فصل سی و دوم

Thirty-Two: Evangeline

It’s been at least two weeks since Barrow left, a week since my betrothed was crowned king, and a few days since I saw Elane last. I can still feel her, though, her pale skin smooth and cool beneath my fingers. But she is far, far beyond my reach. Dispatched back to the Ridge, away from the danger.

Cal would have let me keep her here, if my father had allowed it. In spite of everything, an understanding is falling into place between us. Funny, I used to dream of such a thing. A king who left me to my own devices and my own crown. Now it’s the best I can hope for, and a prison all the same. It traps us both, locking us away from the ones we care about most. He can’t bring back Mare, and I won’t bring Elane back. Not with the Lakelander queens on the horizon and an invasion imminent. I won’t risk her life for a few days of my own comfort.

My new rooms in Whitefire Palace are meant for the queen, and they still echo with the presence of Iris Cygnet. Everything is blue, blue, blue, from the curtains to the plush carpets, even down to the flowers wilting in an obscene amount of crystal vases. With fewer servants, the process of clearing the rooms is slow going. I end up ripping down most of the curtains myself. They’re still in the salon outside my bedroom, collecting dust in a pile of cobalt-blue silk.

The long balcony overlooking the river is the only respite from her, the distant princess who will return to kill us all. And even here, standing with my face to the sun, I can’t escape the thought of the Cygnet nymph. The Capital River courses below, splitting the city of Archeon in two as it winds toward the sea. I try to ignore the rush of water, calm as it is. I focus on braiding my hair instead, pulling the silver strands back from my face. The simple act is a good distraction. The tighter the braids, the more severe, the more determined I feel.

I plan to train a little this morning, go through the motions. Run the barracks track, maybe spar with Ptolemus if he wants. I find myself wishing Barrow were here. She’s a good workout and a good challenge. And easier to deal with than my mother.

I’m surprised she hasn’t breezed in yet, as she often does these days. Trying to prod me toward more queenly activities, as she puts it. But I don’t have the stomach to charm or intimidate nobles today, especially for her benefit. My parents want me to sway more Silvers, earn the loyalty they pledged to Cal. To pull allies away from him, like saving rats from a sinking ship.

Mother and Father want me to be his queen the way Iris was Maven’s. A snake in his bed, a wolf at his side. Gathering strength and waiting for an opportunity to strike. Even though I do not care for Cal, and never could, somehow it feels wrong.

But if Anabel and Julian play out their scheme . . .

I have no idea where that leaves me.

Suspended on a bridge, trapped in the middle, with both ends on fire.

The Bridge.

My hands drop, leaving half my hair undone, and I squint at the massive structure spanning the river. The other side of Archeon gleams beneath the rising sun, its many buildings crowned with steel and bronze birds of prey. Nothing seems amiss. It’s still busy with transports and a roving populace. So is the Bridge, all three levels of it bustling with traffic. Less than usual, but that’s to be expected.

It’s the supports below that worry me, and the water breaking around them. Still steady, moving at the same speed. But the current, the wash of white breakwater at each base . . .

The river is flowing the wrong way.

And it’s rising.

I fly through my bedchamber and the adjoining rooms, seeing nothing until I reach Ptolemus’s quarters. The locked door unlatches without a thought, blowing back on twisted hinges as I sprint through. I barely hear myself shout his name. The buzzing in my head is far too loud, overwhelming everything but the cold, acid rush of adrenaline.

He stumbles out into the sitting room toward me, half dressed. I catch a glimpse of rumpled bedsheets through the door behind him, as well as a blue-black arm. It moves, pulling out of sight, as Wren Skonos busies herself with her clothes.

“What is it?” my brother asks, his eyes wide with panic.

I want to run; I want to scream; I want to fight.

“The invasion.”

“How could they do this? Move their army without us knowing?”

Ptolemus dogs at my heels, barely keeping pace as we stalk through the palace halls. Galleries, salons, receiving chambers, and even ballrooms blur at the edge of my vision. In a few hours it could all be destroyed. Burned or drowned or simply erased. For a moment, I see my brother’s corpse, broken and sprawled across the intricate marble floor, his blood like a mirror. I blink, fighting off the thought. Bile rises in my mouth anyway.

I glance back at him—alive and breathing, towering in his armor—if only to convince myself he’s still here. Wren follows, her healer’s uniform clearly marked. I hope they stay together over the next few hours. I would tie her to him if I could.

“We had eyes on their citadels,” I mutter, speaking to keep myself focused. “We knew the Lakelands were gathering for something, but not when.” Wren’s voice is slow and steady, but not soothing. “They must have gone north. Moved overland.” “Without the Scarlet Guard, we don’t have many eyes left in the Lakelands,” Ptolemus curses as we round another corner, angling for the throne room.

