Chapter 27
Ipitch toward the door and wrench it open, peering out.
Isolde is nowhere to be seen.
Stumbling back into the room, I curse under my breath. Kressa must be at the harbor by now, and Thea will be wondering where I am.
The servant’s door creaks open, and I press myself against the wall, holding my breath.
A maid appears in the doorway and waves a hand. “Briar, follow me.”
I study her face, vaguely recognizing the round cheeks and glasses that sit low on her nose. She must be one of the maids who regularly watched me sneak in and out of Isolde’s quarters—one that never breathed a word of it to Caelus.
Swallowing, I nod and follow her into the dim corridor. The walls seem to squeeze in on us, and a chill sweeps over my spine, burrowing into my skin.
“Thank you,” I breathe, following in her footsteps.
She quickens her pace, twisting around corners. A sweat breaks out at my hairline, my breaths quick, but I manage to keep up—chasing her shadow.
We come to a fork in the corridor, and I stumble to a stop as she hurries ahead, banking right.
“This isn’t the way out,” I say.
She slows to a stop and turns, one hand worrying the collar of her uniform. “You killed the King.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I step backwards. The doors on either side of her burst open, and royal guards flood the servant’s corridor, swords at the ready.
I unsheathe the dagger at my waist, but I might as well be weaponless against so many armed guards.
“Briar Calisdana, under the decree of the newly coronated King Callum, you are under arrest.”
My legs threaten to buckle.
They advance on me, and I spin on my heel, sprinting back the direction I came. Shouts ring out, and footsteps pound behind me, echoing off the low stone walls. My heart hammers in my chest, and my pirate hat flies off, smacking the ground as it lands.
The doorways pass in a blur, and my breaths are shallow sips of air. I can’t remember the way back to my old quarters, or where I am in the castle. The servant’s corridors are a labyrinth, and if I take a wrong turn, I—
I come to a dead end with only a single door at the far end of the hallway.
Gritting my teeth, I sprint toward it, making it halfway as the footsteps of the guards behind me round the corner.
The door at the end swings open.
More guards.
“She’s here!” one yells, drawing his sword.
I skid to a stop, throwing my arms out for balance. I’m blocked on either side, not a single door punctuating the guards at my front and the ones closing in on the back.
A guard steps through the doorway and holds up a fist. The footsteps behind me halt at the signal, and an uneasy tension fills the air—souring the breath in my lungs.
“You killed hundreds of guards, Briar Calisdana,” he says, the array of medals on his lapel catching the light. “Those were fathers, brothers, friends. You murdered them without a second thought. Then you took our King.”
Behind him, the narrowed gazes of a dozen guards pin me to place.
I tilt my chin. “Have you considered how many of my people you have killed? Men, women, children—the Sky Court doesn’t discriminate between those who can fight and those who are helpless.”
“Interesting, that you are arguably the most capable of your court. And rather than fighting beside your own, you’re here.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I catch movement in my periphery. The guards advance slowly, cornering me like a feline would a rat.
My hand flexes against the handle of the dagger, and my lip curls back as a searing heat floods my veins, coating my bones.
Flames lick at my marrow.
Nerves tumble around my stomach, and I dip my finger into the hem of my glove. Using Kressa’s fire might be the only thing that gets me out of here, but if I can’t control it, or if I burn out, I might not walk away with my life.
“Too far from the sea to use your power?” His voice rises at the end, goading me as if I’m a child.
I adjust my blade, pinching the sharp, pointed edge between my fingers, and reel back my arm. In the same heartbeat, I throw it toward the guard.
It soars through the air, faster than any arrow, and pierces the side of his neck.
Blood spurts from the wound, pooling in his mouth, and he falls to his knees.
A shout rings out, bouncing off the walls, and the guards advance, swords ready.
I blow out a low, centering breath and rip the remaining glove from my hand.
My heart races, and I shove it into my pocket beside the emerald.
A ringing fills my ears, and the heat grows unbearable, begging to be released. The air shifts around me, rustling my hair as the guards close the distance.
I flood my thoughts with a false memory—sunshine beating down on me in a field, my fingers sticky with ripe fruit. My muscles loosen, and an overwhelming calm spreads over my shoulder blades. The roaring flames gather in my chest, swirling like a low tide.
