Chapter 22
W ar did not find us.
War implies combat where all participants are armed and begin with a fighting chance. Not a warship ghosting through the water with fire spraying from massive cannons, absolutely devastating our coastline and our naval fleet right along with it.
But as I behold our vessels and the sea itself ablaze, it is evident Torin has not come to warn my betrothed to retreat our ships from the Maeva trade route.
He has come to massacre the remainder of our fleet instead.
An endeavor he will be successful in if we don’t reach the coastline quickly. I urge my horse faster but not fast enough, unable to weave through the throng of bodies at a gallop without trampling them. Soldiers that are still trapped in the city as they are forced to stop advancing every couple of minutes to take cover beneath their shields as a horde of arrows arc overheard.
Not just any arrows. Hundreds of them spiraling through the sky at once, arcing closer together than a man’s shoulder width. Their whistling rends the morning again as another flock of black-tipped arrows head towards us, a murder of crows starved for our blood. Never have I seen this many fired at once, and certainly not packed this tightly together. As I study them from beneath my ward, I’m positive these were not shot from human archers. They’re coming from… there must be some kind of weapon.
No. A machine .
As soon as the last of the arrows rain down on us, I steer my horse through the side streets, able to push my mare faster through the less crowded allies. Past houses with women poking their heads out of their doors, babies held tightly to their chests and little ones clinging to their legs. Others are silhouettes in their windows, and more are surely packing trunks in preparation should Baelliarah breach our coast.
Trunks that will never be unpacked. If Torin’s men manage to cleave through our defense, this city is going to light up like a bloody aurora. Sin may deserve this for the shadows in his past—hell, I probably deserve it, too—but these people do not. My family does not.
I spill out of an alley, pulling my horse to an abrupt stop just as a pack of shifters come tearing across the street, their thunderous paws pounding cobblestone in singular purpose. We’re on the northern coast of Blackreach where the kingdom docks much of their naval fleet, this channel providing a direct trade route to our northern and western neighbors. The shifters rush the docks, and a swatch of red fur snags my attention, my heart lurching at the sight of Eldridge barreling towards the sea on three legs, his gait awkward.
The beasts leap into the sea, paddling their way to the massive warship that moves through the water like a blood-frenzied shark. Transcendents are excellent swimmers, in normal conditions, except…
The sea is on fire.
The actual fucking sea is on fire.
I whip around, throwing my shield over me as another flight of arrows fire towards our soldiers that raise their shields in a mural of metal. They’re much closer now, only a few more races timed in one-minute intervals to avoid the arrows and reach the docks. Except… I turn back towards the ships, the ones that haven’t been ignited yet, my gaze flicking between them and Torin’s vessel.
They’re not going to make it .
Fire blazes out of two cannons, each of our ships soaking up the flames faster than the last. The unburnt vessels rock in the water, their sails billowing in the wind, as if even they grow stir-crazy knowing they are sitting ducks in a flame-tipped sea. The transcendents gain on Torin’s ship quickly, forcing some of the men to flock to— Goddess above, what are those?
Several long, wooden cylinders with hexagonal openings sit sidled together, giving the appearance of a large honeycomb. A few soldiers work to adjust the angle of the weapons, cranking on levers and lowering the heads of the cylinders towards the oncoming shifters. Realization sinks in my gut like a jagged stone. Those must be where the arrows are coming from.
I rush for the docks, my magic pleading to be released—release I’m all too eager to grant, except I have no clear target. The warship is too far for my collective to reach, even with Bastian’s blood agitating my magic. And given I don’t have four legs to quickly paddle through the sea, I can’t very well dive into the blazing water.
With the strange machinery now being tilted towards the approaching shifters, our army comes barreling forward faster now. But the warship is still advancing, their cannons inching closer and closer to turning what remains of the fleet into a nova explosion.
I can’t stop the ship from approaching, but I can stop the men from igniting the cannons again.
Throwing a ward around myself, I sprint towards the nearest ship moored along the pier. Whatever semblance of self-preservation I have left hollers that this is reckless, that it only takes one of these ships catching fire and all of them will be blazing within minutes. But what other choice do I have? We protect what remains of this fleet, or we lose the war before it even truly begins.
