Chapter 31 #2
My heart clenches as I realize what I’ve done.
These aren’t just monsters. They were people once. Men who carved boats, women who sang to their children at night, lovers who kissed on darkened docks.
They should be in Volkany with the refugees, or safe in their villages, not here—twisted into weapons.
But I don’t get to dwell on what they should be.
This is what they are now.
The bell tower chimes five tolls, each one echoing between my ears. Dawn comes at six, I think.
If it’s too risky to burn the hungry dead with brimfire, and I can’t command them with my godkiss…
Then maybe I can tap a different kind of strength.
I close my eyes, extending my sense of connection with the natural world beyond the city walls, to the sleepy lake Basten and I passed when we first arrived.
But I frown, sensing a barrier.
“Something’s in the way,” I say, gripping Basten’s arm. “The city gate is closed—I need you and Rian to open it.”
Basten holds my gaze, his eyes fierce with love. He nods without question.
Then I turn, gathering my skirts, and plunge back into the crowd.
The city still pulses with half-drunk celebrations, but the Royal Arena lies quieter now, the chaos of the day’s events scrubbed clean. Even the workers have cleared out, the props and banners have been hauled away, leaving the great structure silent.
I slip through a side entrance, the guards at the gate catching the glow of my fae-lit eyes.
They drop to their knees instantly, heads bowed. “Majesty.”
I say nothing as I pass, my gown sweeping behind me like a shadow.
Down, down—into the dark, echoing underbelly of the stadium, where old stone stairs lead into the backstage corridors. The holding stables lie just beyond.
And there—exactly where I hoped—stand Tòrr and Myst.
They’re housed in a makeshift iron stall, Tòrr munches lazily on alfalfa hay. Myst flicks her tail beside him, alert but calm.
The stable attendant jolts upright at my approach, scrambling to cover the fact that he’d been dozing. He mutters something about not expecting visitors.
I wave him off with a flick of my wrist. “Go.”
He bows, eyes wide with reverence, and scurries off, whispering prayers.
I take a moment to greet Myst with a scratch on her forelock. Then, I turn to Tòrr, my heart aching in a way I hadn’t expected.
You were right, I whisper, stepping closer, my voice thick with something more than power. You sent Plume to watch me. Not because you didn’t trust me, but because you were afraid I’d forget what matters.
Tòrr lifts his head, those ageless eyes meeting mine, full of understanding.
And maybe I did forget, I admit, resting my hand on his powerful withers. For a while. I got so caught up in the human world, crowns and battles and thrones, that I forgot to look up—at the birds. And down—at the mice.
The words tremble out of me, but I keep going.
But I’m looking now. I remember. The forests, the rivers, everything with wings or teeth or tails. I haven’t forgotten who I am. I pause. And I need your help, friend.
Tòrr shifts forward, the stall’s gate creaking under his weight, as if already answering.
I unfasten the gate’s latch.
Let’s make it right together, I say.
Tòrr gleefully paws his massive hoof in the straw bedding. His eyes flash with a ring of red, and a thick cloud of steam rises from his dripping nostrils.
I throw open the gate. There’s no mounting block, but he lifts his front foot for me, giving me his massive hoof as a boost. I swing onto his back, licking my lips against the bite of iron in the air.
For once, I feel as fierce as him.
Feel his ambition as my own.
His drive.
You want to safeguard the natural realm? I say, leaning forward, knitting my bare hands in his mane, realizing the sting of pain from his razorwire hair doesn’t hurt me anymore. We’ll show the gods that their power is nothing against nature.
I squeeze my legs, and he takes off. We thunder up the ramp to street level, hooves striking sparks off stone, bursting into the night like a storm let loose.
In the short time that I was below ground, something on the city’s surface shifted. The air no longer rings with jeering jokes about Artain’s puppet show. Laughter has been replaced by screams—high, shattering wails of genuine terror.
Around the corner, a legion of the dead lurches into view. Filthy, bloated things with outstretched arms, vacant eyes, mouths agape. They fall upon citizens still drunk from celebration who are too slow or stunned to flee.
Then comes the tearing of flesh. The sharp, wet sound of teeth sinking into muscle. The splash of blood on cobblestone alleyways.
I shift my hips on Tòrr’s back, guiding him with my weight, aiming him like a living battering ram straight at the horde.
Behind me, the first golden threads of dawn stretch across the rooftops.
The sunlit rays shine just to the left of the Valor Bell—not quite reaching it.
Tòrr lets out a fierce snort, muscles coiling beneath my thighs with gleeful rage.
“Now!” I cry, digging in my heels.
He charges.
My hand shoots up, silver magic already thrumming. I hurl a blast of fey at the Valor Bell, causing it to swing to the left as its clapper rings out a deep, ground-shaking gong.
The bell’s copper surface hits the ray of dawn’s light, reflecting it and funneling it down the street into a glowing beam.
Tòrr lifts his spiraled horn into the glow, the light striking it and bursting into a cascade of iridescent color that dances across the early morning darkness.
Not just color.
An explosion of light that knocks down the dead, clearing our path.