Page 3 of Wings of Destruction

I throw away the niceties. Manners and battle don’t mix. I’ve never used them with my mother anyway, so she’s used to my forked tongue now.

Illonia Whyte is Fallkirk’s leader by might and right and as proud as the unicorn who chose her. Worse. Her armored helmet is connected by intricate whirls of gold and silver and the metal crests over her skull like the banner of the unicorn’s tail. Spirited. Lifted.

She stares me down through slits in the armor. “You’re not fighting today. I’ve already told you.”

Illonia’s word is law.

I rear back like she slapped me straight across the face. “You need every able-bodied fighter to stand against⁠—”

“I said no,” she interrupts, tightening her grip on her reins.

In a thousand years, I never expected her to actually shackle me to the village, not when I’m ready to join her on the field. I’ve trained, taken precautions. I’m ready. No only means I haven’t tried hard enough to convince her.

Mother tightens her knees on her mount’s torso, the unicorn referred to as Himself. She’s the only one who knows his real name.

Right now, both of them are frustrated with me.

“Go get the children and the elderly and hide,” she insists. “That’s where I need you. They can’t protect themselves and I’m counting on you to evacuate them.”

We’re much too late to evacuate.

“I can be of service.” I grind my teeth and widen my stance, prepared to dig in and be just as stubborn as the woman who birthed me. “I might not have my own unicorn⁠—”

“No, you don’t,” she interrupts a second time.

Her irritation isn’t easily disguised. “You haven’t been chosen and you haven’t been trained. You’ll be a liability. Do you really think I’ll be able to do what I need to do if I’m worrying about you?”

I lift my chin. “It doesn’t matter. I know how to wield a sword and I won’t hesitate.”

She knows this about me. Only one other person in Manifest knows me as well as her. Knew me, I mentally correct. My father is gone.

“And you have your orders.”

She and I double down, pitted against each other, neither one of us willing to crack.

“Father would allow it.” I wield the words like a final, terrible blow.

“You have my bravery,” Mother accedes, “but your father’s temper, too, and it’s gotten you into trouble more often than not.”

“You say it like it’s something awful.”

She glares. “It can be, in the wrong circumstances.”

“Like now?”

“Absolutely.”

How many times has she called me out for my stubborn streak, one that life hasn’t managed to beat out of me yet?

“If Elspeth is out there—” I start, pointing.

Mother hops off her mount and lands with a clink of metal on metal, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing at the wrong moment. She stalks toward me, tearing off her helmet in one smooth movement and tucking it beneath her arm. Yards of blonde hair fall from where she’d coiled it beneath the helmet and the eyes boring through me are the same color as mine, a rich seething green with a star of brown.

For a moment, she’s no longer the leader preparing for war, she’s Mother. She’s the one who tucked me into bed at night tighter than warranted so I wouldn’t toss around with bad dreams.

Like the storm in me can’t rest when I do.

“Morgan, this isn’t up for debate.” She tries to soften her voice and fails. “You’re not trained and I’m not risking you. Get the others to safety.”