Our parents haven’t found us yet, and that can only mean they’re with the king and his advisers. They must already know.

Lerolan guards open the doors for us, putting their lethal hands to the tall, lacquered panels. We march past together, the three of us keeping a tight formation on the off chance the Lakelanders have already infiltrated the city. My ability buzzes, flung wide to catch any errant bullets. I count the rounds in the guards’ guns, letting them hang at the edge of my perception as we cross the floor.

At the raised platform containing Cal’s throne, as well as the seats for his uncle and grandmother, the royals collect. Mother and Father are here, with the latter armored as usual. Sunlight flashes off him with every small movement, and he is almost blinding to look at. Mother is more subdued, without armor but not without weapons. Larentia Viper has abandoned her beloved panther for now, despite its prowess as a hunter. Instead she has two shaggy wolves sitting at her heels, their eyes, ears, and snouts all twitching. Both are fearsome to behold, but just as skilled at detection as they are at fighting. No one will catch my mother unawares with them at her disposal.

Julian Jacos and Queen Anabel flank Cal. She is more prepared for battle than the singer uncle, her small, thick form belted into a flame-orange uniform, sculpted by snug body armor. Her hands are bare, even of her wedding ring. Julian is not so protected. His eyes are ringed by dark shadows, hinting at a night with no sleep. He remains close to his nephew, standing only a few inches away. I’m not sure who is more protective of who.

The king of Norta himself has burnished red-and-silver armor, not to mention a gun on one hip and a gleaming sword buckled to the other. No cloak or cape drapes across his shoulders. It would only get in the way. Cal is barely a man, but he seems to have aged overnight. And not from the impending battle. He is no stranger to war or bloodshed. Something else hangs on his heart, something even an invasion can’t distract from. He raises his shadowed face, watching me as I approach.

“How long do we have?” I ask aloud, not bothering with pleasantries.

Cal is quick to answer. “The Air Fleet is on the wing,” he says, casting his gaze to the south. “There’s a storm out to sea, moving too quickly. I’d wager there’s a Lakelander armada inside it.” It’s a tactic we used ourselves in the battle of Harbor Bay, but in far fewer numbers and with much less strength. I shudder to think of what a nymph-born assault might look like with the queen of the Lakelands herself leading the charge. As before, I picture myself swathed in my steel, sinking quickly through deep and dark water, never to surface again.

I try not to let that fear bleed into my voice. “Their objective?” It’s the best way to fight, and fight back. Identify what your opponent is trying to do, and calculate how best to stop them.

Behind Cal, his uncle shifts uncomfortably. He lowers his eyes, touching his nephew on the shoulder. “That would be you, my boy. They get to you, and all this is finished before we have even begun.” My father remains silent, weighing the outcomes. What it means for him if Cal is captured or dies. We still aren’t married. The Kingdom of the Rift is not so irrevocably tied to Norta, just as we weren’t tied to Maven. The last time enemy forces attacked Archeon, House Samos was prepared, and we fled. Will he do the same again?

I grit my teeth, already feeling a headache form on top of everything else.

“Maven’s escape train is still in use,” Julian continues. In reply, Cal shifts smoothly out of his grasp. “We can get you out of the city, at least.” The young king pales, his skin turning the color of old bone. The suggestion makes him sick. “And surrender the capital?” Julian responds quickly. “Of course not. We’ll defend her, and you’ll be well out of danger, far beyond their grasp.” Cal’s retort is just as quick, and twice as resolute. Not to mention predictable. “I’m not running.” His uncle doesn’t seem surprised. Still, he tries to argue valiantly. And in vain. “Cal—” “I’m not going to let others fight while I hide.”

The old queen is more forceful, seizing him by the wrist. I despair of this family bickering but have little recourse. Even as the clock ticks against us. “You’re not a prince anymore, or a general,” Anabel pleads. “You are the king, and your well-being is integral to—” As with his uncle, Cal gently extricates himself from her grip, peeling off her fingers and removing her hand. His eyes smolder and burn. “If I abandon this city, I abandon any hope of ever being a king. Don’t let your fear blind you to that.” Sick of this nonsense, I cluck my tongue and say the obvious, if only to save precious time. “The remaining High Houses will never swear to a king who flees.” I lift my chin, utilizing all my court training to project the image of strength I need. “And the ones who have will never respect him.” “Thank you,” Cal says slowly.

