1. Leah
Leah
“Ithought you said today was the day, Hodges,” I grumble as I adjust my footing, avoiding a wobbly section of stone.
This part of the city wall is falling apart, like so many places in Pax the rich don’t have to sully their eyes looking at.
No one cares that one wrong step could send some poor idiot plummeting a hundred feet down, leaving them a red smear on the streets below.
Of course, that also means lazy roaches like the wardens steer well clear of it, making it the perfect perch for us to watch the plains without getting caught.
“It is the day,” the young scavenger insists, pushing his sandy hair out of his face. “We’ve not had a battle for a month. You know the wingers must be itching for a fight by now.”
He doesn’t need to tell me how long it’s been.
Every day that passes where I don’t make some coin scavenging is another day Evie and I spend trapped in our father’s house.
Another day dodging my stepmother’s sharp words, sharper slaps, and endless petty humiliations.
As the weeks rolled by without the wingers trying to rip each other’s throats out on our doorstep, I’ve grown hungry for bloodshed.
To the victor go the spoils? Fuck that. To the desperate go the spoils. And I am very desperate.
I try to kill my impatience by staring out at the horizon, to beyond the scarred surface of the plains.
The miles of gouged earth and scorched grass that form the usual battleground must come to an end somewhere, but you couldn’t prove that by me.
This little section of the world is all I know.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hodges fiddle with his hair again.
“You know, it’s really time you got a haircut,” I say. “I’m surprised you can see out from under that thatch.”
He makes a rude gesture at me and I laugh. At twenty—four years my junior—I can’t help but treat Hodges like a little brother, but while he may be a brat sometimes, he’s a good partner. Quick-witted, capable—and I trust him at my back, which I can’t say of many others.
“Stick to what you’re good at, Polaris,” he says.
“I’ll get my style advice from—there! See?
I told you.” He interrupts himself to point out the telltale shape of a wooden frame being erected about a mile from Pax’s walls.
“The ephilium have been poking around the plains all morning. It was only a matter of time before they tried to open a rift.”
Hodges and I both lean forward as far as safety will allow, fixing our gaze on the handful of ephilium soldiers.
They’d look pretty human if it wasn’t for their majestic white wings catching the sunlight along with their golden armor as they stand gathered around the wooden arch.
I’m not fooled by appearances, however. Only morons think there’s anything pretty or ethereal about those killing machines.
Case in point: I don’t need to be close to know they’re carving Cyrax runes into that frame, preparing to tear open a doorway into the demon realm and launch another deadly raid.
As long as that fight spills out onto Strata ground, I’m all for it.
Let the monsters line up to destroy each other as much as they want as long as they leave a battlefield behind loaded with treasures for the taking.
But as brutal as the ephilium are, their enemies make them look positively fluffy.
My gut twitches in warning, and my fingers involuntarily tighten around the ridge of wall I’m holding.
“The demons already know they’re here,” I say.
“You reckon?” Hodges asks, silently accepting my nod. The frame the ephilium are using is small fry, but when it comes to the big rifts, I’ve always been able to feel it—the moment before the air splits open. It sends a prickle over my skin, like the tension in the atmosphere before a storm.
I lift my finger, pointing to the mirage-like shimmer forming twenty feet from the ephilium.
Hodges squints at the shimmer as it dances in the air, rapidly expanding.
“Here we go,” he says, his voice edged with excitement, but my brow is furrowed. I can’t figure out why the ephilium haven’t spotted the warning signs yet.
The mirage catches alight, burning a thirty-foot hole in the Strata air. For a moment, I glimpse a purplish sky through the open rift—a flash of another world. Then all hell breaks loose.
The forces of Infernum come pouring through the rift, a wave of thick darkness that swallows up everything in front of it.
As if they were ready for just this moment, the ephilium immediately abandon their frame and take to the air with a swift sweep of their wings, rising with astonishing speed out of the path of the swirling shadows.
From the banks of the low hills that sporadically dot the plains, more glimmering visions of gold rise up into the sky—ephilium soldiers lying in wait for the demon army—and I realize this was their plan all along, sneaky bastards. It’s an ambush.
