Dorian cast his gaze southward, as if he could see all the way to Antica. He wondered if Chaol and Nesryn had gotten there—wondered if his friend was already at the Torre Cesme, having his broken body healed by its gifted masters.
The demon inside his father had done that, too—snapped Chaol’s spine.
The man fighting inside his father had kept the blow from being fatal.
Dorian had possessed no such control, no such strength, when he watched the demon use his own body—when the demon had tortured and killed and taken what it wanted. Maybe his father had been the stronger man in the end. The better man.
Not that he’d ever had a chance to know him as a man. As a human.
Dorian flexed his fingers, frost sparking in his palm. Raw magic—yet there was no one here to teach him. No one he dared ask.
He leaned against the stone wall beside the balcony door.
He lifted his hand toward the pale band marking his throat. Even with the hours he’d spent outside training, the skin where the collar had once laid had not darkened to a golden tan. Maybe it always would remain pale.
Maybe his dreams would always be haunted by that demon prince’s hissing voice. Maybe he would always wake up with his sweat feeling like Sorscha’s blood on him, like Aelin’s blood as he stabbed her.
Aelin. Not a word from her—or from anyone regarding the queen’s return to her kingdom. He tried not to worry, to contemplate why there was such silence.
Such silence, when Nesryn and Chaol’s scouts now brought him news that Morath was stirring.
Dorian glanced inside, toward the pile of papers on his cluttered desk, and winced. He still had a disgusting amount of paperwork to do before sleep: letters to sign, plans to read—
Thunder murmured across the city.
Perhaps a sign that he should get to work, unless he wanted to be up until the black hours of the morning once again. Dorian turned inside, sighing sharply through his nose, and thunder boomed again.
Too soon, and the sound too short-lived.
Dorian scanned the horizon. No clouds—nothing but the red-and-pink-and-gold sky.
But the city lounging at the foot of the castle’s hill seemed to pause. Even the muddy Avery seemed to halt its slithering as the boom sounded again.
He had heard that sound before.
His magic roiled in his veins, and he wondered what it sensed as ice coated his balcony against his will, so swift and cold the stones groaned.
He tried to reel it back in—as if it were a ball of yarn that had tumbled from his hands—but it ignored him, spreading thicker, faster over the stones. Along the arch of the doorway behind him, down the curving face of the tower—
A horn sounded in the west. A high, bleating note.
It was cut off before it finished.
With the angle of the balcony, he couldn’t see its source. He rushed into his room, leaving his magic to the stones, and hurtled for the open western window. He was halfway through the pillars of books and papers when he spied the horizon. When his city began screaming.
Spreading into the distance, blotting out the sunset like a storm of bats, flew a legion of wyverns.
Each bore armed witches, roaring their battle cries to the color-stained sky.
Manon and her Thirteen had been flying without stop, without sleep. They’d left the two escort covens behind yesterday, their wyverns too exhausted to keep up. Especially when the Thirteen had been going on all those extra runs and patrols for months—and had quietly, solidly built up their stamina.
They flew high to keep hidden, and through gaps in the clouds, the continent had flashed below in varying shades of summer green and butter yellow and sparkling sapphire. Today had been clear enough that no clouds concealed them as they hurtled for Rifthold, the sun beginning its final descent toward the west.
Toward her lost homeland.
With the height and distance, Manon fully beheld the carnage as the horizon at last revealed the sprawl of the capital city.
The attack had begun without her. Iskra’s legion was still falling upon it, still spearing for the palace and the glass wall that crested over the city at its eastern edge.
She nudged Abraxos with her knees, a silent command to go faster.
He did—but barely. He was drained. They all were.
Iskra wanted the victory for herself. Manon had no doubt the Yellowlegs heir had received orders to yield … but only once Manon arrived. Bitch. Bitch to get here first, not to wait—
Closer and closer they swept for the city.
The screams reached them soon enough. Her red cape became a millstone.
Manon aimed Abraxos for the stone castle atop the hill, barely peeking above that shining glass wall—the wall she had been ordered to bring down—and hoped she had not been too late in one regard.
And that she knew what the hell she was doing.
7
Dorian had sounded the alarm, but the guards already knew. And when he’d gone to rush down the tower stairs, they blocked his path, telling him to stay in his tower. He tried to go again, to help—but they begged him to stay. Begged him, so that they would not lose him.
It was the desperation, how young their voices were, that kept him in the tower. But not useless.
Dorian stood atop his balcony, a hand raised before him.
From the distance, he could do nothing as the wyverns unleashed hell beyond the glass wall. They shredded through buildings, ripping apart roofs with their talons, snatching up people—his people—from the street.
They covered the skies like a blanket of fangs and claws, and though arrows from the city guards hit true, the wyverns did not pause.
Dorian rallied his magic, willing it to obey, summoning ice and wind to his palm, letting it build.
He should have trained, should have asked Aelin to teach him something when she was here.
The wyverns sailed closer to the castle and the glass wall still around it, as if they’d wanted to show him precisely how powerless he was before they came for him.
Let them come. Let them get close enough for his magic.
He might not have Aelin’s long range, might not be able to encircle the city with his power, but if they got close enough…
He would not be weak or cowering again.
