Page 57 of Under the Iron Sky

Ikarus straightened, clearly pleased with himself, and glanced at her over a shoulder. “Coming?”

Letting every bit of disdain she felt for him show on her face, Soraya strode forward, making sure to knock her shoulder against his as she passed, and into a bright room with pale lavender gossamer curtains swaying softly in the breeze, a metal fox pretending to sleep on her childhood bed, and her younger version having an argument with her mother.

“And breaking that little boy’s nose couldn’t wait until tomorrow because …?” Noreen asked, ice in her voice as she twisted her fingers through Soraya’s hair with enough force to yank her head back.

“He’s not so little—and I didn’t break anything.”

Ikarus took in the room, then the heavily armored commander in front of the mirror. His face remained fixed in that expressionless mask, but his eyes did widen just a bit when he noticed the gown her younger version was wearing. “This is Invasion Day.”

“Look who’s not as stupid as he looks,” she said, slipping past him to make her way to the balcony.

She was going to miss seeing this room. Bertok too. Only through sheer willpower was Soraya able to pass the little beast without stroking him one last time. She wasn’t sure how Ikarus might be able to use Bertok against her, but she refused to give him any ideas.

Once outside, Soraya leaned against the balustrade, the pale stone pleasantly warm from the suns, and closed her eyes.

She missed this so much. The warmth on her cheeks, metal birds singing as they flew past, the busy chatter of the servants going about their duties, and the noise from the streets below. Just … life. People going about their days. All things she’d complained were annoying once upon a time, that she’d now trade her last breath to have again.

Slow footsteps made their way toward her, then stopped. Face still tilted toward the suns, Soraya cracked an eye open to find Ikarus squinting up at Helliana beside her. He did that a lot. Looked up at whichever sun was cresting. She’d not thought anything of it until now, but it must have been strange for him to be out here like this, up in the open without the protection of his helmet.

“Is it what you thought it’d be, up here?”

A muscle feathered in Ikarus’s jaw. It was only a small movement, here and gone in a second—one she probably wouldn’t have noticed at all had she not been watching him so closely.

Instead of answering, he laced his fingers behind his back and strode back into her childhood bedroom. He’d stopped wearing his armor days ago in favor of dark shirts and leather tunics or jackets, all just as intricately designed as the one before with scarlet details around the sleeves or collar.

Soraya had assumed he would’ve lost some bulk without all that heavy metal but that didn’t seem to be the case, as though the armor had been sculpted to his body. His shoulders were just as broad, waist just as tapered. Built and powerful, no doubt, but sleek. The body of someone who could just as easily move nimbly in battle as he could tear entire buildings down.

When he turned, the red sheaths sewn into the back of today’s jacket gleamed like fresh blood in the sunlight. They were in the back of all his clothes in that same pattern: a set of folded wings made of knives.

She’d tried to snatch them out of their sheaths a few times now, but the bastard was always too quick, always turned or grabbed her wrist just before she lunged, as though the thought had crossed both their minds at the same time. The failed attempts were infuriating, but not as much as the smile on his face each time he caught her.

“Why do you have those?”

Ikarus turned from where he’d been examining the windchime she’d made when she was eight hanging above her bed, the jagged pieces of metal hammered together to look like a black dragon with green eyes. Not her best work, but it was the first thing she’d ever made. Her father had loved it, so naturally it had been her favorite. “What?”

“The knives,” Soraya said. “Why red wings?”

A crease cut between his brows. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t—but don’t you ever lie down? Surely it’s not comfortable having those digging into your back all day?”

“Says the woman who willingly welded bits of spiked metal onto the backs of her hands.”

Soraya scrunched her nose. “I walked right into that one, I suppose.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Just like you.” Soraya smiled sardonically, holding up a knuckle-duster, the right one that had one missing spike. “Shame it didn’t last. I quite liked the imprint it left on your face.” It had only been there a day or two, curse the Dar’rak and their advanced healing abilities, but Soraya hadn’t been able to keep from smiling at the mark each time he’d stormed into her cell. Small victories indeed.

When it was time, they followed Soraya and Bertok down a corridor to a glass elevator.

“What’s the point of that one?” Ikarus asked when the elevator started to climb. It took Soraya a moment to realize he was talking about Bertok.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen bigger fangs on stalker hatchlings. The horses I can understand for transportation. The bears and big cats—fine, they’re good fighters I suppose, but that one?” He gestured to Bertok, some of the silver rings he wore, eight in total across both hands, shining in the sunlight. “I can’t imagine its claws were good for anything more than opening cans of food.”

“He—not it. And what’s your point?”