فصل نوزدهم

Nineteen: Evangeline

I’ve never liked Harbor Bay. It stinks of fish and salt water, even in the Silver districts. Soon it will smell only of blood.

The two weeks of rest in the Rift flew by, each minute passing faster than the last. Only last night I was home, nestled against Elane, whispering my good-byes. I wasn’t afraid then. I believed Father wouldn’t let his heirs anywhere close to true danger. Ptolemus and I would be safe, held in reserve to watch the siege and wade in when the fighting ebbed.

I was wrong.

His hunger is deeper than I ever imagined.

He put us on the front lines without a thought.

Now our boats race over the ocean waves, skimming along the stormy blue, cresting with each flash of white foam. I narrow my eyes against the spray, even behind my goggles. The wind tears at my hair with the damp chill of seawater. It would knock me over if my boots weren’t fused to the steel deck below my feet. My ability courses, a low pulse in time with my boat skipping over the water.

We ride with the fog, hidden for now. Montfort’s storm soldiers are talented and powerful. I note ours at the corner of my eye, tall and willowy in her green uniform tightened by ballistic armor. She is helmeted too, only her hands bare, fingers splayed at her sides to drag the fog. No more coveralls or training outfits for anyone. This is real.

House Samos leads the assault from the water, pushing on our metal crafts at high speed. Father is willing to risk our house for victory. Three cousins form the diamond wedge of our frontal assault, their crafts slicing ahead of us. Behind me in my boat, Ptolemus stands firm, his body weighed down with mirrored armor and weaponry. Gun belts crisscross my hips, snug against my muscles. I have a pistol, though I prefer to throw the bullets myself if need be. My cousins of House Samos vary, carrying rifles as well as shard explosives. I picture the seawalls of Fort Patriot, high against the waves. Our first obstacle. My focus sharpens as we approach, narrowing to this place and our objective.

Win the city.

Survive.

Go home.

They will see us coming. Or at least they’ll see the fog rolling off the water. It’s early morning, though, when the air is still heavy and gray. A natural fog wouldn’t seem out of place. It could give us cover longer than anything else. And when Cal strikes from the land, and House Laris from the air, the city guards and the Patriot garrison won’t know where to turn. Which front to fight.

Everything is well coordinated, from the grander assault to each individual boat. Our ranks are well organized. Two magnetrons, one storm, one gravitron at least to each craft, supplemented by trained Red soldiers or other newbloods of Montfort. As well as a few healers sprinkled through each battalion.

Everyone has their job, and if we’re all going to survive, we’re going to do them well.

Fort Patriot looms, a hazy shadow darkening as our fog pushes on. The seawall rises from a breaking rush of white waves. No land below. No foothold. No matter.

For all my anger and rage, I wish my father were here. There is no safer place than his side.

My concentration breaks for a moment as my focus shifts to my brother. I can sense him behind me, and easily trace the shape of his armor. We each carry a small but solid disk of copper tucked into our belts. An odd metal for an attack. Easy to distinguish and feel. Easy to track. I hold on to the sensation of his and mine, memorizing it. If things go wrong, I want to be able to find Tolly as quickly as I can.

The fog outstrips us, easing against the fast-approaching seawall. Whatever clock ticks inside me grows louder, more insistent. It’s time.

Shivering, I turn with a jolt and wrap my arms around Tolly’s shoulders. The hug is quick, sharp, and not gentle. The clang of metal on metal as our armor meets is swallowed by the roaring waves and the rising thunder of my heartbeat.

“Stay alive,” he whispers. I can only nod as I turn back around.

No movement on the seawall, either above or below. Just the waves. Maybe the fog has worked.

“Ready?” I hiss over the din, looking to the barrel-chested Montfort gravitron.

He dips his chin in assertion before crouching against the boat, putting his hand to each side. His palms go flat. Ready to lift.

In the other boats, the other gravitons do the same.

The soldiers behind me kneel. The storm, our two oblivions of Lerolan, and Ptolemus brace for the leap. No Reds in my boat. I want to survive this, and do it without relying on the weakness of red blood, no matter how trained they might be.

I bend down with the rest, my muscles tensing, dreading the chance of impact, if the gravitron isn’t up to snuff. At this speed, I might not be able to stop the boat from slamming into the seawall.

Waves break along the base of the wall, steel gray beneath the fog. They lap high, higher than the crusted saltwater line worn against the wall. Higher than any high tide.

My heart drops in my chest.

“Nymph strike!” I manage to scream as another towering wave crashes—backward.

So begins the battle of Harbor Bay.

The sudden, furious wall of water tosses the lead boats like toys, spilling soldiers of the Rift and Montfort across the churning ocean break. Only the gravitons escape, bouncing up and out of the water’s grasp. I spot the Samos cousins utilizing control of their armor to stay afloat or skim the waves, but they’re weighed down, and not strong enough to pull themselves out of harm’s way. I don’t know about the rest.

