Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Nienna
He saw me.
Guarded cornflower-blue eyes locked on mine through the smoke and across the distance, fury flaring so bright it felt physical, a strike to the sternum.
Anger lit that stare, banked rage waiting for release.
Even Gyrak sensed it. The great dragon’s chest vibrated beneath us, a low warning rumble rolling through muscle and bone into my spine.
Then he vanished. Swallowed by stone, by shadow, by the chaos below.
“Brace yourself!” Ronan shouted.
His arm shoved me forward just as Gyrak launched.
The force snapped my teeth together. Air dropped away beneath us, the ground tilting as wings beat once, twice, hard enough to jolt my lungs.
I clutched the worn leather of the saddle, and my brother’s hold locked around my middle, crushing, unyielding.
Pain flared along my ribs. If he squeezed any harder, something would splinter.
Wind roared in my ears as we caught an updraft.
Gyrak banked away from the mountain, vast wings slicing through cold currents.
Below, the army fractured with startling precision.
Cavalry split from infantry in a rolling surge, metal flashing, hooves striking sparks from stone as they charged toward the mountain path we had carved open.
They would follow Kallias through the manor and take the hidden route to Sol.
Nothing about it would be easy. We were dividing our strength, daring fate to exploit the fracture. A war fought on two fronts devoured men whole. Still, if we cut into the Heart of Sol and ruptured it from within, victory was possible.
Breon streaked past in a blur of green, small compared to Gyrak yet brilliant as a shard of emerald glass. He angled toward the city, releasing a questioning trill that sliced through the wind. Nakos flattened along his back, fingers hooked into harness straps, dark hair plastered to his skull.
“Let him test the ballista!” Ronan called, voice ragged against the gale. “If he finds one, we can take it!”
“No!” I twisted, the motion clumsy in the saddle. My head cracked against Ronan’s jaw. He grunted. “Don’t risk the dragons!”
“Let him go, Nienna. Trust me!”
Gyrak’s wings stretched wide, catching a smoother current. The rhythm of his glide steadied my pulse. Ahead, Breon’s scales caught the light, flashing green and black. He chirped again, questioning, before adjusting to the undercurrent and leveling out.
He was the fastest. The lightest. Agile enough to turn within his own shadow.
He could bait the weapons and drop clear before the bolts struck, unless another lay hidden beyond sight.
Kallias had been clear. He did not want the dragons drawn close to the city walls.
He understood what their fall would cost. To the people, the beasts were invincible.
Untouchable. If any of them fell from the sky, faith would fracture like glass under a hammer.
Ronan understood them in a way no one else did. He felt each shift of wing, each change in breath. He would not gamble them without cause. They were not beasts to him. They were blood—his friends, his family.
I tasted copper where I’d bitten my lip. Kallias would hold me responsible if this failed. “Make it worth it.”
Ronan’s grip eased by a fraction, his relief evident by the way he relaxed against my back.
Beneath us, Gyrak released a sharp chuff and jerked his head toward Sol, smoke smearing the skyline.
Breon answered with a bright squeal and shot forward, wings tucking tight to his sides.
His wingbeats shortened, quick and precise.
His tail lashed in controlled snaps to guide his course.
Approval rolled from Gyrak’s chest, a deep vibration against my thighs. He climbed higher, granting me a clearer vantage point. The air thinned and cooled. From above, Sol spread wide and pale, its terraces layered like carved bone.
Breon arced toward the outer districts. At first, I saw nothing but scattered motion. Then it sharpened. Tiny clusters of soldiers converged on specific points, abandoning their patrol patterns. On a higher platform, another group did the same, rushing to gather in tight knots.
They were swarming to their weapons.
Wind tore at my hair, strands lashing across my mouth. I pushed them aside and felt my lips curve. Pride bloomed, fierce and bright, at my brother’s calculation. He had forced their hand without firing a single bolt.
Gyrak clicked, the sound almost conversational.
Satisfaction colored the note, dry and knowing, as though he had predicted this from the start.
His massive head tilted, tracking each surge below.
He was mapping them, committing every frantic movement to memory.
Soon we would send our men to dismantle those engines piece by piece, ripping the teeth from Sol’s walls.
Below us, the city braced.
Above it, we watched.
By the setting of the sun, we were inside Sol.
