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The billow of dust obscures all but a halo of radiance, beams cutting through the dust as if the sun has come to the ground. An impression of a prism, sharp as cut glass, casting and fracturing light.
The Great King. Unbound and vengeful, too dazzling to behold.
Thunder rumbles from the Storm.
I have longed for this,the Great Queen hisses.I am stronger than I ever was, and he is weak from centuries in a cage.
I take a step back as heat scorches my face, blinking away the green afterimage of a sharp, thin face—all edges, no softness, no mercy.
The tether between the Queen and me grows taut as she draws back into the Storm, pooling her power.
My heart stutters. The city won’t survive a battle between gods. Thousands of people in the stands, dozens of Wardana and Regia’s Guard on the arena floor—all at risk. None who can do a thing. And I’m alone.
The Storm is one roiling mass of lightning and shifting beasts, worse than ever before.
Have I brought this upon us all? Am just I following in Ma’s footsteps—dreaming big, leaving more pain in my wake?
No. I won’t let this happen.
I close my eyes. Deep inside, the Queen’s power runs through me, a heartbeat under my heartbeat, a river of shadows under my veins. I reach for it the same way I reached for the curse in Dalca—and I pull.
The Queen—a wave of roiling shadows and clouds—roars.Do not interfere in our war.
The air crackles in warning. The Great King raises a hand, and a scorching light hits me, scalding my skin and deeper, as if it would burn out all my shadows. As if it would burn out the Queen and all hope of ending the Storm.
A body comes between me and him; a dark silhouette against the King’s blinding radiance. I squint against the glare. A bird’s nest of black hair, a cloak of white feathers.
Dalca stands between me and the King with hands outstretched. The light catches on the gold lines inked upon his fingers.
He throws me a speaking glance over his shoulder—and a thousand things war in his eyes.I’m sorryandforgive meand a promise:I’m with you. I’ll hold him, whatever it takes.
He turns to the King and says the one thing I’d never imagined him brave enough to say:
“I am your vessel. Let us be bound.”
The air crackles with the Great King’s laugh.Nevermore shall I be bound.
Dalca squares his shoulders and steps forward, reaching for the King with his bare hands. The lines of his unfinished mark flare with light as he holds the King still.
The King’s voice booms.You are not worthy.
A piercing cry. The smell of burning skin fills the air as the Great King begins to burn the mark from Dalca’s skin.
Dalca bites back his scream, planting his feet as if he would push the King back. Dalca’s incomplete mark lets him engage with the King—but he’ll never become his vessel, not like this.
He’s stalling—for me.
My heart thuds in my chest. It’s as if time slows to a stop.
Dalca means his promise, but in the end, he’s a boy against a god. The Great King will blot him out to get to the Queen.
A thread of shadows connects me to the Great Queen. The Storm stretches wide above us all, a mouth waiting to bite down.
The stands are full of people whose faces are masks of terror. Fights have broken out everywhere I turn.
The Wardana have formed a circle around Dalca and me; they are locked in combat with the Regia’s Guard. Cas fights his father, his spear against the blade of Ragno’s scythe, teeth gritted, a streak of blood in his pale hair.
The Great King claws for the Queen.