We have nymphs of our own, Montfort-born Silvers. But far fewer and far weaker than whoever must be on the Patriot walls. Whatever we do to calm the boiling waves isn’t enough.

Another wave rises, half as high as the wall, blocking out the graying light, casting a shadow across our line of craft. It will flatten us, drown us, slam us against the seabed.

“Push through!” I command, clenching my fists on the prow of our boat. Pouring myself and my ability into the hull. I hope the gravitron can hear me. I know Ptolemus does.

The craft ripples under our touch, narrowing, fluting, the prow sharpening to a knife’s edge. Gaining speed. I flatten myself as much as I can. We angle at the wave, a bullet with passengers.

The water is a cold slap, and all I can do is keep my mouth shut as it blasts over us. We rocket through the wave, bursting into midair on the other side. Sailing up and over, toward the seawall.

“Brace!” Ptolemus roars as we hurtle for the stone at high speed.

I grit my teeth, fingers digging into the metal hull. Pulling, pushing. Hoping we don’t fall, hoping we don’t crash.

The gravitron gives us the extra bounce we need, keeping us airborne. We hit hard, hull against the seawall. Sliding up, against gravity.

Other crafts slam in alongside us, racing up in tangled formation.

Most of our assault made it.

Metal screams along stone, outpacing the waves below, even as they reach higher and higher, casting spray like rain. I spit seawater and blink, glad for my goggles as we push up and over.

Nymphs line the ramparts, marked by blue stripes on clouded gray or black uniforms. Trained Silver soldiers and guards. The garrison of Fort Patriot, bolstered by Lakelander uniforms.

We spill from our boats with little grace, sliding onto the walkway crowning the wall. I use my own armor to stop me from toppling over the edge, while Ptolemus shreds the boat with abandon, sending razor edges spiraling in all directions. The gravitrons fling enemy soldiers into the sea. Fog crawls over the walls and into the fort, obscuring our soldiers. Somewhere, a few of our storms break off. Their job is to call up thunder. Cultivate lightning. Shock and awe the garrison, send them running. Make them think Barrow is here.

Blooms of fire and smoke dot the walls. Oblivions weave, leaving burning corpses in their wake. One shrieks as he’s caught off guard and hurled over the wall into the angry waters.

Fort Patriot crawls with enemy strongarms. Blood of House Rhambos, or their Greco and Carros cousins. One of them, a woman muscled like a mountain, tears a Montfort storm apart before my eyes, ripping flesh and bone like paper.

I keep my head. I’ve seen worse. I think.

Gunfire peppers the air. Bullets and abilities are a deadly combination.

I raise an arm, fist clenched, shielding myself from the assault. Bullets bounce off my ability, flattened or sheered. I catch a few and send them hurtling back into the fog, hunting after the flashes of turret fire.

We have to open the gates. Win the fort.

Our objective, our job, is straightforward but not simple. Fort Patriot bisects the famed harbor of the city, dividing the waters into the civilian Aquarian Port and the War Port. Right now, I only care about one.

The low thunder of heavy guns, the kind found on battleships, beats like a drum. I try to trace the missiles, reaching across the distance to decipher their trajectory. It’s too far, but I can guess. I’m Silver. I know how we think.

“Form a shield!” I shout to the Samos magnetrons, pulling upon the metal from our boats and weapons.

Ptolemus follows my lead, knitting together a steel wall as quickly as he can. The whistle of artillery grows closer and I look up, squinting through the haze. With a snap, I rip the goggles off my face to see an arc of smoke looping overhead.

The first missile explodes fifty yards ahead, pulverizing a section of the seawall, turning friend and foe to gray or pink mist in equal measure. Only the oblivions survive, some naked, their armor and uniforms charred right off their bodies. We cower behind our steel, weathering the blast as it pulses forward.

The smoke stings, acrid and poisoned with bone dust.

We won’t survive a direct hit like that. Not with what we have here. We can deflect the missiles as best we can, but it’s only a matter of time before one of them catches us. “Get off the wall,” I force out, tasting blood. “Into the fort.” All to plan.

Get the battleships to open up, pummel their own walls. Keep the heavy fire on the fort, not the city or the Air Fleet.

That’s what Cal said they would do, and somehow the idiots are doing it.

Another round hits, cracking stone, as we grapple down the seawall, our ranks bleeding into Patriot. I look back, counting as quickly as I can. Maybe sixty of us made it in, down from our original strike group of seventy-five souls. Seventy-five deadly Silvers and battle-hardened Reds, their guns lethal and precise.