The first of the wyverns crested the glass wall. Huge—so much bigger than the white-haired witch and her scarred mount. Six of them flapped for his castle, for his tower. For its king.
He’d give them a king.
He let them draw nearer, clenching his fingers into a fist, burrowing down, down, down into his magic. Many witches lingered at the glass wall, slamming their wyverns’ tails into it, cracking that opaque glass bit by bit. Like the six who sailed for the castle were all it would take to sack it.
He could see their figures now—see their iron-studded leather, the setting sun glinting on the massive breastplates of the wyverns as they raced over the still-healing castle grounds.
And when Dorian could see their iron teeth as they grinned at him, when the shouts of the guards so valiantly firing arrows from the castle doors and windows became a din in his ears, he extended his hand toward the witches.
Ice and wind tore into them, shredding through beast and rider.
The guards shouted in alarm—then fell into a stunned silence.
Dorian gasped for breath, gasped to remember his name and what he was as the magic drained out of him. He’d killed while enslaved, but never of his own free will.
And as the dead meat rained down, thudding on the castle grounds, as their blood misted the air … More, his magic moaned, spiraling down and up at the same time, dragging him again into its icy eddies.
Beyond the cracking glass wall, his city was bleeding. Screaming in terror.
Four more wyverns crossed the now-crumbling glass wall, banking as the riders beheld their shredded sisters. Cries shattered from their immortal throats, the tendrils of the yellow bands across their brows sn
apping in the wind. They shot their wyverns into the sky, as if they’d rise and rise and then plunge down directly atop him.
A smile danced on Dorian’s lips as he unleashed his magic again, a two-pronged whip snapping for the ascending wyverns.
More blood and chunks of wyvern and witch fell to the ground, all coated with ice so thick they shattered upon the courtyard flagstones.
Dorian tunneled deeper. Maybe if he could get into the city, he could cast a wider net—
That was when the other attack hit. Not from ahead or above or below.
But from behind.
His tower rocked to the side, and Dorian was flung forward, slamming into the stone balcony, narrowly avoiding flipping over the edge.
Stone cracked and wood splintered, and he was spared from a crushing bit of rock only by the magic he’d flung around himself as he covered his head.
He whirled toward the interior of his bedroom. A giant, gaping hole had been ripped into the side and roof. And perched on the broken stone, a solidly built witch now smiled at him with flesh-shredding iron teeth, a faded band of yellow leather around her brow.
He rallied his magic, but it sputtered to a flicker.
Too soon, too fast, he realized. Too uncontrolled. Not enough time to draw up the full depths of his power. The wyvern’s head snaked into the tower.
Behind him, six other wyverns crested the wall, soaring for his exposed back. And the wall itself … Aelin’s wall … Beneath those frantic, furious claws and tails … it collapsed entirely.
Dorian eyed the door to the tower stairs, where the guards should have already been charging through. Only silence waited.
So close—but getting to it would require passing in front of the wyvern’s maw. Exactly why the witch was smiling.
One chance—he’d have one chance to do this.
Dorian clenched his fingers, not granting the witch time to study him further.
He flung out a hand, ice shattering from his palm and into the eyes of the wyvern. It roared, rearing back, and he ran.
Something sharp nicked his ear and embedded in the wall before him. A dagger.
He kept sprinting for the door—
The tail whipped through his vision a heartbeat before it slammed into his side.
His magic was a film around him, shielding his bones, his skull, as he was hurled against the stone wall. Hard enough that the stones cracked. Hard enough that most humans would have been dead.
Stars and darkness danced in his vision. The door was so close.
Dorian tried to rise, but his limbs wouldn’t obey.
Stunned; stunned by—
Wet warmth leaked just below his ribs. Blood. Not a deep cut, but enough to hurt, courtesy of one of the spines on that tail. Spines coated in a greenish sheen.
Venom. Some sort of venom that weakened and paralyzed before it killed—
He wouldn’t be taken again, not to Morath, not to the duke and his collars—
His magic thrashed against the venom’s paralyzing, lethal kiss. Healing magic. But slow, weakened by his careless expenditure moments before.
Dorian tried to crawl for the door, panting through his gritted teeth.
The witch barked a command to her wyvern, and Dorian rallied enough to crane his head. To see her draw her swords and begin to dismount.
No, no, no—
The witch didn’t make it to the ground.
One heartbeat she was perched in her saddle, swinging a leg over.
The next, her head was gone, her blood spraying her wyvern as it roared and turned—
And was slammed off the tower by another, smaller wyvern. Scarred and vicious, with glimmering wings.
Dorian didn’t wait to see what happened, didn’t wonder.
He crawled for the door, his magic devouring the venom that should have killed him, a raging torrent of light fighting with all of its considerable force against that greenish darkness.
Cleaved skin, muscle, and bone itched as they slowly knit together—and that spark flickered and guttered in his veins.
Dorian was reaching for the door handle when the small wyvern landed in the ruined hole of his tower, its enormous fangs dripping blood onto the scattered paperwork he’d been grousing over mere minutes ago. Its armored, lithe rider nimbly leaped off, the arrows in the quiver across her back clacking against the hilt of the mighty sword now strapped alongside it.
