Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I'm certain I've misheard him. “…Stole it?”
He nods.
“How does one steal from the gods, exactly?” Because that's essentially what this means, if the legends about divine hands shaping dragons are true.
Based on those legends, and on what I've been researching these past weeks, even the lesser ones are still tied to the heavens, their magic sanctioned by higher powers, and far more complex than anything a human should be able to simply take.
Reave hesitates again, as if he's trying to decide where to start with an explanation—
An explanation I don't get to hear.
Screams interrupt us first.
We race in the direction of the sound, searching the ground far below us for a source.
But we're too high up, our view blocked by too many trees and obscured by too many shadows.
We see a few guards running, heading in the direction of the Grand Pavilion, but we can only guess at what they're running toward.
Without a word, we both turn and head for the stairs, flying down them at an even more reckless pace than we climbed them.
My bare feet ache with every pounding step, and my hands end up scraped and bloody because I have to drag them along the rough walls to keep my sense of balance without slowing down.
But I don't stop to inspect the damage once we burst into the arena; I just keep running, black sand flying up behind me. The rising screams in the distance, the dread coiling in my stomach—this has to be another calculated attack from Dralsk.
They have to be here looking for me, just as the dragons came looking for me on the night of Emberfall.
I can't let more people die because of me.
I'm not thinking beyond this as I lift my skirts and run faster, doing my best to keep up with Reave's long-legged strides. We cut through the palace and come out through the same exit I did hours earlier, overlooking a celebration that's turned into a horrific, chaotic scene.
We descend without a word or plan between us, only a numb, shared desperation to help, to do something, anything.
Reave spots his sister trying to maintain order and rushes to her side.
I sweep along the pavilion's perimeter, searching for Briar.
I don't find her.
Panic clutches my heart. Fear threatens my balance, and I end up nearly tripping over a fallen guard lying in a pool of blood.
My stomach twists at the sight. Somehow, I gather my composure, grabbing the knife from his belt and using it to cut a long slit into my dress, making it easier to tie it up above my knees so I can move more freely.
Then I pick up his blood-splattered sword and continue my search.
There are people everywhere—guests fleeing in all directions; guards forming rank, their weapons flashing and orders flying; intruders viciously tearing their way through the crowd, ripping down decorations and upending tables and cutting down anyone who gets in their way.
Some of the destructive ones wear green and gold masks, or insignia featuring the intertwining trees, or other obvious signs that they came from Dralsk, but far too many blend in; I'm almost certain a few of them were masquerading as guests only an hour ago.
Is that how the others got in?
How deeply have they infiltrated the palace?
I don't know where to swing my sword. Who to help. And Briar—where the fuck is Briar?
Without thinking, my gaze lifts skyward. “Sesca…” Her name leaves me in a breathless whisper. A last, gasping plea for air before I drown in this bloody, confusing carnage.
A howl of wind whips the hair away from my face, and her voice chases it.
I'm here.
I don't see her. But I feel her a moment later, in the strength that surges through my veins; in the tight, creeping sensation of protective scales sweeping over patches of my skin; in the tingling that overtakes my ruined eye.
I almost cry out in relief as vision returns to that eye once more—the sharp, supernatural clarity that allows me to pick out every face in the crowd, every blade in the dark.
I finally spot Briar; she's using a broken table leg to defend herself against a woman wielding a short blade.
I race to her side, driving my stolen sword through the attacker's back just as she lunges for Briar's throat. The woman slumps forward and crumples between us.
Briar lets out a relieved breath at the sight of me.
We share a brief, fierce embrace. She startles slightly at the sight of my eye—this is the first time she's actually seen it like this—but our reunion is interrupted by two masked men approaching from the left, throwing over a table full of desserts as they come.
“And now they're wasting perfectly good cake,” Briar mumbles. “This can’t go unpunished.”
More concerning than the cake is the way one of the men has set his sights on a panicking noblewoman. She freezes at the sight of him—after shedding several sparkling bracelets and throwing them at his feet, presumably to bribe him into sparing her life.
He ignores the jewels, taking her by the arm and wrenching her into a better position to slit her throat.
Briar scoops up her slain attacker’s short blade, and the two of us move together toward the man. Briar swings for his head. As he focuses on dodging her attack, I sweep a low kick into his legs, toppling him.
The noblewoman screams as she’s released, landing on her hands and knees. She tucks her head toward her chest. I think she’s going to faint, until Briar grabs her and jerks her upright, shoving her toward the palace and telling her to find some place to hide.
“Rich people are so fucking useless,” she grumbles as she turns back to me, slipping several of the woman’s discarded bracelets onto her wrist.
I raise my brows.
“Savior’s fee,” she says with a shrug, just as the second man moves to help his fallen companion. The fallen one leaps upright as well, and we square up with them, suspended in that peculiar stillness that settles just before violence.
I strike first.
Sesca’s power continues to hum through me, making my movements impossibly quick and fearless. Between that and Briar’s usual terrifying efficiency, we make quick work of both men.
“Get them into the palace!” I hear Kestrel yelling somewhere behind us, still trying to establish some sort of order among the guests and guards.
Glancing over my shoulder, I notice Reave is no longer at her side.
My pulse skips a few beats, wondering where he's gone, if he's safe, if there's worse mayhem happening somewhere else.
My eyes fall upon a dead body close to Kestrel—a girl no older than fifteen, her dark hair fanned around her, a serene smile still on her lips. A grim reminder of how quickly things went from sparkling celebration to…this.
I jerk my head in the direction of the princess. “Go help Kestrel,” I tell Briar. “People are panicking; they need your big mouth telling them what to do.”
She hesitates. “What about you?”
“I'm going to keep as many as I can away from you so you can focus on guiding more people to safety.”