But their fire is reserved for Silvers. I notice they don’t bother with the soldiers in rusty red uniforms, the many conscripted assigned to the Patriot garrison. Some of those Reds follow their officers, running out to fight our ranks as we push on. Fewer than expected, though. As General Farley assured us, the word went out through her channels. The Reds of the city have been warned. When the assault comes, turn. Run. Or fight with us if you can.

Many do, joining our train of death.

Thunderheads pulse above, turning the sky black. Their lightning is unpredictable, less powerful than Mare’s. But a symbol all the same.

Enemy soldiers look up as we approach, the Silvers eyeing what can only be the work of the lightning girl.

She isn’t here, you idiots, I sneer in my head. Cowards, afraid of a bit of flashing light.

The interior fort is an experiment in chaos. By now Cal will have begun his own assault, marching his battalion up and out of the tunnel system Harbor Bay is built on. It is an old city, well preserved through the ages, with deep and twisting roots. The Scarlet Guard knows them all.

We make it to the central byway of the fort, moving quickly and without pattern. Leading the battleship fire, letting it follow and destroy. Keeping the worst weaponry from the city itself. Cal is so preoccupied with protecting innocents, probably just to show Mare he can. Hanging me out to dry in the process.

I cut through another wave of combatants, using a combination of bullets and blades to level the men and women in front of me. Their faces are shadows to me, inhuman. Unworthy of memory. It’s the only way to do this properly.

The whine and thrum of artillery become a familiar rhythm. I duck for cover as easily as I fight, moving in time with the noise. Smoke and ash swirl with the fog, leaving everyone blind. The Patriot garrison is hopelessly adrift. They don’t have a plan for this kind of attack. We certainly do.

My first burst of fear comes when I realize Ptolemus is no longer at my side, hemmed in by our protective circle of cousins. I glance at each of them, searching familiar faces of pale skin and silver hair. He isn’t here.

“Tolly!” I hear myself scream as another missile blasts, closer this time.

I crouch and brace, letting the concussive wave pass over me. Rubble breaks against my armor, coating my left side with dust. Blinking, I stand before the rest, whirling around. On the hunt. Terror claws up my spine, leaving icy, open wounds.

“PTOLEMUS!”

Whatever focus I had before slips through my grasp and everything splinters. The world spins. Where is my brother, where is he, did we leave him behind, did he push on, is he hurt, is he dying, is he dead— The pop of gunfire snaps too close, a grim reminder. I whirl against our tide of soldiers. One of them knocks into me, her shoulder slamming mine, and I stumble. Gasping, I throw out my senses, reaching with my ability. Trying to locate that disk of copper. That tiny nub of pale orange metal, a different weight, a different feel. I come back empty. Nothing.

I told him we would be safe, even on the front lines of battle. Father would not waste us. Father would not let us go anywhere that might jeopardize his legacy. I suck down a poisoned breath, still scanning the silhouettes around me as the ash falls like summer snow. It coats our uniforms, no matter the color. We all start to look the same.

Even if Father doesn’t love us the way he should, he still values us. He wouldn’t trade our lives like this. Wouldn’t let us die for his crown.

But here we are.

Tears prick my eyes. From the ash, I tell myself. The sting of smoke.

Suddenly the copper rings on the edge of my perception, so small I almost miss it. My neck snaps with force as I turn, hunting for my brother. Without thought, I shove a few soldiers out of my way, vaulting through the swarm of battle. I duck under the arm of an approaching strongarm, tossing a bullet his way as I go. I feel it punch through his neck, a clean through-and-through. He drops behind me, clawing at his open jugular.

Every step brings new shapes into focus. The streets of Fort Patriot, meticulously organized in a grid, are easy to navigate. I hang my closest right, a hound sniffing out a bone.

Above me, walkways connect the various buildings. Soldiers in rusty uniforms charge back and forth, guns at the ready. I raise my forearm, shielding myself from the accompanying volley of gunfire. Red soldiers all, attacking from a safe distance. I let the bullets drop, flattened and useless. No use wasting my energy trying to kill them.

Ptolemus comes into view around the corner, sprinting, blissfully whole. I almost drop in relief. Smoke spirals behind him, evidence of more artillery fire. Missiles whistle overhead again, before exploding with resounding rumbles.

“What were you doing, you idiot?” I shout, skidding to a halt.

“Don’t stop—run!” he screams, catching me under the arm. I’m almost yanked off my feet by the force.

I know better than to argue when my brother is so incredibly terrified. All I can do is get my feet under myself, reorient, and sprint as fast as I can, keeping pace at his side.

“The seawall,” he forces out between pants of exertion.

It isn’t difficult to connect the dots.

I make the terrible mistake of looking back over my shoulder. Through the smoke, the fog, the thunder breaking overhead. To the cracks in the wall as they spread, pieces of stone as they crumble. The wall of water forcing itself up and over and in.