And… the shifters are out there.
Eldridge is out there.
I leap onto the ship and rush to the bow. Magic tunnels through my forearms just as the transcendents begin hurling themselves over the side of Torin’s warship. Howls tear through the salty air as furred sides are pierced with spears and heads are clubbed with hammers and pommels as the crew scrambles to beat them back into the water. Shifters fall, a haunting symphony of chaotic splashes and strangled yelps as their bloodied bodies crash against the surface of the sea. More make it onto the ship than not, using their sheer mass to stampede the crew closest to the side of the ship before they can make use of their weapons again.
I don’t have time to search for Eldridge before I thrust my collective forward. Wrath, spite, and perhaps a lick of madness weave together in a fire all my own, and I hurl it towards their sails.
My aim is true, and the canvas ignites with a sound like ripping parchment.
They notice me then, several pointing to the white-haired witch who has the nerve to smile with her blood-stained teeth. No—not hers .
My fucking teeth .
Chaos becomes the ship. Several try climbing the poles while soldiers furiously haul up buckets of sea water to suffocate the flames devouring their sails. Others are left to swipe and swing at the shifters on the deck while struggling to dodge the beasts’ jagged teeth and lethal claws.
“Back to Hell with you, demon!” a voice calls, which unfortunately for them, earns them my full attention. I watch with dark amusement as he scrambles to nock an arrow into his bow, aiming it to arc directly into my heart.
I don’t smile as I kill him.
My magic hits him like a fire poker in his lung, his throat a flue as he falls to his knees, blood spitting from his mouth. It isn’t until now that I notice that not all the naval soldiers are suited in armor like the ones we fought in the city. They weren’t expecting us to reciprocate their attack, not like this. They intended to burn our fleet and sail away like fucking cowards .
My forearms tremble as I absorb him, feeding his energy to my creature that slithers through swollen veins. The shouting behind me grows louder, the wood beneath my feet quivering as the footfalls of thousands reach the docks.
Torin only sent one warship, but it is massive. Far larger than ours, and far better equipped with advanced weaponry, their mundane armies having adapted to fight a nation ruled by a goddess-blessed mage. When you don’t have magic to tear down your enemies, you create weapons that can.
But just as iron negates magic, fire destroys machines.
I hit their sails again. They wanted to set the sea on fire, then fine. Let’s set the fucking sea on fire .
“For a prisoner, you’re awfully useful,” a familiar voice says from behind me, then orders the others to unmoor the ships at once. I turn to find Vox rushing towards me, his onyx eyes dropping to assess my armor for punctures. When he finds none, he motions to my ward with his chin. “Can you stretch that farther? Cover us while we approach?”
I nod, my muscles trembling as the blood magic stretches and coils through my arms and legs. We’re off a moment later. Our vessels aren’t equipped to withstand fire cannons, but Torin’s ship sure as hell isn’t equipped to deal with elven magic.
I hold the ward, gently stretching it wider, taller, and forcing it to expand and shroud us like an overinflated balloon. My breath quickens, a dull ache spreading across my forehead, and I force myself to inhale and exhale, reminding myself to allow my magic to power the shield, not my mind.
“Now!” Vox suddenly shouts.
I’m about to ask him what he means when the sea roars to life before us, cresting into a wave that rears up and hovers mid-air before crashing over the ship, snuffing most of my flames. Much of Torin’s crew goes sliding every which way across the deck, some falling overboard into the depths below. But it’s not the soldiers toppling over the sides that lurches a breath from my lungs; the shifters go careening too, several following their foes into the gelid sea.
“Stop!” I yell, shifting towards the elves with my hand out-stretched, flames licking my fingernails. Vox catches my wrist, his pitch eyes somehow darkening further in what is unmistakably a warning.
“The beasts will swim. The men will not.”