I point one finger at the windows, toward the cliffs. “The river has changed course, and it’s rising. High enough to allow their largest ships to come this far upriver.” Cal nods, grateful for the return to the subject. He shifts, putting some distance between himself and his relatives. Crossing to my side.

“They intend to split the city in two,” he says, looking between my still-silent father and his own grandmother. “I’ve already given orders to even the guards on either side of the city, and supplement with the soldiers still in our service.” Ptolemus wrinkles his nose. “Wouldn’t it be better to gather our strength, fortify the Square and the palace? Keep our ourselves united?” My brother is a warrior as much as Cal is, but no strategist. He is all brutal strength. And Cal is quick to point out his error.

“The Cygnet queens will feel out which side is weakest,” he says. “If both sides are balanced, they won’t find a weaker side to prey on. And we can pin them in the river.” “Concentrate the Air Fleet over the city.” It isn’t a suggestion, but an order. And no one shoots me down. Despite our impending doom, I feel a surge of pride. “Use their weapons on the ships. If we can sink one downriver, we’ll slow their pace.” A dark grin plays on my lips. “Even nymphs can’t keep a ship full of holes afloat.” There is no joy in Tiberias Calore when he speaks next, his eyes flickering with some inner torment. “Turn the river into a graveyard.” A graveyard for both kinds of blood, Silver and Red. Lakelanders, soldiers of Piedmont. Enemies. That’s all they are. Faceless, nameless. Sent to kill us. It’s an easy equation to balance, with the people I love on one side. Still, my stomach turns a little, though I’ll never admit it to anyone. Not even Elane. What color will the river be when all this is over?

“We’ll be outnumbered on the ground.” Cal begins to pace, his words taking on a manic quality. He’s almost talking to himself, puzzling out a battle plan before our eyes. “And whatever their storms cook up will keep most of the Air Fleet busy.” My father still hasn’t spoken a word.

“They’ll have Red soldiers among the Silvers,” Julian says. He sounds almost apologetic. Again my stomach churns, and Cal seems to feel the same trepidation. He falters a little in his steps.

Anabel merely scoffs. “That’s one advantage, at least. Their numbers are more vulnerable. And less dangerous.” The rift between Cal’s closest advisers yawns like a canyon. Julian almost sneers at her, his usually calm manner fading a little. “That’s not what I meant.” More vulnerable. Less dangerous. Anabel isn’t wrong, but not for the reason she thinks. “The Lakelands haven’t eased their treatment of Reds,” I say. “Norta has.” The withered stare from the old queen is a thing of lethal beauty. “So?”

I speak slowly, like I’m explaining battle theory to a child. It rankles her delightfully. “So the Lakelander Reds might be less willing to fight. They might even want to surrender to a country where they’ll be given better treatment.” Her eyes narrow. “As if we can rely on that.”

I shrug with a practiced smirk, raising the steel pauldrons on both shoulders. “They did in Harbor Bay. It’s worth keeping in mind.” The bug-eyed looks of the Silvers around me are not difficult to interpret. Even Ptolemus is perplexed by what I’m saying. Only Cal and Julian seem open to the idea, their expressions measured but oddly thoughtful. My gaze lingers on Cal, and he meets my eyes firmly, inclining his head in a small, almost invisible nod.

He licks his lips, vaulting into another round of planning. “We don’t have any newblood teleporters, but if we can somehow get you two”—he gestures to Ptolemus and me—“onto the battleships again, neutralize their guns—” “My children will do no such thing.”

Volo’s voice is low but resounding, almost vibrating on the air. I feel it in my chest, and suddenly I’m a little girl again, cowering before a commanding father. Willing to do whatever I must to keep him happy, to win a rare smile or show of affection, however small.

Don’t, Evangeline. Don’t let him do that.

My fist clenches at my side, nails digging into the flesh of my palm. It grounds me somehow. The sharp pain brings me back to who I am, and the cliff we all stand upon.

Cal glares openly at my father, the two of them locked in a silent battle of wills. Mother remains quiet, one hand resting on the head of a wolf. Its yellow eyes stare up at the young king, never wavering from his face.

My parents don’t intend to fight at all, or let us do it either. In Harbor Bay, they were willing to send us into the fighting. Risk us both. For victory.

They think this battle is already lost.

They’re going to run.

Father speaks again, breaking the tense silence. “My own soldiers and guards, my surviving cousins of House Samos, are yours, Tiberias. But my heirs are not yours to gamble with.” Cal grits his teeth. He plants his hands on his hips, thumbs drumming. “And what about you, King Volo? Will you sit back as well?” I blink, stunned. He all but called the king of the Rift a coward. A shudder runs through my mother’s wolf, mirroring her anger.