Standing over it, poised on a balcony, is the person controlling it all, her arms wide, her armor so deeply blue it could be black.

Iris Cygnet watches us run.

A swoop of panic nearly roots me to the spot, but Tolly drags me on, his hand wrapped around my bicep in a painfully tight grip. We skid out, back into the main street, chasing after our battalion only to find the lower levels of the fort deserted. Our soldiers are forward, and the rest, the enemies—they are up. Climbing into the buildings, standing on rooftops, clinging to the high ground with their weapons ready. No use trying to get to high ground of our own. All there is now is to get out.

We charge through errant gunfire, coming from all directions. Most we can deflect easily enough. Some I throw back with force but no aim.

I curse through gritted teeth, blaming Cal, blaming Davidson, Farley, my father, even myself. Our plan accounted for nymphs, but not someone as powerful as Iris. I can’t think of anyone else besides a few nymph lords who could be strong enough to loose the ocean on the fort. And none of them would destroy Patriot so willingly. But Iris, a princess of another nation, a woman with no loyalty to Norta? She could rip this place apart and feel nothing. Still call it victory.

The seawall crashes behind us, echoing loudly even at a distance. Followed by the roar of pummeling waves as they break and swell, rushing through the streets, foaming around the buildings and walls of Fort Patriot. I imagine it in my head, a wall like blue fire, consuming everything in its path.

We sprint on, catching up to our battalion. Ptolemus barks at them to run, and they obey. Even the Montfort newbloods. There isn’t time for posturing.

The interior gates of Fort Patriot don’t open onto the city, but onto a long bridge crossing the harbor, connecting the artificial island of the fort to the mainland. Meaning we’ll have to run the half mile on a bridge over water, with enemy nymphs behind us, not to mention a rising ocean. Not exactly a winning combination if your goal is don’t drown.

Our oblivions make quick work of the first set of gates, blowing the massive doors out onto the bridge. Iron reinforcements go flying, splashing violently into the water. I barely hear it over the approaching roar of the flood. Iris must still be standing over it all, triumphant, smiling as she watches us scramble like rats caught in a rainstorm.

We hurry through the gate as the first swell hits, bringing with it a swirl of debris. Splintered wood, floating transports, guns, corpses. I run as fast as my legs will allow, wishing I were strong enough to lift us out of harm’s way. But neither of us has ever mastered the art of magnetron flight. Only Father can truly do that for any real amount of time.

The gravitrons guard our backs, using their abilities to push against the wave. They buy us time, but this swell is small. Barely higher than the arch of the gate.

Then the second wave, the true wave, hits, cresting over the walls themselves, smashing through the stone and concrete protecting the fort. The gravitrons are no use against such force and can only save themselves, flying up and over. At least one gets caught in the spray, tangled up in a swirl of water. He never resurfaces.

I don’t spare him another thought. I can’t.

The bridge is meant to be a defense for the fort, a long choke point to prevent any army from storming Patriot by land. It funnels us through a series of locks and gates, each slowing us down. The oblivions do what they can, leading us through a rhythm of explosions as we tear through one obstacle after another. Ptolemus and I split apart hinges and reinforcements, ripping steel and iron in our desperation.

We pass the halfway point, the city of Harbor Bay rising before our eyes, so close and yet so infinitely far. In a glance, I realize that the still, calm waters on either side of us are rising too. Bulging. Surging. Growing like the crashing wave still hunting after us with the inexorable force of a hurricane. Salty spray blasts across my vision, drenching my face, stinging my eyes. I reach blindly, clinging to the collar of Tolly’s armor. With a roar of frustration, I launch us both, using my ability to drag us up and over the next gate. Our battalion be damned. They’ll follow if they can. And if they can’t, they were bound to be left behind anyway.

How much does this armor weigh? a useless voice wonders in my head. Will I sink before I can shed it? End up at the bottom of the Bay?

Or worse, will I have to watch Ptolemus go into the waves and never come back up?

Water laps at my ankles. My boots slide over the paved bridge and I almost lose my footing. Only Ptolemus keeps me from plunging into the cloying depths, his arm now wrapped around my waist, holding me close. If we drown, we drown together.

I can almost feel Iris’s hunger as her waves pursue. She would love nothing more than to kill us. Kneecap the Rift, one more enemy to her people. Kill us the way our army killed her father.

I refuse to die like this.

But I see no plan, no attack I can make alone. The nymphs controlling the waves will kill us without even showing their faces. Unless we can somehow kill them first.

I need a gravitron.

I need a newblood.

I need Mare and her storms to light these bastards up.

Behind us, the thunder rumbles again, following the flash of random lightning. It isn’t enough.

