“Someone call out the damned garrison!” Wren yelled.
I cursed and barely avoided being skewered through the waist by the assassin; my tunic wasn’t so lucky. I heard the fabric rip.
The assassin didn’t wait to strike again. I remembered what Red had taught me; fighting my instinct to run, I stepped closer and grabbed his arm just above his wrist. His eyes widened, and in that instant I pivoted, then struck his elbow just like Red had done.
He jerked in surprise and dropped his sword, and both of us scrambled to grab it. I managed to snatch it up first. It wasn’t a good weapon—the blade warped and the cutting edge jagged—but better in my hand than an assassin’s.
I stood and was immediately lifted up by a heavy arm around my waist. I dropped the bad blade but still had Wren’s; I stabbedthe arm that held me. The assassin grunted, dropped me, but grabbed the back of my tunic before I could get away. I hit my knees, was pulled backward, and was yanked to my feet again. Then I was turned to face the Aetheric practitioner, and the cold edge of a blade touched my throat.
The ember raged, but the pain, at least, was muffled by terror.
I caught Wren’s alarmed gaze but shook my head as much as I was able. There were still no garrison soldiers in sight and the prince hadn’t arrived yet. A few strongholders were fighting off the human assassins with rough-hewn blades, broomsticks, axes. They proved you didn’t have to be wealthy or royal to help; you just had to be brave enough to care. She needed to worry about them. I’d deal with this. I hoped.
I shifted my gaze back to the practitioner. “Let me go.”
He didn’t answer me, but his lips pursed, and I imagined his brow was furrowed beneath his mask. “Hold her,” he said, and my heart raced, the ember flaring anew as he moved closer. He put his hand—so cold—over my heart, and the pain was a knife in my chest. I wanted to dissolve, to faint against the pulsating pain, but the blade kept me upright.
“You are burning with magic,” the practitioner said.
“I have…” I whimpered as one wave followed another, “only pain.”
“Then I will use your pain,” he said, staring at me like I was one of Gryffin’s puzzle boxes, something that needed to be pulled apart and sorted out. “I will use you to conquer Carethia.”
“You think you can beat the Lys’Careths?” I tried to laugh, but the sound was hoarse.
“You can see I’m making soldiers.”
“You can’t use Anima and possessed humans as your personal army.”
“All evidence to the contrary.”
“And your funding? Your weapons? Where’s the Aetheric weapon you paid Tommen to make?”
He didn’t answer. Maybe it hadn’t been finished.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “You won’t make it to the City of Flowers alive.”
“I don’t need the City of Flowers. I have the stronghold, and I have friends with connections. That’s more than enough. I’ll open the door, and I’ll use every Anima that comes through, and I’ll make soldiers of every human.”
“Fuck you.”
“Maybe you’ll feel better about this process if your friend becomes your tool.”
The pain lessened when he moved his hand away, but my eyes swam with tears, and I couldn’t see clearly what he’d done.
“Stop!” I said, and tried to get free, but the blade bit back. Pain and steel held me where I was, unable to stop or help.
“Drop her,” he told the assassin, who stepped away from me. I stumbled and hit my knees, the sound of fighting still echoing through the market.
Something drew nearer, shuffling down the road.
Heart now pounding as strongly as the ember, I looked back.
Crouching as she moved, Wren stared at me with eyes gone green with Aether. She’d been possessed, and she had her windblade.
“Fuck the moons,” I murmured. Slowly, I climbed to my feet, legs wobbling from fear and pain, and held out my fist like I might have done to soothe a stray cat. “Wren, it’s okay. It’s me.”
Wren stalked closer, her knuckles white around the weapon’s handle.