My father has his own schemes already working. He must. Or else he wouldn’t let the slight pass so easily. With a wave of his hand, he brushes off the accusation. “I don’t have to buy loyalty with my own blood,” he says simply, jabbing back. “We’ll be here, defending the Square. If the Lakelanders strike the palace, they’ll find quite the opposition.” Cal grinds his teeth, gnashing them together. A habit he’ll have to break if he ever hopes to hold a throne. Kings shouldn’t be so easily read.

His uncle looms close at his shoulder, his own watery eyes alight as he stares.

At Father.

Almost smiling, Julian opens his mouth, lips parting to draw in a long, threatening breath. I expect my father to drop his gaze. Break eye contact. Take away the singer’s weapon. But then that would be an admission of fear. He would never do that, even to protect his own mind.

It’s a standoff.

“Is that wise, Jacos?” my mother purrs, and the wolves at her knees growl in response.

Julian merely smiles. The sharp thread of tension snaps. “I don’t know what you mean, Your Majesty,” he says, his voice blissfully normal. No haunting melody, no aura of power. “But Cal, if I can get to the Lakelander queen, I could be of some use,” he adds softly. Not for some part of the pageantry. It isn’t an act to send a message. It’s an actual proposition.

True pain cross Cal’s face. He turns, forgetting my parents.

“That’s little more than suicide, Julian,” he hisses. “You won’t even get close to her.” The old singer just raises an eyebrow. “And if do? I could end this.”

“Nothing will end.” Cal slices a hand in dismissal, and I swear I can almost hear the air singe. His eyes are wide, desperate, all masks of propriety sliding away. “You can’t sing both Cenra and Iris out of this war. Even if you manage to make them both drown themselves, or turn their entire army around, they’ll just come back. Another Cygnet waits in the Lakelands.” “It could buy us valuable time.”

The uncle isn’t wrong, but Cal won’t hear of it. “And it will lose us a valuable person.” Julian lowers his eyes, stepping back. “Very well.”

“This is all very touching,” I can’t help but mutter.

My dear brother mirrors my sentiment. I’m surprised his eyes don’t roll out of his head. “That aside, do we know what we’re going to be facing out there?” Our mother scoffs in reply. Like Father, she thinks this battle is already hopeless. The city already lost. “Besides the full might of the Lakelands? Red legions with all the Silvers they can muster, not to mention powerful nymphs with a river to wield?” “And perhaps some might of Norta too.” I tap a finger against my lip. I’m not the only one who thinks this. I can’t be. It’s too obvious. Judging by the flushes on the faces around me, the others realize what I’m saying, and they’ve had the same suspicions. “The High Houses missing from your coronation. None have come to pledge loyalty. None have responded to your commands.” Cal’s throat bobs. A silver blush blooms high on his cheeks. “Not while Maven lives. They still kneel to another king.” “They knelt to another queen,” I muse.

His face falls, dark brows pulling together. “You think Iris has Nortans on her side?” “I think she’d be stupid not to try.” I shrug my shoulders. “And Iris Cygnet is anything but stupid.” The implication hangs over us, thick as a fog, and just as difficult to ignore. Even Father seems unsettled by the possibility of another split within the Nortan kingdom, cleaving apart a land he one day hopes to control.

Anabel shifts, uneasy down to her toes. She runs a hand across the tight pull of her gray hair, smoothing down an already severe style. The old woman mutters under her breath.

“I didn’t think it was possible, but I think I miss those grubby Reds.”

“A bit late for that,” Cal snarls, his voice like furious thunder.

My father’s lip twitches, the closest he’s ever come to flinching.

Of course, there are plans in place. Tactics and strategies for defending the capital against an invasion. After a century of war with the Lakelanders, it would be foolish to think otherwise. But whatever the Calore kings cooked up to fight the Cygnet nymphs relied on things that no longer exist. A Nortan army at full strength. A country united. Tech towns operating at full capacity, churning out electricity and ammunition. Cal can’t count on any of it.

The barracks and military facilities adjoining the Square are the safest place outside the spiraling vaults of the Treasury, but I don’t fancy burying myself belowground with only a rickety train to rely on. My parents take up refuge in the nerve center of War Command, overseeing the many reports flooding in from the circling Air Fleet. I suspect King Volo enjoys standing in a place of such power, especially while Cal is readying himself to lead a battalion into the fray.

I’m less inclined to stare at printouts and grainy footage, watching battle from afar. I’d rather trust my own eyes. And I can’t be close to my parents right now. Somehow the approaching army, the ships hidden on a cloudy horizon, make my choices very clear.

