my brother’s remains.

“Disappointing,” the Architect says, pulling my attention back to him. He touches his mask with a flick of magic, and it dissolves into his suit. I study his cruel, ordinary features, and the cold, empty glare of his eyes. He looks at the stage, then back to me. “Forsaking your own blood for a criminal .”

“Like father, like son,” I spit. “Isn’t that why we’re all here? Banished because you betrayed your own. If anyone has forsaken?—”

The Architect’s lip twitches. He lifts his hand in a slow, all-too-familiar gesture. Without a word, he’s commanded his men to attack. There’s no time to react, to defend myself.

His guards are on me, one on each arm, another behind me. Magic burns against the back of my neck, and I scream until my throat turns raw. The pain is blinding, scalding, unbearable. I thrash against my captors. Cast magic in futile bursts, hoping that something, anything breaks their hold. It doesn’t. Their magic spreads around me, burning my skin, twisting my limbs, breaking my bones.

I don’t know how long I’m tortured, only that eventually, I lose consciousness.