Page 20 of Prince of the Phantom Sky

Raiden’s stare snapped to his brother. Aerion’s curls were wild, the red strap struggling to contain their mass. His slender body was a contrast to Raiden’s bulky form, and Aerion’s deer-like eyes saddened. Raiden’s jaw clenched in response. He was the only one out of his siblings not to possess the deep rich brown irises that were common in the Windward family.

He was an outlier. An outsider. Not worthy of the title of prince. It’d fallen to Aerion when their father realised Raiden didn’t bear any of the typical Windward traits after what’d happened. Raiden’s shoulders bunched, and he exhaled slowly, pushing the painful memory away as he braced for one of Aerion’s typically wise comments.

“What if Skylar is right? What if Kordelia is a stranger now, a weapon for the empire?” It was like listening to Zephyr—or Hector. Continuously paranoid, continuously convinced anything outside of Galen was an enemy, empire or not. They still had the Mist, for god’s sake. They still had nature’s protection.

What did Kordelia have? Nothing. She was alone. Lost. Left to survive in a world that’d been nothing but cruel to her.

“No. She remembered you. Aryn said so himself, she’s still in there.” Any other possibility was inconceivable. “You may have your love back, but I want mine.”

Aerion winced, his neck reddening. “That’s not fair, Raiden. You don’t know . . . we . . .” Aerion swallowed, looking away as he folded his arms. “He’s not mine.”

Shame struck Raiden and he faltered. What was wrong with him? The closer they sailed to Talmon, the darker his mind became, his tongue sharp and cold, his heart encased in steel.

“I’m sorry, Brother. Fuck, I didn’t mean . . .” Raiden hesitated as Aerion released a long exhale. “Are you okay?”

“We’re having the same fights we had ten years ago. Aryn hasn’t changed.” Aerion raised his palms up, as if it would release all the tension within him. His romance with Aryn had always been hidden behind closed doors, their affection non-existent, away from the eyes of Zephyr. But gods, Aerion had been inconsolable when the Mist appeared, with Aryn stuck on the other side.

Another reason his presence was insufferable to Raiden.

“Even if Kordelia could remember anything . . . would she still be the same person?” Aerion swallowed, his desire to change the subject clear. “Aryn told me some of the things she’s been through . . . for anyone to experience that, it would change them.”

Raiden paused. Had she changed? Their reunion wasn’t exactly what he had pictured, but gods-damned, he loved it when she’d raised her sword at him. Fighting had always been a form of love language for them. He needn’t ask Aerion the horrors Kordelia had experienced. He’d witnessed them first-hand through her eyes.

“Regardless,” Raiden’s voice quietened. “She needs to be saved. She deserves someone to get her out of that wretched place. If I could destroy Barron now, I would.”

“Okay,” Aerion relaxed slightly. “Agreed. Just try to keep a clear head. We don’t want to make any rash decisions, or start an actual war with one ship.”

Raiden nodded once, smothering the cresting nerves as Bone Rattler sailed across the Shaurock Sea. Aerion excused himself, beckoning Raiden to follow once he was ready. He inhaled deeply, searching for that familiar scent of sea salt, and placed one hand on the warped wood as he continued sucking in deep breaths.

Since the Mist, anxiety had tormented him. His control over his life, his world, had sifted through his grasp like tiny grains of sand, disappearing into a fathomless black hole that was ever-expanding.

He no longer felt whole. And he would do anything to mend the broken halves of himself back together. He’d already suffered his father’s disapproval from dragging their fleet of ships to battle Talmon when Skylar had reported seeing Kordelia on the outskirts of the Mist. Fighting to keep that mutt alive.

Raiden gagged, recalling his earthy stench all over her precious body. Blake fucking Marwood had his hooks so deep in her for years. Raiden groaned, wondering why he’d never seen Blake through her eyes. Something had blocked him.

He didn’t want to see anyway. Didn’t want to know how close their bodies had been, whether she had loved him, whether she still did. Fuck. Had he had his way with her? Had he abused her? A small gust of wind blew through the cabin in response, the hammocks creaking and swaying.

Was it the darkness blocking him? His heart thudded unpleasantly as he recalled his power bouncing off the dark-armoured guards that Barron surrounded himself with. They reeked of something worse than death, something unnatural, that didn’t belong in the balance created by the Devani gods.

And magic didn’t work against them.

Raiden had spent the past month devouring Aerion’s personal library. Everything from dark magic to properties of stones and runes. Nothing answered the burning questions. How did Barron’s soldiers repel magic? His chest tightened. The answer may lay in Skybell’s ancient archives, but with his nightly episodes, he’d never make it through the two-day flight without floating away or plummeting to his death.

“Good day!” Mara’s squawk echoed through the door behind Raiden and it swung open. He faced Leto, whose eyes still shimmered with the continuous use of his power shielding them. Fatigue had hardened his face, and a pang of guilt speared through Raiden.

“I know,” Raiden signed. “I’ll stop brooding.”

The Lord of Ghosts shook his head and Mara fluttered on his shoulder, her beady eyes mimicking Leto’s. “Get your butt on deck now,” he signed erratically. “We arrive at Talmon tonight.”

9

Kora

Blake’s tainted grip clenched Kora’s arm as he dragged her through a set of towering doors covered in sweeping patterns of gold into an unfamiliar dining room. Moonlight filtered through large windows lining a domed ceiling, each pane connected by the continuous, overflowing opulence of pure gold.

“Sit there.” Blake guided her to a green, velvet-cushioned chair and she glowered, picking up the skirts of her gods-damned ballgown. She couldn’t believe it when Blake had collected her from the dungeons that evening, the royal blue ballgown designed by Barron slung across his arm.

Water-like beads dripping from the bodice sparkled, their shine still intact as Kora nestled into the high-backed chair. It was a nice reprieve on her aching back. The clink of metal chains followed, and several guards guided Erick and Agatha into the space, placing them in chairs opposite Kora, across a wide marble table.