She hauled away the helmet crowned with slender, lancelike blades.
He knew her face before he remembered her name.
Knew the white hair, like moonlight on water, that spilled over her dark, scalelike armor; knew the burnt-gold eyes.
Knew that impossibly beautiful face, full of cold bloodlust and wicked cunning.
“Get up,” Manon Blackbeak snarled.
Shit.
The word was a steady chant in Manon’s head as she stalked across the ruins of the king’s tower, armor thundering against the fallen stones, fluttering paper, and scattered books.
Shit, shit, shit.
Iskra was nowhere to be found—not by the castle, at least. But her coven was.
And when Manon had spied that Yellowlegs sentinel perched inside the tower, readying to claim this kill for herself … a century of training and instinct had barreled into Manon.
All it had taken was one swipe of Wind-Cleaver as Abraxos flew by, and Iskra’s sentinel was dead.
Shit, shit, shit.
Then Abraxos attacked the remaining mount, a dull-eyed bull who hadn’t even the chance to roar before Abraxos’s teeth were clamped around his broad throat and blood and flesh were flying as they tumbled through the air.
She didn’t have a heartbeat to spare to marvel that Abraxos had not balked at the fight, that he had not yielded. Her warrior-hearted wyvern. She’d give him an extra ration of meat.
The young king’s dark, bloody jacket was coated in dust and dirt. But his sapphire eyes were clear, if not wide, as she snarled again over the screaming city, “Get up.”
He reached a hand toward the iron door handle. Not to call for help or flee, she realized, now a foot from him, but to raise himself.
Manon studied his long legs, more muscled than the last time she’d seen him. Then she noted the wound peeking through the side of his torn jacket. Not deep and not gushing, but—
Shit, shit, shit.
The venom of the wyvern’s tail was deadly at worst, paralyzing at best. Paralyzing with just a scratch. He should be dead. Or dying.
“What do you want?” he rasped, eyes darting between her and Abraxos, who was busy monitoring the skies for any other attackers, his wings rustling with impatience.
The king was buying himself time—while his wound healed.
Magic. Only the strongest magic could have kept him from death. Manon snapped, “Quiet,” and hauled him to his feet.
He didn’t flinch at her touch, or at the iron nails that snagged and ripped through his jacket. He was heavier than she’d estimated—as if he’d packed on more muscle beneath those clothes, too. But with her immortal strength, heaving him to a standing position required little energy.
She’d forgotten how much taller he was. Face-to-face, Dorian panted as he stared down at her and breathed, “Hello, witchling.”
Some ancient, predatory part of her awoke at the half smile. It sat up, cocking its ears toward him. Not a whiff of fear. Interesting.
Manon purred back, “Hello, princeling.”
Abraxos gave a warning growl, and Manon whipped her head to discover another wyvern sailing hard and fast for them.
“Go,” she said, letting him support himself as she hauled open the tower door. The screams of the men levels below rose to meet them. Dorian sagged against the wall, as if focusing all his attention on staying upright. “Is there another exit? Another way out?”
The king assessed her with a frankness that had her snarling.
Behind them, as if the Mother had stretched out her hand, a mighty wind buffeted th
e wyvern and rider away from the tower, sending them tumbling into the city. Even Abraxos roared, clinging to the tower stones so hard the rock cracked beneath his claws.
“There are passages,” the king said. “But you—”
“Then find them. Get out.”
He didn’t move from his spot against the wall. “Why.”
The pale line still sliced across his throat, so stark against the golden tan of his skin. But she did not take questioning from mortals. Not even kings. Not anymore.
So she ignored his question and said, “Perrington is not as he seems. He is a demon in a mortal body, and has shed his former skin to don a new one. A golden-haired man. He breeds evil in Morath that he plans to unleash any day now. This is a taste.” She flicked an iron-tipped hand to the destruction around them. “A way to break your spirits and win favor from other kingdoms by casting you as the enemy. Rally your forces before he is given a chance to grow his numbers to an unconquerable size. He means to take not just this continent, but the whole of Erilea.”
“Why would his crowned rider tell me this?”
“My reasons are none of your concern. Flee.” Again, that mighty wind blasted the castle, shoving back any approaching forces, setting the stones groaning. A wind that smelled of pine and snow—a familiar, strange scent. Ancient and clever and cruel.
“You killed that witch.” Indeed, the sentinel’s blood freckled the stones. It coated Wind-Cleaver and her discarded helmet. Witch Killer.
Manon shoved the thought away, along with his implied question. “You owe me a life debt, King of Adarlan. Prepare yourself for the day I come to claim it.”
His sensuous mouth tightened. “Fight with us. Now—fight with us now against him.”
Through the doorway, screams and battle cries rent the air. Witches had managed to land somewhere—had infiltrated the castle. It’d be a matter of moments before they were found. And if the king was not gone … She yanked him off the wall and shoved him into the stairwell.
His legs buckled, and he braced a tan hand against the ancient stone wall as he shot her a glare over a broad shoulder. A glare.
“Do you not know death when you see it?” she hissed, low and vicious.