All we can do is run, and hope that someone else will save us.

Such helplessness makes me sick.

Another wave crashes, from our right this time. Smaller than the tidal force at our backs, but still strong. It breaks Tolly’s grip on me, splitting us apart. My hands grasp at thin air and then stinging water as I fall headfirst, plunging into the port.

Some fire blooms on the surface, explosions. From oblivions or artillery fire, I can’t tell. All I can do is run my hands over myself, shedding armor before it drags me deeper. I try to keep my mental grip on Ptolemus’s copper as it moves, struggling through the water with me. He’s drowning too.

I kick furiously, trying to surface. As I do, another wave hits me head-on, sending me spiraling into the deep again without a single gasp of air.

The salt water stings my eyes and my lungs burn, but I try to swim, try to outrun the nymphs on the surface. The longer I stay down, the more dead I seem. The farther away I can get.

It’s Tolly’s turn to find me.

A fist closes on the scruff of my undershirt, dragging me along. Through the murky water, I see his silhouette alongside mine, his other hand clenching something metallic. Steel, shaped like a large bullet. Smooth. It drags us along, pushed by Tolly’s own ability. Like a motor.

Clenching my teeth, I grab hold. My lungs scream for relief until I can’t stand it any longer, letting loose a stream of bubbles. I gasp reflexively, choking down water.

With a mighty kick and another burst of strength, Tolly angles us to the surface even as my vision spots and darkens. He throws me forward, onto wet and shady sand.

On hands and knees, I sputter and choke, trying to spit up the water as quietly as possible. He thumps a fist on my back.

I can barely think, but I glance around anyway, eager to get my bearings. Even a second off guard could get us killed.

We’re under one of the docks of the Aquarian Port, in about six inches of lapping water. Boats hide us on either side, hemming us in with nothing but rotting seaweed, discarded rope, and barnacles.

Ptolemus looks beyond the dock into the few feet of space allowing us a prime view of the bridge and Fort Patriot beyond. The harbor is a surging cauldron, battered by dueling tides as the ocean itself rises and falls. Some wake crashes toward the shore, rapidly pushing water up to our necks. I sputter, grabbing at the rotted wood above my head, and for a moment I think we might find ourselves drowned onshore. But the water recedes, pulling back out again with unnatural force.

We move with it, clambering to the supports holding up the end of the dock. I only have my knives and bullets now, my armor discarded somewhere at the bottom of the port. Not that I care. I can find metal anywhere I want on land.

Ahead of us, waves assault the bridge again and again, tossing soldiers. Our battalion is a ruin, if not completely destroyed. House Samos will pay in blood today. The assault from the sea has failed.

A jet screams through the clouds, circling the thunderheads dissipating over the fort. Two more give chase, their wings tipped in Laris yellow. As I watch, the hunted plane bursts into flame, shearing apart before crashing into the distant waves. A strong wind tears across the harbor as other Laris jets dot the sky, flying low over the city. The sound of them threatens to rip my head open, but I would cheer them on if I could. The fleet is our real advantage.

Especially with Patriot half underwater.

Most of the fort is flooded, including the jetways. Only the navy ships survived intact, still operational. They turn their guns on the Laris jets as they pass, spitting hot iron. One of the jets falls, a wing obliterated, before two more follow.

“We have to disable the battleships,” I mutter flatly, already exhausted by the prospect.

Tolly looks at me like I’m crazy.

I very well may be.

We sprint the edge of the harbor as fast as we can, moving in and out of a full-blown battle. Cal’s land assault was the biggest of the three planned, utilizing hundreds of soldiers from our entire coalition, not to mention agents of the Scarlet Guard and their contacts already in the city. Trained soldiers grapple alongside thieves and criminals as guerrilla warfare overwhelms Harbor Bay from every gutter and alley. A city of white stone and blue roofs turns black and red, smoke and fire. Calore colors, I think bitterly. But for which brother?

The Nortan Silvers and conscripted Reds find themselves bogged down in the streets, restricted by their own regimented training. Bottlenecked, their numbers neutralized, but still dangerous. Tolly and I risk our lives as we run, re-forming our armor from whatever we can salvage. Rusty bits and all. If I had the time, I would feel disgusted with my own poor work.

Out on the water, maybe a mile out to sea, the Laris jets meet Nortan and Piedmont jets. Cal’s orders again. Keep the worst of their weapons and our own from the city. Even from this distance, I can hear the roar as they dance through the air at blinding speed. Bursts of fire and smoke spread across the aerial battle, sandwiched between the clouds and the horizon. I don’t envy the pilots, especially the ones who must contend with Laris windweavers. It’s difficult enough flying a jet without fighting the wind itself.