Controlled.
I empty my lungs, and my breath clouds around me like steam. Red clots my vision, and I throw out my hands.
At first, nothing happens.
Then the air distorts, billowing—heat radiating off me in waves. The guards slow, tripping over their own feet as their eyes go wide. They shuffle back, pushing each other out of the way.
But it’s too late.
Flames shoot from my palms and blast into them, the fire so hot it shifts indigo.
Screams rattle the air, and burning flesh stings my nose, threatening to empty the contents of my stomach.
The flames sputter, then go out, and the remaining guards stumble sideways, falling against the walls.
But the stone is so hot their flesh melts against it—burning their skin and muscle to the bone.
They crumple in a heap, aside the bodies of their peers.
Not a single one left standing. No witnesses.
My lip quirks, and I lift a palm in front of my face, turning it over. For a moment, it was as easy to wield the fire as it is the sea. The heat is still there, lingering, but under control.
The doorway gapes open, and I shift forward, pulling my blade from the guard’s throat. I hold my breath as I step over the charred remains and peer into the castle hallway.
Late morning sunlight pours onto the polished stone floor, and columns spear toward the arched ceiling. My footsteps echo through the space, and I keep my hand clenched around the dagger.
Based on the mountaintops peeking through the windows, I must be somewhere in the east wing, where we stayed during The Gales. But I’ve never roamed this floor.
Moth-eaten tapestries hang from the walls, and I make my way toward a set of wooden double doors. I push one open, and the hinges groan, as if they haven’t been moved in a decade. Another empty hall sprawls out before me.
Heat climbs up my spine, spreads across my shoulders and down my arms like wildfire. I cling to the false happy memory like a lifeline, but images of Kressa and Isolde and my crew fill it, smoldering the edges.
The image disappears, and fire burns bright in my vision.
My hands tremble, and I break into a jog, sheathing the blade at my waist. I dig out the remaining glove and shove my hand into it, but it does nothing to douse the blaze on my other hand. Sweat drips down my nape, my lungs and legs aching as I weave in the direction of the front gates.
Smoke clouds my mind, invading my lungs, and I swing into the main foyer.
I’m not quick enough.
Flames swallow my hand and drip to the floor. The carpeted runner goes up in flames, and my eyes widen as it snakes to the curtains, engulfing the silk like kindling.
It spreads, the fire growing brighter and higher, and shadows shift at the other end of the space. Through the billowing smoke, I make out the figures of guards.
“Fire!” one yells.
I glance over my shoulder, but the blaze crawls up the staircase—eating the runner. More bodies gather on the other side of the smoke, trapped.
Swallowing, I shake out my hand, trying to staunch the flames, but they only grow—spitting embers from my fingertips.
My gaze jerks forward, to the narrow path quickly being overrun by fire.
If I wait any longer, it’s not the flames that would kill me, but either the smoke inhalation or the guards once they douse the blaze.
A gasp bottles in my throat. I dig into my pocket and unroll the emerald from the rhodium fabric. It’s barely the size of a handkerchief, but I press it against my palm and weave the hem through my fingers. It snuffs out the flames on my hand, and I sprint through the spreading fire.
Guards shout as I shoot by, but I don’t slow, refusing to give them the opportunity to recognize who I am. Someone throws open the castle doors, and bodies pile out, people coughing into their elbows and wiping soot from their faces.
I shove myself into the crowd and stumble out to the courtyard. But there are so many people—their movements panicked, screams coming from their mouths as they search for loved ones.
Smoke pours through the open doors, and I stumble backwards as the flames reach out the opening, climbing up the fascia of the castle. The majority is stone, but the roofline, the windows, many of the bedrooms—all wood.
The fire is out of control.
An explosion rocks the ground, and a dozen windows shatter, the glass raining down on the crowd. People shriek, covering their heads with their hands. Some trip and slam onto the glass, blood dripping from their palms and arms.
My breath sours, and I spin on my heel, searching for a way out. But the crowd is too thick, too many people screaming and crying, and—
A hand grabs my wrist.
I scream, but nothing comes out, my voice too hoarse from the smoke.
A face fills my vision, and my knees nearly buckle.
“Rita?”