Ptolemus sits with me, perched on the steps of War Command. His armor ripples slightly, still taking shape across the planes of his muscles. Trying to find the perfect fit. He inclines his head skyward, eyes roving over the gathering gray clouds overhead. They thicken with every passing minute. Wren is close by too, hovering at his shoulder, her hands bare and ready to heal.

“It’s going to rain,” he says with a sniff. “Any second now.”

Wren looks past us, toward the Bridge of Archeon on the far side of the Square gates. Its many arches and supports seem faded, as the oncoming mist bleeds into the city. “I wonder how high the river is now,” she murmurs.

I reach out with my ability, trying to distinguish the armada rapidly closing the miles. But the ships are still too far out. Or I’m too distracted.

Father is going to run again. House Samos will run. Leave Norta to crumble, with only the Rift remaining, an island against the lapping Cygnet sea.

Eventually we’ll be overrun too.

Queen Cenra has no sons. No one to sell me to. Volo Samos has no more bargains left to make. He’ll have to surrender.

And die at her hands, probably. The way Salin did.

If he even survives today.

So where does that leave me?

If my father faces defeat as much as my betrothed does?

I think . . . it leaves me free.

“Tolly, do you love me?”

Both Wren and my brother snap to attention, their faces whirling to mine. Ptolemus almost sputters, his lips flapping with surprise. “Of course,” he says, almost too quickly to be understood. His silver brows furrow, and something like anger crosses his features. “How can you even ask that?” Just the simple question offends him, wounds him. It would do the same to me.

I take his hand, squeezing tight. Feeling the bones in the newly grown appendage he lost some months ago. “I sent Elane away from the Ridge. When you get home, she won’t be there.” Red hair, a mountain breeze. It seems like a dream. Could it be real? Is this my chance?

“Eve, what are you talking about? Where—”

“I’m not going to tell you, so you won’t have to lie.”

Slowly, I force myself to stand on oddly shaking limbs. A baby learning to walk, taking steps for the first time. I quiver all over, toes to fingertips.

Ptolemus jumps up with me, bending so we’re eye to eye, inches away from each other. His hands are tight on my shoulders, but not enough to keep me in place if I choose to move.

“I’m going inside. I need to ask him a question,” I murmur. “But I think I already know the answer.” “Eve—”

I look into his eyes, the same eyes as mine. As our father’s. I would ask for his help, but splitting him apart like that, asking him to choose a side? I love my brother, and he loves me, but he loves our parents too. He is a better heir than I ever was.

“Don’t follow me.”

Still trembling, I pull him into a crushing hug. He returns the gesture reflexively, but he stumbles over his words, unable to understand what I’m saying.

I don’t look back for what could be my last glimpse of my brother’s face. It’s too difficult. He could die today, or tomorrow, or a month from now, when the Cygnet queens storm my home to lay my family bare. I want to remember his smile, not a confused frown.

War Command is a mess, a study in chaos. Silver officers buzz through passages and chambers, calling out developments and army movements. The Lakelander boats, the Piedmont airjets. It all passes in a blur.

My parents are easy to find. My mother’s wolves guard the door to one of the communications chambers, flanking each side with bright, keen eyes. The beasts turn to me in unison, neither hostile nor friendly as I pass.

Static-filled screens fill the command room with a crackling glow of shifting light. Only a few are still operational. Not a good sign. The Air Fleet must be well into the storm. If it even still exists.

Volo and Larentia stand firm, mirror images of each other. Postures violently straight, unblinking as they take in such dire circumstances. On one of the screens, the first armada ship takes shape, a hulking shadow obscured by mist. Others slowly come into focus. At least a dozen, and still more.

I’ve seen this room before, but never so empty. A skeleton crew of Silver officers mans the screens and radios, trying to keep up with the flood of information. Runners bustle in and out, taking the newest items with them. Probably to Cal, wherever he is now.

“Father?” I sound like a child.

And he dismisses me like one. “Evangeline, not now.”

“What happens when we go home?”

With a sneer, he looks over his shoulder. Father cut his hair shorter than usual, cropping the silver close to his scalp. It gives him a skullish look. “When this war is won.” I let him parrot the lie, feeling myself tighten as he spouts nonsense. You’ll be queen. Peace will reign. Life will return to what it was. Lies, all of it.

“What happens to me? What plans do you have in store?” I ask, remaining in the doorway. I’ll have to be quick. “Who will you make me become next?” Both of them know what I’m asking, but neither can answer. Not with Nortan officers close by, few as they may be. They must maintain the illusion of this alliance until the last second.

“If you’re going to run, so will I,” I murmur.