Then the fight really begins.
As the demon forces spread across the plains, I can make them out more clearly now.
Beastly figures with snouts and beaks mingle with those that look mostly human, but for blood red eyes or a set of horns or claws.
Even though we call all supernaturals wingers, some demons can’t actually fly of their own accord.
Instead, they ride winged horses, their steeds’ vicious fangs chomping at their bits.
Those not on horseback sport pairs of leathery black wings that carry them up into the air after the ephilium.
The two supernatural armies collide in an explosion of shadow and lightning.
If I hadn’t seen fifty of these battles before, it would strike me as the world’s most violent thunderstorm.
Only instead of raindrops, what plummets to the earth is a shower of bodies and blood, falling weapons, and the rolling mists of demon shadows.
And that’s why Hodges and I are here.
Sure, we could sit pretty behind the safety of the city walls like everyone else, letting the Concords protect us.
But where’s the fun—or more importantly, the money—in that?
We might have monsters snarling at the gates, but they only have eyes for each other.
Us humans, meanwhile, are the ants crawling around in the background of this war.
And the centuries-old pact between the humans of Strata and the supernaturals in their realms is the thing that stops us getting crushed underfoot.
They like having their fights in our realm—it’s easy for them to open rifts and to launch their attacks from here, whereas direct rift travel between their realms is all but impossible.
Plus, I guess ripping up our lands in battle saves them the fuss and bother of having to clean up a mess in their own backyard.
But thanks to the Concords, they don’t quite have free rein.
The wingers will get a nasty spanking from their own kind if one of them tries to take the fight inside the walls of Strata’s cities.
But apart from on amnesty days, anyone outside the walls is fair game.
And that’s where the treasure is.
I study the battle carefully, watching for any larger debris tumbling to the ground.
An Infernum steed takes a lightning-laced arrow to the shoulder and plummets with an ear-splitting whinny.
I tap my fingers on the wall with anticipation.
I know just the dealer who’d pay a pretty penny for that creature’s tail hair.
I have to bite back disappointment when it rights itself before it collides with the earth.
Its rider, a thin, purple-skinned figure, sends a volley of choking shadow back.
It’s all valuable, of course. Everything touched by them hums with their magic—demon and ephilium, lightning and shadow. You just have to find the right buyer.
“No lords today,” Hodges tuts, scanning the hordes. “Shame, those guys always make it interesting.”
“Are you really still playing ‘lord of hell’ bingo?” I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on the sky above the plains. “You’re never gonna get the full set, Hodges.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. No one’s ever seen the Lord of Malice. He’s probably too busy torturing lost souls to come brawling in Strata.”
Hodges shakes his head, determined. “One day he’ll show, you’ll see.”
I suppress a shiver. I was teasing Hodges, but I sincerely hope he’s wrong. I have no desire for Infernum’s most mysterious resident to visit our realm. Though if the rumors about him are true, the devastation he’d wreak would make for an excellent day of scavenging.
“The ambush worked,” Hodges comments, nodding at the pools of bright green blood dotting the plains as he sizes up the damage. “There’s more demon injuries than usual.”
I scoff dismissively. This war has been raging since before human memory, and it’ll probably keep raging long after we’re both worm food. I don’t care who wins or loses as long as the wingers leave enough of a mess behind to make it worth my while.
The battle’s winding down now. The ephilium have the demons on the retreat, streaming back through the still-open rift to Infernum, blocking any Aradis forces trying to follow. Movement catches my eye on this side of the city wall: a vaguely familiar figure pacing along a narrow ledge.
“We should get going,” I say, recognizing my competition.
“Are you kidding?” Hodges protests. “The rifts haven’t even closed yet.”
“So? They’ll start shutting them down any minute.
” How long a rift will stay open—minutes to hours—depends on its size and who’s operating it.
But once one is closing, it’s impossible to reverse the process, though I’ve seen more than a few wingers try.
“Besides,” I gesture to the figure, who clearly has a rope in hand, ready to descend to the plains at the first opportunity, “Lindon’s vultures are already circling. ”