Iris must still be near the War Port, protecting the battleships from rough waves. As we approach, I can see that the water around the four massive steel hulls is still and smooth. The rest of the port boils and tosses, throwing back any attempts to take the ships from the mainland. Soon the Lakelander princess will turn the big guns on the jets out at sea, or the city itself. Destroy Harbor Bay the way she broke the fort. Leave nothing but a ruin, useless to either Calore brother.

Bright red slashes across my vision, jumping out onto the road from an alley. I never thought I’d be so relieved to find an armed squadron of Scarlet Guard. Especially one led by General Farley.

Her band of criminals rounds on us, guns raised. Reluctant but quick, I raise my hands, meeting her eyes. “Just us,” I pant, gesturing for Ptolemus to do the same.

She looks between us, eyes ticking like a pendulum. A scale settling on balance. My relief melts in an instant as I realize exactly what she could be weighing.

My brother’s life.

She could try to kill him, kill us, right here, and no one would know. We could just be casualties of the battle. And she would have her revenge.

It’s what I would do, if someone took Tolly from me.

The blond woman’s hand strays, finding the gun at her hip, fastened to a half-empty ammunition belt. She’s been busy. I hold her shivering blue gaze, saying nothing, barely daring to breathe. Trying not to tip her in the wrong direction.

I set my teeth on edge, reaching out with every piece of my exhausted ability I can muster. Grabbing for her gun, her remaining bullets, the knives hidden all over her body. To stop her if she decides to strike.

“Cal’s this way,” she finally says, snapping the string of tension between us. “We need to get those ships out of their hands.” “Of course,” Ptolemus replies, and I almost punch him in the teeth.

Be quiet, I want to hiss.

Instead I step in front of him slightly, shielding his body from her wrath. Farley only twitches, staring at him for another blistering second. “Fall in, soldiers,” she sneers, before turning her back on us.

Soldiers. Not Your Highness, not our titles.

If that’s the worst she’s going to do, I’ll take it gladly.

We do as commanded, sliding into formation with the rest of her band. I don’t recognize any of them, and her Guard are distinguished only by red sashes tied around arms or waists or wrists. The Guard look ragtag, hastily thrown together, their clothes common. They could be servants or laborers, dockworkers, low traders, cooks, drivers. But they share her steely disposition and determination. And they’re armed to the teeth. I wonder how many Silvers kept such wolves in their own houses.

I wonder how many there still are in mine.

Our coalition holds a stretch of the Port Road as it curves around the harbor, looking out on the battleships blocking up the War Port. Behind us are more barracks and military outbuildings, all overtaken. Many of our soldiers take up defensive positions, poking out of windows and doorways, and others form up at the port side, waiting for orders.

Have we won the city?

Cal stalks among his lieutenants and guards, more disheveled than I’ve ever seen him, his hair slick with sweat, the rest of him striped with ash and blood. I can barely discern the armor beneath, shimmering a deep ruby red between the dirty patches. He paces at the edge of the water, harried and frustrated. And careful to keep out of reach of the surging waves.

Calore princes hold no love for water. It makes them uncomfortable.

Right now, Cal looks like he might crawl out of his own skin.

His grandmother watches as he paces, her silks and gowns discarded for a simple uniform with no insignia to mark her rank. Not even her colors. She could be just an old woman who wandered into the wrong crowd, but anyone with eyes knows better. Anabel Lerolan is not to be underestimated. At her side, Julian Jacos keeps silent, his lips pursed together, eyes fixed on the battleships. Waiting to be of some use.

My brother and I shoulder through the fray, entering Cal’s line of vision. His brow rises at the sight of us. He might be as relieved as I am, and just as surprised by the sensation.

“Good to see you standing,” he says, offering us both nods. “What about your battalion?” I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t know. Iris tossed us both into the port while our team was crossing the bridge. We had to swim out or drown.” He watches me as I speak, intent and sharp. Almost accusatory. As if I should feel shame for staying alive when others couldn’t. I push past it. “Did any make it to the city?” “Hard to say. I sent out the word as best I could to regroup here. We’ll see who gets the message and who can get back.” He frowns at his hands, then back at the battleships. Out on the water, they steer clear of their docks, idling instead of heading out to sea. Setting their sights on us. “You’re the only magnetrons we have right now.” No Samos cousins left. None but us.

Next to me, Ptolemus scowls. “We’ll do what we can with the missiles.”

Cal looks back to my brother, his dark hair flicking with the motion. “I’m not wasting either of you catching missiles. We have enough Montfort bombers to destroy what can be destroyed.” He points with a single finger, gesturing to the harbor. “I want you on those ships.” I know we have to stop the battleships, but getting on them? I pale so quickly I can feel it, an icy cold spreading across my cheeks despite the heat of flame and ash and my own sweat.