The beasts will swim. The men will not. I repeat the words silently to myself, especially as the elves command a second wave to rise over the ship, sending supplies and men and shifters scattering every direction. The transcendents recover quickly, regaining their footing much quicker than their two-legged opponents.
I force a nod, and he drops my wrist. Bold of him to have grabbed it at all. The elven commander is many things, but a coward he is not.
A booming howl sends me whipping back towards the ship. Every hair on my body jumps to attention at once, gooseflesh pebbling my skin, because better than the lines in my palms, and the curvature of my blades, I know that howl.
I scan for Eldridge and find him immediately. He’s on the deck, his ill-protected side exposed to the soldier above him, and the bastard’s sword plunged into his shoulder. He keeps trying to retrieve his weapon, but Eldridge’s snapping jaws prevent him from getting close enough to do so. Again and again, Eldridge struggles to force himself over, to command his paws beneath him, but he can’t manage the leverage. Not while also having to keep his jaws trained on the soldier that keeps reaching for his sword.
It only takes one other to notice his comrade’s fight and toss him a spare blade, or simply plunge their own into Eldridge’s gut. He needs help. And he needs it now.
“There!” I shout to Vox, pointing to where Eldridge lay in a giant heap of singed fur and gnashing teeth.
The commander takes aim and releases his bow string, his arrow lodging dead-center into the man’s face.
Well fuck .
If time were on our side, I’d share my admiration of the elf’s lethality, but when has time ever been on our side? I leap into the water instead, ignoring my name being shouted from the commander’s tongue.
You’d think a sea that is literally on fire would be scorching, but the water is fucking freezing.
That’s my first thought as my head breaks the surface, the air like ice picks against my cheeks as I push my drenched hair from my eyes and swim for the ship. My second thought is how much heavier my leathers are in the water. Each stroke forward is like hauling steel, but the memory of Eldridge pinned there keeps me pushing forward, forcing the water to give way as I swim the remaining distance to the ship. I grab onto the cargo net and climb, hauling myself over the side and into the ship.
No one bids me a second glance as I thud to my feet. No one is able to, the sailors’ attentions trained on the shifters as they work to dodge the beasts’ masterful lunges. I pay them no mind, my focus wholly fixed on Eldridge who is still trying to flip himself, the sword in his shoulder leaving him pinned with his vulnerable side exposed.
Time slows as a man steps up to him, one sun-bleached boot nudging Eldridge in the wounded shoulder, earning himself a ferocious snarl from my friend’s chest. He lifts one knee?—
I swipe my dagger from my waist, turning it over in my hand.
He brings his foot back. I throw my blade.
Channeling blood magic into the toss, the knife flies across the ship at a speed faster than any human should be able to throw. My tongue darts out to lick my lips as it lodges into his throat. His knees give out beneath him, and he slumps forward, hovering for a moment before his body gives out completely, and he collapses the rest of the way to the deck.
I’m on Eldridge a moment later. He groans when he sees me, and I almost smile at the annoyance he manages to force into his tone while in this skin.
“The feeling is mutual,” I grumble as I grab the hilt of the weapon lodged into his shoulder. And then, “This is going to hurt,” as I pull the blade from his flesh.
His roar is ear-splitting. I don’t let it phase me, putting my hands onto his marred flesh and pushing my magic into it. My palms sting from the iron still fresh in his fur, all their weapons undoubtedly forged from it. Because of course they would be when you’re warring with an enemy whose greatest weakness is a fucking element .
I shove the pain aside, steering my magic into his flesh, weaving it through the tendons and sinew. I’ve only had to heal my siblings in their animal forms a few times. I’m not practiced in it, but forcing Eldridge to shift forms while his shoulder is this badly injured would have been agonizing for him. Still, the blood magic guides my collective like a well-rehearsed host, and it sutures his flesh, finding every torn ligament and every splintered muscle. I’m only vaguely aware of the fighting around us, my tongue and nose catching the scent of more and more blood spritzing the air like rage-swollen rain.
A loud thud quakes the boat as a giant shifter collapses on the deck, two iron daggers embedded deep in his gut. I spring to my feet, already hurling destruction at the wielder of those knives, my focus entirely trained on the Baelliarah soldier, this one wearing iron-plated armor. I aim for his face, the only part of him not shielded with metal.
