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Ryn inhaled a quiet breath through her nose, casting her gaze down and refusing to look in Bastone’s direction until Faro pointed toward the desert. “They’re here!” he said.
The wind changed directions, and Xerxes’s fingers loosened on her hand. Pockets of sand lifted, spitting themselves out over the dunes nearest the platform. A cold breeze sailed in, crawling over Ryn’s shoulders and down her arms when Xerxes let her hand slip from his grip.
An unusual pressure fell against Ryn’s temples. A shadow moved over her, followed by a weight that slowly pressed upon her shoulders as if a giant stood behind her, leaning its massive body on hers. She placed a hand against her chest and steadied her breathing, locking her legs so she wouldn’t buckle, and she lifted her gaze ahead where her spirit eyes flickered in and out upon a black, ravenous cloud rising above the dune. Screams and whispers channelled over the sand, rushing toward the platform, and Ryn braced as they slammed into the stone at her feet, tumbling over the group, and making Burn Division Twelve shudder.
“Something’s wrong,” Heva whispered. “What is that, Ryn?” Her hand found Ryn’s shoulder, her thumb ring digging in when her hand tightened.
“It’s…” Ryn inhaled as the feeling spiked over her forearms, down to her fingertips. It pulled the flesh on her back into tight beads. “It’s fear.”
Members of Burn Division Twelve slid backward when a man on a horse-drawn chariot appeared over the dune, flocked by tall creatures in long scarlet hoods, some with bronze horns, others with beaded face masks. The storm hovered above, spitting out crimson leaves that fell like rain, crashing down upon Burn Division Twelve and slicing cuts into their navy cloaks, leaving red streaks on their skin. Faro shrieked as a leaf ripped across his sleeve and blood ran down his fingers, dripping on the stone platform. Dolem slapped her hands over her mouth, stifling a whimper.
Ryn didn’t know how much of it her division could see, if any of them knew there was a storm hitting. They could definitely see the crimson leaves, and the man: Alecsander.
El have mercy—Alecsander.
Ryn’s gaze dragged up to the King of B’rei Mira whose wide cape fluttered in the mist-filled wind as he descended the dune, pulled by a grunting white horse decorated in red feathers and gold chains. Long dark hair and a pure black beard spilled from a crimson hood, splaying over his wide chest and broad shoulders, both covered with brass metal plates and a pectoral that depicted a snake with its jaws open. Ruby rings glistened upon his thick fingers where he held to the reins, guiding his chariot along.
Black and red fumes glowed around him, shivering off the metal of his chariot. When he drew closer, Ryn beheld a copper nose ring and flickering golden eyes in the darkness of his hood.
She didn’t realize she was drifting to Xerxes’s side until she heard her own voice say, “I’m here.” Xerxes tilted his head toward her, but he said nothing. Then, to herself, to her twisting heart and creeping flesh, she whispered, “Rebuke the fear. Go forward.”
Screeching sounds leaked from the sky, over the dunes, up from the ground. They knocked against Ryn’s skull, pushed down on her shoulders until her legs wobbled. She pulled her flute from beneath her cloak and tugged her scarf down just low enough to bring it to her lips, shielding her face with her hand. “For El,” she breathed against the metal. Then she blew it.
Xerxes’s head snapped in her direction as the whistle’s sound sailed over the sand like a white dove, colliding with the noise and screams in the cloud, the sounds wrapping around each other in a battle of wills. Her hand shook when she dropped the whistle back to her chest and returned her scarf covering. The simple note wasn’t much, but it was enough. The red leaves stopped falling as King Alecsander reached the platform, the beings in scarlet hoods swishing up the stairs with him and his chariot. Alecsander didn’t dismount.
Whispers slithered across the air, rushing into Ryn’s ears. She cringed as a mix of chants in two voices—one she recognized and one she didn’t—urged someone to do the unthinkable.
“Kill. Kill. Kill!”
“Kill. Kill. Kill!”
Her hand flew out, grabbing Xerxes’s wrist when she thought they came from his mind—but her gaze darted to the creatures around Alecsander. Beings whose flesh was a stark white and covered in copper runes, whose limbs were long and lanky. The voices came from them.
“Vafat,” Xerxes whispered to her, answering a question she didn’t ask aloud.
“Are you afraid?” she asked back, a quiet breath in the roaring wind.
“I’m not afraid of monsters.” His hand slipped over the grip of the sword at his belt. “Or this King who tried to take what’s mine.”
It was impossible to tell if he was bluffing, but Xerxes didn’t shake. His gaze was steady, his stance tall. He looked ready for a battle.
He looked ready to die.
Alecsander of B’rei Mira inched over the platform on his sparkling chariot with a low, crunching sound of metal wheels on stone. His shadows were different; something Ryn could feel but couldn’t spot apart from reddened cinders glowing at his sides. A golden hue flickered across his eyes, and a strange, sharp fragrance followed him as he stopped his horse before Xerxes and Ryn, a smell like burning sweet leaves that made Ryn hold her breath.
Alecsander’s gaze flickered toward her, and she felt the stares of the gods, the raging darkness within him, feeling threatened by the presence of El in her.
Curse her weak, Adriel heart—she dropped her stare to the stone platform. Her breaths thinned, and she teetered. She refused to look up at the cloud raging above, even when her eyes burned, her knees becoming water instead of flesh and bone, pinning her in place like a frozen statue.
“El…” she whispered. “I’m afraid.”
A few low growls and screeches rose from the Vafat like dogs scratching at a cage door. She finally glanced back up at Alecsander to find him studying Xerxes’s rippling navy cloak and face covering. The War King hardly moved a muscle as Vafat across the platform whispered in unison, “We wait for the King of Per-Siana to speak.”
Xerxes took a step forward and sand danced around him, the lifeless crimson leaves tumbling across the platform at his feet. “I’d like to make a peace deal for the Kingdom of Per-Siana.” His words came out smooth and firm like a ruler.
“Kill the maiden! We want her dead!”
Alecsander’s dark gold gaze tore off Xerxes and shot to Ryn at the same time Xerxes spun around. Behind his scarf, she couldn’t tell if Xerxes’s jaw was dropped, if he was frowning at her. No one in Burn Division Twelve reacted, proving they hadn’t heard the command of the gods. Proving both Xerxes and Alecsander had.