“I don’t fancy killing myself this late in the day, Calore,” I snap. With a sneer, I angle my chin toward the battleships, safe on the water. “Iris will sink us like stones before we even get close. Even gravitrons—” Cal just hisses to himself, frustrated. “When we win the city, remind me to give every Silver officer a crash course in newblood abilities. Arezzo,” he adds, barking out the strange word over his shoulder.

A woman shoulders forward in reply, her uniform the dark green of Montfort, covered in foreign insignia. “Sir,” she says, ducking her chin.

“Get your teleporters ready,” Cal commands. He seems almost amused, watching as I seethe, angry with him. And with myself for forgetting exactly what kind of army we’re working with. Is there no end to these newblood peculiars? “Prepare to jump to those ships.” “Yes, sir,” she says brusquely. With a wave, she draws forward other Montfort soldiers. Other teleporters, I assume.

I glance at my brother sidelong, to gauge his reaction. Tolly seems more preoccupied with the Red general. He keeps his eyes on her, never wavering. As if she might kill him if he drops his guard. It isn’t entirely an irrational fear.

“And when we’re on board?” I step forward, putting myself toe-to-toe with my wretched betrothed. “You’ll need more than two magnetrons to take apart a battleship. And more than a few minutes. We’re good but we’re not that good.” Jerking, Cal steps back from a particularly exuberant wave, keeping his toes dry. He blinks rapidly, swallowing. “You don’t need to take it apart. I want those ships. I need those ships. Especially because Iris is here.” He licks his lips, a brush of terror flashing in his eyes. “Her mother won’t leave her out to dry.” Ugh. Does he try to make such awful puns?

“If the Lakelander fleet gets here before we have real artillery protecting the harbor, we’re done for,” Cal adds, looking over my head to the water.

I raise a hand, pointing out past the flooded fort to the ocean hazed by smoke and the still-dancing forms of airjets. “You think four ships can hold back a Lakelander armada?” “They’ll have to.”

“Well, they won’t. You know that.”

Only a muscle in his cheek twitches, jumping as he tightens his jaw. You’re going to have to get your hands dirty, Calore. Dirtier than they already are.

I move again, planting myself in his eye line. “You said yourself, the queen of the Lakelands won’t abandon her daughter. So we trade her.” Cal pales like I did, all color draining from his face in shock.

“For the city,” I push on. He must understand. “Ptolemus and I can lock the guns in position, make them fire on her. Pin her down. Keep her cornered. Shouldn’t be difficult for a fire king to subdue her, should it?” Again, nothing. Cal doesn’t even blink, his face stubborn in its stillness. Coward, I sneer in my head. He doesn’t want to face her. The Flame of the North is afraid of a bit of rain.

“When we have Iris, we bargain. Her life for the Bay.”

That snaps his restraint in half. “I don’t do that,” he barks, his voice rough, all edges. In spite of myself, I take a step back, almost cowed by his sudden fury. “I’m not him, Evangeline.” At that, I have to scoff. “Well, he’s winning.”

“I’m not doing it,” he says again, the words shaking with anger. Princes aren’t used to repeating themselves. “I’m not taking hostages.” I’m not giving Maven a reason, you mean, I think to myself, a bitter echo in my head. A reason to take her back. To bend all his resources on one particular person.

He has the unthinkable gall to put a finger in my face. “Get the ships, get the guns. And get Iris out of the Bay. That’s an order.” “I’m not your soldier and I’m not your wife yet, Calore. You don’t get to order me around,” I snarl, feeling as if I could take a bite out of him. “Her mother will drown this city and us if you let her.” He stares at me, furious, his hand trembling. So angry he doesn’t notice when a wave hits his ankles. When he jumps, cursing, I want to laugh in his ridiculous face.

“Her mother will let this city be, if her daughter is able to escape,” a voice pipes up behind him. Granny to the rescue, Calore?

The prince frowns, forehead wrinkling in confusion.

“She’s right,” his uncle says, his voice far softer than Anabel’s.

Cal’s eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline. “Julian?” he asks, almost inaudible.

Jacos just shrugs, crossing his hands over his thin chest. “I have little talent on the battlefield, but that doesn’t make me talentless. It’s a good plan, Cal. Drive Iris out to sea.” Then his eyes fall on me. “Get to a ship, Evangeline,” he says slowly, his voice empty of his ability.

I realize the threat all the same. I have no choice in this, not with the loaded gun of a singer staring me down. I do this of my own volition or I do it of his.

“Fine.”

For all his shortcomings, Cal certainly is noble to a fault. Usually it makes me hate him all the more. Except now. As he pledged before in Montfort, he won’t let anyone fight for him unless he’s fighting for himself. He won’t make anyone do what he isn’t willing to do with them. So when the teleporters gather, hands outstretched, he is next to me, armed and ready to storm a battleship.