The king of the Rift clenches a fist, and the metal throughout the room responds in kind. A few screens crack, their casings twisted by his rage. “We’re not going anywhere, Evangeline,” he lies.

Mother tries another tactic, closing the distance between us. Her dark, angled eyes go wide and pleading. Imitating a puppy or a cub. She puts a hand to my face, ever the image of the doting mother. “We need you,” she whispers. “Our family needs you, your brother—” I step out of her grasp, toward the hallway again. Luring them both with me. Two rights, out the front, into the Square— “Let me go.”

Father shoulders past my mother, almost knocking her out of the way so he can stand over me. The chromium armor gleams harshly in the fluorescent light.

He knows what I’m saying, what I’m really asking for.

“I will not,” he hisses. “You are mine, Evangeline. My own daughter. You belong with us. You have a duty to us.” Another step backward. At the door, the wolves rise to their feet.

“I don’t.”

Like a shadow, like a giant, Father moves with me, matching my steps. “What are you, if not a Samos?” he snarls. “Nothing.” I knew this would be his answer, and the last thread, already thin and fraying, snaps apart. In spite of myself, tears bite at the corners of my eyes. If they fall, I don’t know. I feel nothing but the burn of my own anger.

“You don’t need me anymore. Not for power, not for greed,” I spit back in his face. “And you still won’t let me go free.” He blinks, and for a brief second the rage in him dissipates. The trick almost works. He’s my father, and I can’t help but love him. Even though he treats me this way. Even though he wants to use that love to keep me locked up, a prisoner to my own blood.

I was raised to value family above all else. Loyalty to your own.

And that’s who Elane is. My family, my own.

“I’m done asking for your permission,” I whisper, clenching a fist.

The lights overhead rip free, smashing down, a crashing blow that takes even my father off guard. A rush of silver blood gushes from cuts on his head as he stumbles, dazed. But not dead. Not even incapacitated. I can’t find the stomach for that.

I’ve never run so fast, never sprinted like this in all my life, not even in battle. Because I’ve never been so afraid.

The wolves are faster than me. They snarl at my heels, trying to trip me. I strike at them with the metal on my arms, drawing armor into knives. One howls, whimpering when I cut a ruby-red wound across its belly. The other is stronger, bigger, leaping to knock me over.

I try to dodge, and end up falling flat on my back, with a wolf lunging for my throat. It lands hard, almost two hundred pounds of muscle crashing into my chest. I gasp, feeling the air rush from my lungs.

Teeth clamp around my neck, but they don’t bite down. The points dig in, enough to bruise. Enough to pin me in place.

Overhead, all around, the lights quiver in their metal holdings, and hinges shudder on doors.

I can’t move, can barely breathe.

I made it ten whole yards.

“Don’t lift a finger,” my mother crows, stepping into my very limited line of vision. Above me, the wolf trembles, yellow eyes boring into mine.

My father shudders at her side, a storm cloud of rage. He keeps one hand to his head, stemming the flow of blood. His eyes are worse than the wolf’s.

“You stupid girl,” he breathes. “After all we’ve done for you. All we made you.” “But for one flaw,” my mother replies. She tsks, clucking her tongue over me. Like I’m one of her prize animals, bred for her personal use. I suppose that’s not incorrect. “One deep, unnatural flaw.” I try to gasp against the wolf’s grip, if only to choke back a sob. My stomach coils and churns. Let me go, I want to beg.

But he never will. He doesn’t know how.

And perhaps that’s the fault of his own father, and his father before.

I don’t know why, but I think of Mare Barrow. Of her parents, holding her close, saying good-bye as we left Montfort. They are nothing, insignificant people, of no great beauty, intellect, or power. I envy them so deeply it makes me sick.

“Please,” I manage to force out.

The wolf holds firm.

Father takes a step closer, his fingers painted in liquid silver. With a flick of his hand, he sprays me with his blood. With what I did.

“I’ll drag you back to the Rift myself.”

I don’t doubt it.

I stare up at him, struggling to breathe, fingers scrabbling over the floor. Even my own armor betrays me, melting off my body under his command. Leaving me bare and without weapons. Vulnerable. A prisoner still and always.

Then my father flies away from me, crashing backward, his face pulled into unfamiliar surprise. He’s being dragged by the chromium painted up and down his body. He slams into the nearest wall, head cracking backward. My mother screams as he slumps forward, eyes rolling in his skull.

The wolf above me meets a different fate.

A blade cuts through its neck, and the severed head flies, landing with a sick squelch a few feet away. A hot spray of fresh, scarlet blood coats my face.

I don’t flinch. A familiar, cool hand closes around my wrist, giving me a tug.