There’s a sharp, metallic clang as my magic collides with his shield, my fire extinguishing as soon as it brushes the surface. Iron. Because of course it is.
I grit my teeth, and a sound that is far from human wails from the back of my throat. My name, shouted from familiar lips, prods at a forgotten recess of my brain. A part that hasn’t yet been corrupted by the blood magic, a part that is still human and not this malignant thing that crawls through me, growing more and more restless from being kept dormant. My beast likes to play, and I’m finding I like to play with her, too.
I rush the soldier, leaving my dagger abandoned at Eldridge’s side where it lodged inside the man’s throat. Power engulfs my hands in fiery gloves, sparks flying from my fingertips as I push myself forward, the blood magic propelling me faster than I would be able to move without it. Even with my speed, there’s too much distance between us, and he manages to raise his shield just as I reach him, the upper lip of it nearly catching me in the face as he thrusts it in front of him.
Air snorts from my nose, and I duck around him, unsheathing the dagger at my thigh as I do. He spins to follow me, but not before I stab my blade into the back of his knee where the armor is gapped to allow for movement. Red coats my knife when I yank it free, and for a moment, one fleeting moment , my mouth parts as I admire the cherry syrup glistening on my blade. One taste won’t hurt. One sweet, little lick and?—
I hear my name again, voiced from the same lips as before, but this time, recognition breaks through my mental fortress. Sin’s voice is enough to snap me out of my blood haze, but not before I catch a metallic gleam in my periphery. I throw up my ward just in time to break the impact, to reduce the blow as the shield strikes me in the side of the head. My skull rattles, pain lancing through every cranial bone and settling into the tissue of my face. My ward prevented the blow from being lethal, but it’s still one that hurts like hell.
And one that pissed me off .
I don’t recognize the screech that tears free from my chest as I hurl my collective forward in a shockwave, forcing him to stumble, forcing him to lower that stupid fucking shield. I strike again, the impact now ripping his shield from his grip and sending it skipping across the deck. I stalk towards him, licking my teeth in anticipation.
Commotion stirs around us. The deck trembles beneath my feet, and an orchestra of shouts and metal sliding against metal rings out around us. I don’t take my eyes off the soldier to assess for the source of the agitation, and I don’t miss as he raises his arm, his intention not lost on me. I brace for the impact, flexing my ward to lessen the force but not stop his fist completely. I need him to swing, need him to use his own weight to knock himself off balance.
His punch is pathetic.
Or maybe I’m just too far gone to feel pain anymore, my mind too sullied to care. My head flies sideways as he strikes the side of the face, and slowly, I lick my lips as I right it again. His top half careens forward with his momentum, putting pressure on the knee I lamed. Fire burns in my throat, and I assess him like a wounded animal that’s stumbled into my domain. Some might take pity. Others would strike knowing it was a necessary evil to put him out of his misery.
I do neither of those things.
Because when I lunge for him, my veins open instinctually, eager to feel his essence bleed into mine. Starved for his suffering, desperate to taste his torment on my tongue and feel his despair as his face splits beneath my blade.
I bury my knife into his eye.
His flesh parts for me like drenched soil, coating every inch of my dagger in his tissue and fluid and blood. Such a delicacy to partake of, if it weren’t for the sheer bludgeoning his skull absorbs as a sword pommel comes down on the top of his head with preternatural speed and strength.
His skull audibly cracks as it shatters in several places, the sound as appetizing as it is haunting, his body collapsing in a mangled heap between me and another set of laced, black boots. I bare my teeth at those boots, his scent rushing over my tongue, and when I raise my glowing eyes to his, I’m certain I look every part the bloodwitch the legends warn about.
Sin lowers his weapon, and without taking his own incandescent eyes off me, shouts orders to the others. It’s then I take notice of the absence of clashing steel. The fighting must be over. We won. I think.
