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Her heart tithed a beat. His did, too.
Then, in tandem, their pulses picked up, drumming hard and fast, a flow of life that made her cheeks flush.
Her hands rose. His did, too, the motion sinuous and graceful, their palms still cupped together like they were trying to catch the rain. Strands of black and gold wound around their fingers and breached their skin, their bodies just continuations of each other, melded together by flesh and heart and power.
The magic channeled through them. Then it channeled back out.
Here they diverged, each breaking into their own part of this dance as naturally as if they’d done it thousands of times. The strands of Mortem diverted to Lore, flowing from Bastian and into her, and from her into the dead matter around them, encased in stone—the rocks of the road, the dry layers of topsoil, where decay hadn’t yet turned into fertility. Spiritum went to Bastian, gold flowing out from him and finding each filament of life in the stone-entombed earth. Strengthening it, coaxing it to blaze, to bloom.
This wasn’t like before, with Gabe, unraveling the rocky shroud she’d accidentally made around Milo that night in the alleyway. It could’ve been—she could’ve done this herself, only taking away the stone—but with Bastian, it became something more. They weren’t just freeing the fields from not-death, they were infusing them with new life, making them stronger and more fertile than they’d been before.
It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
And in Lore’s head, shadows were closing in. Something vast, waiting to devour her, a barrier torn down, flames in her trees and the sky filling with black smoke—
With a strangled cry, Lore tore herself out of channeling-space. Her knees hit the ground, her palms in the grass.
The grass.
She opened her eyes.
Green. Green as far as she could see, the fields restored and blooming.
Her heart felt like it was going to beat right out of her chest, the pounding all but drowning out the confused whispers of the farmers on the road.
“Lore.” Bastian knelt next to her, hand on her back. “Lore, are you all right?”
But he sounded distracted. And when Lore looked up, she saw why.
The dust cloud had cleared. In its place was a contingent of maybe fifty people, a few of them on horses, most on foot. All wore silver armor covered with a deep-blue tunic, a golden circle of laurel leaves embroidered around the collar. One of the riders in front held an unfurled pennant, hanging limp in the lack of a breeze. Another laurel crown, surrounding a rearing black stallion on a cerulean field.
It may have been a while since Lore looked at a map, but she still recognized Kirythea’s banner.
All of them were frozen, every Auverrani citizen holding their breath. All except Bastian, who stepped forward with his head held high as one of the Kirythean riders dismounted.
The Kirythean nodded. Bastian nodded back.
“Maxon Agripolus,” he said. “I see you received my invitation.”
CHAPTER FIVE
War games don’t have rules. The only rule is to win.
—Heria Abraca, Kirythean general
What the fuck, Bastian?” Alie’s voice bounced off the marble walls and tile floor of his apartments, echoed in the lush green leaves of the ferns. “What the fuck?”
No one else voiced the sentiment, but it lived in their faces. Gabe was pale beneath his eye patch. Malcolm stood with his arms crossed, staring at the floor like he couldn’t quite believe the last hour had happened.
Lore couldn’t either, really. After Bastian greeted the Kirythean delegation, everything became a dreamlike blur. Lore, politely nodding as Bastian introduced her. Did he call her his deathwitch, or something else? She didn’t remember. Alie, her mouth a thin line, curtsying delicately while her eyes shot daggers. Malcolm, managing a quick bow and nearly tripping over a loose stone in the road while he did it.
At least Gabe hadn’t been there. Lore kept repeating that to herself. Gabe hadn’t been there to see the delegation sent from the man who had pulled out his eye as a child. Hadn’t been there to see Bastian nod to them like friends, like equals.
She couldn’t help but think that had been on purpose. Bastian, trying to spare Gabe what he could, in the same sideways, wounding way he always did.
Even now, Bastian could barely look at him. When they’d entered the room, Malcolm having gone to fetch Gabe from the Church for an impromptu council meeting they all unanimously agreed had to happen, Bastian had only glanced at him once, his mouth open, as if an apology waited behind his tongue. It never came out.
The daggers in Alie’s eyes had only sharpened in the carriage ride back to the Citadel, the Kirytheans following discreetly behind, their flag rolled up and politely stowed away. To make eye contact with her was to risk a cut then; now it was close to a severing. She rounded on Bastian. “How long have you been planning this? It took at least two weeks for them to get here from Laerdas.”