“You trained us too well,” Ptolemus says, helping me to my feet.

We run together, and this time, I look back.

Mother bends over Father, her hands running over him. He tries to rise, but the blow makes him stagger. He’s still alive.

“Good-bye, Evangeline,” another man says.

Julian Jacos steps out from an adjoining corridor, and Anabel is with him, her fingers drumming together. She doesn’t spare a glance for me as she approaches, hands raised. Such lethal power in so small a woman.

“Run away, Larentia.” I fight the urge to cover my ears, even though Julian’s melodic voice is not directed at me. Still, the singer’s power shudders on the air, palpable as a sugary taste. “Forget your children.” Her footsteps are quick and scurrying, like one of her spying rats.

“Larentia!” my father gurgles, barely able to speak in his dazed state.

But he can certainly scream.

I leave him to Anabel and Julian. To whatever fate they have in store for the king of the Rift.

Outside, the fog has truly fallen, coating the Square in a gray haze too thick to be born of nature. Wren stands silhouetted, waiting for us, her trim form a sharp outline against the other shadows slouching into formation. Cal’s forces, maybe even an entire legion, judging by the many shapes.

At the sight of us, Wren waves a hand. “This way,” she calls, before turning to the fog and the soldiers.

Something weighs at the edge of my perception, heavy enough to register even from a great distance. The Lakelander ships. They have to be. Overhead, unseen, jets scream back and forth. Somewhere, missiles whine and bloom, spouting bursts of flame where the armada must be. I feel trapped by the fog, blinded. All I can do is focus on Wren and Ptolemus, staying close enough to their silhouettes as we barrel through the legions marching into place. A few soldiers stare as we pass, but none try to stop us. And soon War Command fades into the distance, swallowed by the fog.

We angle across the Square, making for the Treasury. A strange, familiar feeling comes over me as I remember Maven’s wedding. The Square was a battleground then as well, and he fled for his train, his precious escape. I never liked the contraption, but I push aside any discomfort. It’s the fastest way out. The safest. We’ll be far beyond the city before the battle is even finished.

And then . . .

I don’t have the time or energy to follow that thought.

Rain follows the fog, slamming down with a sudden hiss. I’m soaked in seconds, and the deluge turns the Square slick, forcing us to slow our pace or risk broken ankles. Down in the river, a boom like a drum sounds, rhythmic and shuddering. It shakes the ground beneath my feet.

The ships are firing on the city, their heavy rounds peppering both East and West Archeon.

I reach for Ptolemus, my fingers sliding over his wet armor as I try to find some grip on him. The rest of me braces for the inevitable impact as the Lakelander fire reaches this part of the city.

My instincts aren’t wrong.

The first missile howls over the Square gates, barely visible as it arcs in and out of the fog cover. I don’t see where it lands, but judging by the concussive blast behind us, I’d guess Whitefire just suffered a direct hit. The force knocks a few soldiers off their feet and sends us scrambling. Ptolemus and I ground ourselves in our armor, and Tolly catches Wren before she falls, holding her tightly.

“Keep moving!” I shout over the shriek of another round, this one exploding somewhere near War Command.

Someone else is shouting too, barking barely audible orders over the din. A streak of flame accompanies his voice, whirling through the fog near the head of the gathered legion. Whatever stirring speech Cal cooked up will be of little use now. It’s too loud, too wet, and his soldiers are too distracted by the armada currently choking the river. Still, they begin to march, lurching forward to follow whatever his orders might be. Probably to line the cliffs. Concentrate their attack on the river below.

We’re suddenly caught in their motion.

The legion surges like a tide, carrying us with them. I try to shove against the uniformed bodies, searching the Silver faces for Ptolemus and Wren. Still close, but the distance between us is steadily growing. I feel for the copper in my brother’s belt, holding on to the sensation of the metal.

“Move,” I snarl, trying to tear my way through the crowd. Using my armor to propel me, using Ptolemus’s as a beacon. “Move!” The next blow is closer, dead on target, dropping out of the sky like a hammer. A shell, not a missile. Smaller, unguided, but still deadly. In unison, separated though we are, Ptolemus and I raise our hands, throwing out our ability with a mighty burst of energy.

I grab on to the steel casing, gritting my teeth against the strain of stopping a fast-moving projectile. But we manage and, with equal grunts, fling the shell back into the fog, spiraling off to hopefully explode somewhere in the Lakelander fleet. A few telkies among Cal’s legion do the same, banding together to throw back shells and missiles. But there are too many rounds rocketing out of the fog, almost on top of us before we even know it.