“Owyn—”
“I'll be fine.” I hold up my arm, twisting it so she can see the iridescent blue scales that have now spread from my wrist halfway to my elbow.
Her lips part at the sight, her gaze flicking between the scales and my dragon eye. “You just keep getting weirder and weirder,” she says with a crooked little grin.
“Go,” I urge.
“Be careful,” she orders in response before finally sprinting away.
I turn and begin to methodically drive back every enemy that attempts to get anywhere near her and Kestrel.
After I drop the first two challengers with supernatural speed and grace, others begin to think twice about approaching me.
Most stop completely when they look at my face—at my scarred, once-blind eye, and the golden, serpentine shine it has now taken on.
I'm used to people recoiling from the sight of that eye, but the way these people hesitate feels different. I don't sense disgust. Or pity.
I don't feel repulsive.
I feel powerful.
Sesca soars closer, as if feeding off my waking confidence, dipping in and out of the clouds.
Keep your distance, I think, and I'm certain she hears it, because she gives an annoyed, echoing hiss before shooting higher once more.
She wants to land and fully intertwine herself with my power.
To unleash her own fury on these violent intruders.
I feel fire building in the air, too—a tempting gift that I could potentially draw down and channel through my own veins, if only I dared.
I know it would be enough to annihilate every threat still standing.
I just don't trust myself to channel it safely.
Not after what happened in the arena the other day.
Keep your distance, I think again. I can handle this with just a sword. No magic. It's safer that way.
A rush of her indignant heat courses through me. But another surge of her strength soon follows, along with a burst of focus that makes the world around me become even sharper, even more luminous.
Those enhanced senses suddenly seem determined to lead me in a specific direction—straight toward a blond-haired man wearing a cloak of deep emerald, who moves with calm, deadly authority amongst the carnage.
His hand is resting on the hilt of a broadsword, but he doesn’t draw it out, even as several skirmishes dance dangerously close to him.
I can't seem to look away from him; it's as though Sesca is watching everything unfolding from above, and she's determined that this is the target I need to zero in on, whether I want to or not.
So I'm painstakingly aware of his every measured step, of every shift of his assessing gaze, of the way every one of the palace intruders seems to fight with more conviction whenever he passes by them.
“Lord Faron!” I hear someone shout as they rush over to him. They exchange a few words, and then Faron starts in the direction of the palace.
I cut him off.
He meets the swing of my sword by quickly unsheathing his own, then follows it up with a rapid backswing. I duck the attack, landing in a graceful crouch. As I straighten, he looks as though he's going to turn away and keep moving—as if he doesn't think I'm worth the effort of dealing with.
Until he notices my eye.
He goes perfectly still. “It's...you.”
I whip my sword toward his chest, settling the tip against him with inhuman speed and precision. The scales on my arm shimmer in the moonlight. “Who are you?” I demand. “Why are you here?”
“Why am I here?” He takes a step back, looking me up and down.
His gaze settles again on my eye, as though he still can't believe he's seeing it.
“I could ask the same thing of you.” The last word is punctuated by a quick, vicious stab that scrapes along the edge of my blade as I barely manage to bring it up in time.
I leap back.
He follows, launching into a flurry of precise, punishing strikes. Even with Sesca’s power helping me, it’s a challenge to keep up with him.
After a minute, I change tactics; I let him push me back for a few steps, letting him gain a false sense of strength and control. My enhanced vision scans his body, watching every tiny move his muscles make, noticing the way his shoulder drops, body angling for an overhead swing…
When that next swing comes from above, I step inside of it, letting it graze my scaled arm rather than wasting energy on a full parry, and then I drive my elbow up into his jaw. He staggers. I sweep his legs before he can recover, and he goes down hard, landing on his back.
I lean over him, pressing the flat of my blade against the side of his neck.
“Little traitor,” he snarls, glaring up at me.
The word catches me off guard, and this must show in my face, because he gives me a nasty smile and elaborates.
“Servant of the Mouren crown, Reave's obedient little whore, all dressed up in his colors. I'd hoped the things we'd been hearing about you weren't true, but it looks as though they are.”
“I am a servant of no one,” I growl. “I'm only protecting people.”
“People who deserve to be slaughtered the way this kingdom has slaughtered so many others.”
“No one deserves that. There are innocent—”
“No one in this city is innocent.”
I grip my sword with both hands, digging its tip deeper into the ground, bracing myself more fully against it.
Movement catches my attention: a band of Dralsk soldiers emerging from the far tree line beyond the pavilion, torches and swords held low, moving in disciplined formation.
My balance falters for an instant, and Lord Faron uses the opportunity to roll out of my reach and leap back to his feet with practiced ease. His dark eyes dart from side to side, taking in the shifting lines of the fight, calculating.
Even with the power of Sesca's bond still roaring in my blood, I'm too outnumbered to win this fight.
But only for a moment.
In the next, reinforcements of my own appear, led by Reave. Dozens of Mouren soldiers fan out on either side of us while Reave puts a hand on my arm and pulls me behind him, stepping into a protective stance between me and Faron.
Lord Faron watches this with a cold, measured smile. “That's unnecessary. We're not here for her tonight—my liege intends to come collect her personally, in due time. As for tonight…” His eyes shift toward the palace. “We're here to settle another matter.”
“Are you?” Reave drawls. “Well, I’m dying to know what matter warrants this level of theatrics. Don't keep me in suspense.”
“You're holding one of our own prisoner. Release him to us now, or there will be consequences.”
“Consequences?” Reave lets out a cruel, dismissive laugh. His hand flexes, as though he’s about to signal something to his soldiers.
Before he can, Faron snaps his fingers, and three masked assailants emerge from the shadows, dragging a bound and gagged Kestrel between them.