Radaanian soldiers, loyal to our cause, poured through the estate in a steady, controlled stream, boots striking stone in a relentless cadence. Kallias led at the head, passing through long before we arrived.
The manor had once been a sanctuary. Quiet corridors.
Polished floors that reflected lamplight in soft gold pools.
Now it breathed like a wounded beast. Armor clanged against doorframes.
Steel scraped marble. Shouts collided with the vaulted ceilings and came back warped.
Mud and gore streaked once-pristine rugs.
Tables had been shoved against walls, chairs overturned, porcelain shattered under careless heels.
Ronan stayed close, a steady heat at my side as darkness bled across Sol—a blanket of death. Night fell cold and heavy, smothering the last streaks of orange beyond the glass.
I found the bodies in the kitchen first. Mutilated, drained.
Rot hung in the air, thick enough to taste. Flies droned in lazy spirals above the prep tables.
Will’s heavy form slumped over the long wooden table, cheek pressed to scarred oak. The joint where his neck met his shoulder had been torn open. Tendon and bone gleamed in the dim light. His broad palms still rested flat against the surface as if he might push himself upright.
Poppy’s face had fallen slack, eyes fixed on the ceiling beams. Those small hands that once laced my dresses dangled from her wrists by cords of tendon, swaying faintly in the draft like broken marionette strings.
Grief cinched tight around my throat.
And little Tipo, with his mop of red hair, sat tilted at an unnatural angle. Muscle and vein had been torn from his neck. He looked unstrung, limp, like a tapestry slashed from its frame, threads yanked free until the image collapsed into ruin.
My stomach lurched. Acid burned my throat. I reached the sink and retched, fingers digging into the stone basin. My body convulsed until nothing remained but bitter spit.
Ronan didn’t speak. His hand settled at the small of my back, solid, grounding. Silence hardened him. I felt it in the way he stood. The reek of death did not turn him away. It fused to him, layering into something harder, a shell of protection.
I wiped my mouth on my sleeve. Blood soaked the rags scattered across the counters.
I would not touch them. When my breath finally steadied, I forced myself to look again.
These were our people. They had risen before dawn to bake bread, to sweep floors, to keep this place running—only to have their routines and their lives torn apart.
They suffered because of our actions, our choices.
The least I could do was offer them their final respects.
A clean towel hung from a peg near the door. I took it and draped it over Poppy’s ruined face, smoothing the fabric over her brow. Ronan moved beside me without instruction, covering Will, then Tipo. We gave them that small mercy. Rest. Dignity.
Only then did I delve farther into the manor.
The halls stretched ahead in unfamiliar turns. I never knew it well. My time here had been brief, but I still remembered the route to my old chambers.
Crossing the main hall felt like wading through a river in flood. Chainmail brushed my arms. The scent of sweat and oil filled the air. Soldiers parted when they recognized us, the surge stalling for a heartbeat before closing again behind.
A Harvester in black linen stood farther down the corridor. His hood had been pushed back, revealing a severe face lined with age. He dipped his chin when our eyes met.
Hope bloomed beneath my ribs.
Please let them be alive.
Veridis, breathe life into them.
It seemed appropriate to pray to the goddess Gayle had urged me toward. I gathered my skirts in a fist and moved faster, heart lodged in my throat.
At the threshold, I forced my steps to slow.
Beds had been dragged into the chamber. Sheets hung uneven, corners tucked in haste. Three forms lay beneath white linen, turning the room into something closer to a medic tent than a bedchamber.
Anna. Gayle. Clay.
Their faces were pale against the pillows. Eyes closed. Lips parted in shallow breaths.
In the corner, Fyrn sat on the floor.
Hatred struck clean and razor-sharp. Her wrists were bound in front of her, rope biting into her skin. A gag had been knotted tight between her teeth. Dried blood crusted along her chin and streaked her dress. She was upright. Awake. Not granted the mercy of a bed.
Seliora stood over her, hand resting on the pommel of her dagger. Our gazes met. Understanding passed without words.
Fyrn didn’t deserve the first fruits of my attention.
My friends did.
I turned my back on the prisoner and crossed to Anna’s bedside. A Harvester crouched there, fingers pressed to her wrist, counting.
“What happened?” My voice came low, careful not to disturb her despite the clamor in the halls being loud enough to wake the dead.