The Air Fleet races among the clouds, still weaving through the sky, peppering the armada as best they can with all they can. They aren’t the only jets up there. The Lakelanders have aerial battalions of their own, as does Piedmont in fewer numbers. Between the thunder of the ships and the scream of the jets, I can barely hear myself think. And the Nortan guns only add to the chaotic din. The turrets up ahead spit sparks and hot iron, flashing with gunfire. They’re usually disguised as part of the walls around the Square, or supports to the Bridge, but not now. A few telkies stand at the turrets, using their abilities to fling explosives with deadly aim.

This city was built to survive, and that’s what it’s trying to do.

A wind picks up, probably born of our own windweavers. House Laris is still allied to Cal, and they use their ability to its full extent. A howling gale streaks over the Square, blowing from somewhere behind us. It knocks some of the shells and missiles off course, and a few land harmlessly in the river while others spiral off into the fog. I squint against the slapping wind, keeping Ptolemus and Wren in sight, but the hurricane force makes the soldiers tighten their ranks, squashing us in with them.

Gritting my teeth, I painstakingly shove my way through, slipping under arms, pressing past guns and torsos. Every step is an ordeal, made more difficult by the lashing wind, the rain, the press of the legion. The crowd tosses like the river below, now whitecapped with rising waves.

My hands close on Tolly’s wrist, his armor cold against my fingers. He heaves, pulling me to him over the last yard, until I’m tucked safely into his side. My brother holds Wren in the same manner, his arms braced across both our shoulders.

What now?

We have to get the edge of the crowd, but the walls and buildings of the Square keep the legion hemmed in, funneling all of us toward the Bridge. Even from a distance, I can see Cal elevated above the rest, his red armor like blood against the howling storm. He stands to the side of the open gates, perched on a stone turret.

Like some idiotic target.

A good sniper could pick him off from a thousand yards if they cared to try.

But he risks it for the morale of his troops, shouting encouragement as they charge onto the Bridge. More shells hurtle toward him, but he flicks a hand, exploding the rounds in midair before they can do any harm.

On the Bridge itself, Silver soldiers disappear into the fog. I can guess their destination. Even now, the rhythmic, haunting drum of the armada’s guns breaks its pattern. I try not to picture Nortan soldiers fighting on the ship decks, facing the full might of Queen Cenra’s and Prince Bracken’s forces.

If we can get you two onto the ships . . . Cal’s voice echoes in my head. I grit my teeth against the curl of shame licking through me. I’m not wading into this battle, not on another river. Not with them down there.

This is our chance, and we have to take it.

“Keep pushing!” I shout, hoping Tolly can hear me over the din. The Treasury is behind us now, the distance growing with every passing step. It’s suffocating, being shoved like this, prodded forward against my will.

I don’t have much armor left—my father stripped most of it away—but what little I have re-forms along my arm, flattening into a round shield. Ptolemus mirrors my action, creating a smooth disk over his arm. We use them like battering rams, pushing against the human tide with our abilities and our own strength. It works slowly but steadily, creating enough space for us to move.

Until red armor blocks our path, a fireball hovering over one hand.

Cal stares between us, and I expect accusation. His flame gutters against the rain, refusing to surrender. His soldiers form a protective cocoon around him.

Rainwater drips down his face, steaming on his exposed skin.

“How many are you taking with you?” he says, barely audible.

I blink water out of my eyes and gesture blankly at Wren and Ptolemus.

“Your father, Evangeline. How many will he manage to flee with?” Cal takes a long step forward, never breaking eye contact. “I need to know who I still have left.” Something releases in my chest. I shake my head, slow at first, then faster and faster.

“I wouldn’t know,” I murmur.

Cal’s expression doesn’t change, but for a moment I think the flame in his hand burns a bit brighter. Again his gaze bounds between my brother and me, weighing us both. I let it wash over me like the rain and the fog and the rising smoke. Tiberias Calore is not my future anymore.

Without another word, he stands aside, and his soldiers move with him. Clearing a path over the slick tiles of the Square.

As I move past him, I feel a ghost of warmth bleeding from his hand as it hovers near my arm. I think he almost hugs me. Cal has always been an odd sort, different from other Silvers. Strange and soft in his inclinations, while the rest of us were raised to razors and hard edges.

Instead of embracing him, I grab his arm, just for a moment. Pull him close enough for one last whisper, one last barb from Evangeline Samos before she disappears. Without her crown, without her house, without her colors. To become a new person entirely.

“If it isn’t too late for me, it isn’t too late for you.”

When we sit down on the train, its lights flickering and engine lumbering to life, only then do I dimly wonder where the tracks end.

It will be a long walk to Montfort.