“What about them?” I recognize Vox’s voice. I steal a glance to where he’s looking and exhale deeply as I spot the faint silhouettes of four more warships gliding along the line where the sea meets the sky.
“It’s a warning,” Sin bites out, his lips curling around the last consonant. “Board our vessel and follow them out. Have others follow behind you with more of the fleet that isn’t fucking burnt, then have your magicked ward the ships. Churn the water and capsize as many of their vessels as you can while you chase them out of our perimeter. They want to send a warning; we send a more lethal one.”
Vox springs into action at once, ordering the Source-wielders that jumped onto this ship during the fighting to board the one Sin and his men sidled up with. Wood creaks behind me as bodies begin to shuffle, commanding officers issuing orders. But they might as well be on the other side of the sea for all that Sin and I are aware of them.
“Why are you here? How are you here?” His tone is clipped, masking fury.
I couldn’t answer his question even if I wanted to. My entire body vibrates with thunder, magic lancing up and down my arms like wild lightning. He locked me in there. Caged me like an animal. Like a pet .
When I speak, my voice is a raw, feral thing. “ Fuck . You . Singard .”
His lips part when he hears the bloodwitch in my voice, his eyes now flitting to take in the blood covering me as if trying to gauge just how many lives I reaped since escaping my confinement.
“Wait for me in our chambers. We will discuss there. You’ve already exposed yourself far too much.” His tone is somehow angrier still. Furious at me for risking Torin’s crew spotting the Black Art’s prisoner fighting against the men that are her only hope for freedom. A fault in His Grace’s masterful plan.
“I do not answer to you. I didn’t then, and I won’t now.”
Lines crease the flesh between his brows as he rubs his fingers across his forehead, and he—he winces —as if someone had struck him there. “This is not the time, Wren. For once in your godsdamned life, can you put aside your own fucking self-righteousness and trust that I know how to lead!”
“I have never once doubted your ability to lead.”
“Then why do you follow me like?—”
“Because you do not know how to love!” I shout the words, venom seeping into every consonant and vowel.
Hurt, genuine hurt , flashes across his face at that. And then it’s gone, as fleeting as a shooting star, his face hardening as he raises his weapon to slide it into the scabbard on his back.
“Might want to keep that ready,” I warn before he can sheathe the weapon.
He pauses, and his eyes darken to something forbidden when he asks in a tone as black as his heart, “Are you going to strike me next, love?”
I flick my head to the side, my feet shifting of their own accord to match his stance. “You’d more than deserve it,” I hiss.
Locking my stare, he ignores my warning and slides his weapon into the scabbard on his back. He runs a hand through his hair then, his fingers lingering on his forehead for a few seconds longer. The same spot he had rubbed earlier…
His next words are spoken slowly, goading. “Aye. So do it. If you are still so furious with me, still so skeptical of my intentions that you put yourself in danger to monitor my every move, then perhaps it’s far better suited for both of us if you stop making threats and actually do something about it. If you’re so pissed, fucking show me .”
I want to slap him. No. I want to punch the son of a bitch. The dark urge tunnels through me, begging me to drive my fist right into his face.
I hate him for making me feel this way. For making me want to hurt him, the very man I’m betrothed to, the man I’ve promised to bind myself to in body and heart. But even in this savage state, with my blood more beast than woman, I know it is wrong to strike him. Because with every beat of my malignant heart, I’m certain Sin would never raise a hand to me. Not now. Not ever.
With one last primal shriek, I expel a plume of magic instead, channeling just enough power into it to knock him sideways and force him out of my path. “Don’t hurt the guard,” I snarl. “He didn’t let me out; I forced my way.” I push past him, and he doesn’t pursue. Experienced enough to know that nothing productive will come from a further argument between us now.
Before, neither of us would have hesitated to hurt the other, to spit words dripping with poison and hope they landed in the freshest, deepest wounds. But the Black Art and I are not the same people we were when we met. I am to be his wife, and he my husband. Because despite how much we claw and bite at one another, it is more exhausting trying to stifle the connection that hums between us like a symphony all its own.
A baleful hymn for a love as jagged as the scars marring our hearts.