“The first time isn’t pleasant,” my teleporter says to me, his face grim and lined with age. A veteran of many battles.

I can only grit my teeth at him and take his hand.

It feels like being squeezed down to my marrow, all my organs twisting, my balance thrown off, my perception turned on its head. I try to gasp and find I can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t think, can’t exist—until it disappears, as fast as it came. I gulp down air, knees to the steel-plated deck of a battleship, while the teleporter stands over me. He reaches to cover my mouth but I swat him away, shooting him a murderous glare at the same time.

We’re behind the forward gun turret, crouched alongside cold steel and smooth, cylindrical gun barrels. They’re red hot and still smoking from their barrage on the fort, and now trained on the city. My ability rushes their length, feeling out the rivets and bolts, jumping from one barrel to another, into the powder magazine—almost full—and the artillery shells waiting—more than a dozen ready. I assume the same for the two other turrets fore and aft, dotting the length of the ship.

“There’s enough ammunition to turn Harbor Bay to ash,” I mutter, if only to myself.

The teleporter responds only with a fuming glare. He reminds me of my father. Flint-eyed, focused.

I do as I must. With a grimace, I put my hands to the turret and pull.

It strains against me, already locked and aimed elsewhere. But once I get the gears moving in their track, it goes easily, shifting at my touch. Turning, facing another target.

Iris’s own battleship.

She paces the deck of the boat farthest out to sea, a silhouette in dark blue. Her own Lakelanders flank her, their uniforms easy to pick out. Farther down the ship, at the prow, a figure in red blinks into existence, a teleporter and his own soldiers at his back.

“Almost,” I hiss, sliding the turret into place, its barrels now aimed at Iris’s broadside. With a clenching fist, I fuse the steel and iron plate together, locking the turret into position. No one but a magnetron, or someone with a blowtorch, could aim this gun now. “Next gun.” With another sickening jump, we land alongside the second turret. I do the same again, shifting the guns. This time, a pair of Red conscripts find us. They rush at me, but the teleporter grabs them both and disappears. He flashes at the corner of my eye, out over the water. Both Reds plummet into the Bay. The teleporter returns before I hear their splashes.

The third turret fights worse than the others, straining against my ability, refusing to move as smoothly as the others. “They figured us out,” I growl, breaking a sweat. “The gunner is trying to keep the turret in place.” “Are you a magnetron or not?” the teleporter sneers at me.

I hope Ptolemus got someone less mouthy, I think, wincing. With a burst of force, I get the turret turning, and I crush it into position with more fervor than necessary. The base crumples inward, stuck on its track.

“It’s done. Give the signal.”

It’s easier to trip the gun mechanism than I thought it would be. Like pulling a gigantic trigger.

The resulting boom of a single artillery shell sends me sideways, clutching my ears. Everything rings and dulls in succession. I fight to my feet, watching as the round hits home, exploding on the deck of Iris’s battleship.

Fire races its length, a vicious snake coiling with hissing fury. Larger than a blow from a single shell. A few soldiers jump into the Bay to escape its wrath.

Cal’s wrath.

The Lakelanders are less deterred, drawing an arcing wave up and over the ship. Letting it crash and consume, dousing the fire.

Only for another shell to hit them dead-on, this time from Ptolemus’s ship on their opposite side. I can’t help but grin, almost cheering him on.

Again Cal runs flame across the battleship. More flee, more jump. Another wave. Another shell. Another flame. The rhythm pulls back and forth.

My teleporter jumps us between the turrets, and each time we find more soldiers to fight off. Reds, mostly. Silvers don’t work ships in great numbers, only as officers. They’re easy to deflect, between my ability and the Montfortan’s.

If I could, I would have him jump me to Cal. He doesn’t have the stomach to kill Iris, but I certainly do. The Lakelands are already furious with us after their king’s death. It won’t matter if she dies too. In fact, it might send them scurrying back to their lakes and farms, to rethink standing against the might of Samos and Calore.

But my job is to man the guns. Hold the ship.

With Cal battling Iris, her attention is off the Bay, and our soldiers begin the crossing. During our third pass down the ship, more teleporters jump onto the deck, bringing with them six soldiers each. And more soldiers arrive in the boats below, fast on the approach.

I squint at the far battleship, watching as I land another round. This one hits hard, punching a smoking hole in the hull a few yards above the waterline. On deck, the sight is terrifying. The clouds darken overhead, thick with lightning. Fire and water collide over the battleship, inferno and tidal wave. The ship tips with the force of such a battle, one royal Silver against another. Warriors equally matched and unevenly set.

For the first time in my life, I truly wonder what will happen if Tiberias Calore dies.

I think Iris is going to kill him.