More jets spiral on the outer edge of the storm, around and around, carving through it. The clouds drift with the jets, as if magnetized to the wings. Then I hear another roar. Another wind, stronger than the first, blowing with the fury of a hundred hurricanes. The wind works to clear the storm, tearing it apart with force. The clouds part enough to show the towers of Corvium, where blue lightning reigns. The wind follows the jets, pooling beneath their freshly painted wings.
Painted bright yellow.
House Laris.
My lips tug into a smile. They’re here. Anabel Lerolan kept her word.
I look for the other houses, but a falcon screams around me, its blue-black wings beating the air. Talons gleam, sharp as a blade, and I jump back to cover my face from the bird. It just screeches keenly before flapping away, gliding over the battleground toward—oh no.
Maven’s reserves are coming. Battalions, legions. Black armor, blue armor, red armor. I’m going to be smashed between both halves of his army.
Not without a fight.
I let loose, purple bolts rocketing down around me. Pushing back soldiers, making them question every step. They know what my abilities look like. They’ve seen what the lightning girl can do. They pause, but only for a moment. Enough to let me set my feet and turn, angling my body. Smaller target, larger chance of survival. My good fist clenches, ready to take them all down with me.
Many of the Silvers assaulting the breach turn in my direction. The distraction is their downfall. Green lightning and white pulse through them, clearing the way for red flame as it charges toward me.
The swifts close the distance first and catch a web of lightning. Some zip backward but others fall, unable to outrun sparks. Storm bolts, crackling out of the sky, keep the worst at bay, forming a protective circle around me. From the outside, it looks like a cage of electricity, but it’s a cage of my own making. A cage I control.
I dare any king to put me in a cage now.
I expect my lightning to draw him, like a moth to a candle flame. I search the oncoming horde for Maven. A red cape, a crown of iron flames. A white face in the sea, his eyes blue enough to pierce mountains.
Instead, the Laris jets move in for another pass, swooping low over both armies. They split around me, making soldiers scramble for cover as screaming metal rushes overhead. A dozen or so figures tumble from the backs of the larger jets, somersaulting on the air before plummeting to the ground at a speed that would pancake most humans. Instead, they throw out their arms, stopping themselves abruptly, churning up dirt, ash, and snow. And iron. Lots of iron.
Evangeline and her family, brother and father included, turn to face the oncoming army. The falcon keens around them, screaming as it darts on the harsh wind. Evangeline spares a glance over her shoulder, her eyes finding mine.
“Don’t make this a habit!” she shouts.
Exhaustion hits me because, strangely, I feel safe.
Evangeline Samos has my back.
Fire blazes at the edge of my vision on either side. It hems me in, almost blinding. I stumble back and hit a wall of muscle and tactical armor. Cal cradles my broken wrist, holding it gently.
For once, I don’t remember the manacles.
TWENTY-NINE
Evangeline
The doors of Corvium’s administrative tower are solid oak, but their hinges and trimmings are iron. They glide open in front of us, bowing before the Royal House of Samos. We enter the council chamber gracefully, in front of the eyes of our patchwork excuse for an alliance. Montfort and the Scarlet Guard sit on the left, simple in their green uniforms, our Silvers on the right in their varying house colors. Their respective leaders, Premier Davidson and Queen Anabel, watch us enter in silence. Anabel wears her crown now, marking herself as a queen, albeit to a long-dead king. It’s a beaten ring of rose gold, set with tiny black gems. Simple. But it stands out all the same. She drums her deadly fingers on the flat of the table, eagerly displaying her wedding ring. A fiery red jewel, also set in rose gold. Like Davidson, she has the look of a predator, never blinking, never distracted. Prince Tiberias and Mare Barrow are not here, or else I can’t see them. I wonder if they’ll split to their respective sides and colors.
Windows on every side of the tower room open on the land, where the air still smolders with ash and the western fields are choked in mud, flooded and swamped by the extraseasonal catastrophe. Even this high up, everything smells like blood. I scrubbed my hands for what seemed like hours, washing every inch, and still I can’t get rid of the scent. It clings like a ghost, harder to forget than the faces of the people I killed on the field. The metallic tang infects everything.
Despite the commanding view, all eyes focus on the more commanding person leading our family. Father has no black robes, just his chromium armor shimmering like a mirror melded to his trim form. A warrior king in every inch. Mother does not disappoint either. Her crown of green stones matches the emerald boa constrictor draped around her neck and shoulders like a shawl. It slithers slowly, scales reflecting the afternoon light. Ptolemus looks similar to Father, though the armor painted to his broad chest, narrow waist, and lean legs is black as oil. Mine is a mix of both, striped in skintight layers of chromium and black steel. It isn’t the armor I wore on the field, but the armor I need now. Terrible, threatening, showing every ounce of Samos pride and power.
Four chairs like thrones are set against the windows, and we sit as one, presenting a united front. No matter how much I want to scream.
I feel like a traitor to myself, having let days, weeks pass without opposition. Without so much as a whisper of how much Father’s plan terrifies me. I don’t want to be queen of Norta. I don’t want to belong to anyone. But what I want doesn’t matter. Nothing will threaten my father’s machinations. King Volo is not one to be denied. Not by his own daughter, his flesh and blood. His possession.