But I did. She was on the landing pad when Rin brought the Ruttin’ Hell screaming into one of the citadel’s subterranean hangars, and I knew her in an instant, even blacked out in tac armor to disguise her among her retinue. My eyes locked on her magnetically, and I set my vector for her the moment the ramp hit the ground.
I waited to bow until she lifted her helmet off and met my eyes. They’re hooded and richly brown, exactly the same as mine, and they shone with a wry spark of humor when she realized exactly why I’d held back. Only when I knew for certain I was looking into the face of someone with equal claim to the throne did I drop my chin in deference to the woman who carried and birthed me.
And I let her set a hand on my shoulder and turn my jaw this way and that, let her trail her nails carefully through my hair as she inspected me, and with that look decided that I passed some sort of muster. I could see it in her eyes—she’d worried that I’d been broken, that I’d been stained, that I wouldn’t be the perfect heir she needed. And I inspected her in turn, confirming all the ways we intersected, all the ways our blood linked us inextricably. I could feel myself tumbling back into myself, or at least one of my selves that had so desperately wanted to be worthy in her eyes. I could look at this woman, remember her brutality wholeheartedly, and still want that.
I barely remember the particulars of our conversation, but there was a tacit assumption running beneath it, an undercurrent I never tried to divert.
That assumption has carried me all the way to this moment. All the way to the slow, steady steps I take as I cross to the middle of the walkway. My mother approaches from the other end, my father a few steps behind her, the noise of the crowd growing and growing and growing as we advance on each other. I’m close enough to meet her eyes, close enough to read the pride she wears openly, the doubt that runs beneath it, and the ruthless acceptance that suffuses it all.
Iva emp-Umber is dressed in a midnight gown that prickles with shards of rough-cut obsidian, woven through with clean brass bars that cut uncompromising edges around her figure. She’s every inch a woman who broke an empire over her knee.
And every inch my mother, who raised me and cherished me and fought for me to have everything she’d built. As we reach the midpoint of the walkway and the crowd’s noise winches to its apex, I settle into the resolution I feel like my entire captivity has been preparing me for. I spent months weaving a careful web of deception that—if I had seen it through, if my heart hadn’t given out halfway to the finish line—could have destabilized an entire empire.
So I’ll harden my heart and I’ll do it again. Right this time.
I greet my mother at the midpoint with a soft smile, a gentle nod. She nods back, a pleased sparkle in her eyes. I drop to my knees in the spot she once bent, in the spot her sister once bent, her father once bent, and his mother before, and her sister before, and her mother before. Generations of Umber rulers have knelt in this spot to claim their bloodright, with the crowds chanting their names.
“Gal emp-Umber,” they scream now. Long may he reign.
Well, we’ll see about that, I think as my mother sets the crown on my head.
To Tina Guo’s sick electric cello riffs on the Wonder Woman soundtrack, which fueled the most important parts of this book.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is my fifth published book but my first “middle book”—a notorious tough hill to climb for many authors. Add to that the fact that a good portion of that hill was climbed in the context of a global pandemic, and it’s honestly a miracle we made it here in the first place. For that, I have so many people to thank.
Thanks to my outstanding editor, Sarah Peed, and the entire team at Del Rey, for their continued dedication to the Bloodright Trilogy. To Cindy Berman and Sarah Feightner in production, Jordan Pace and David Moench in publicity, Ashleigh Heaton and Julie Leung in marketing, and Scott Shannon, Keith Clayton, and Tricia Narwani in publishing—thank you all for your magnificent work. Thank you to Charles Chaisson for the gorgeous cover illustration and to Ella Laytham for the keen-eyed design. I also didn’t get to thank Merilliza Chan for her lovely illustration on the first book’s cover in the acknowledgments of Bonds of Brass, so here is my belated and profound gratitude for the cover that took FinnPoe Twitter by storm. Thank you to the authenticity readers who have lent their insights to the series, in particular Cesar Guadamuz. Any mistakes and missteps that may remain are my own.
Even with five books under my belt, I remain unable to put into words how grateful I am for Thao Le, my agent and fiercest advocate. Thank you to the entire Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency team, especially Andrea Cavallaro and Jennifer Kim, for their continued hard work and support.
Thank you to my critique partners, Tara Sim and Traci Chee, for being there for the best and worst of all of it. Tara, thank you for fielding every unfiltered scrap of nonsense I fling your way—I wouldn’t be anywhere if I wasn’t trying to entertain you. Traci, I aspire to have a heart as big as yours, and I’m so grateful for my place in it. Thank you to the Cobbler Club team—Alexa Donne, Gretchen Schreiber, and Alyssa Colman—for every necessary drunken vent session. I hope by the time these words are printed, we’ll be doing them in person again.
Publishing is impossible without a life outside it, and none of this would exist without the people in my life who only vaguely understand terms like “print run” or “advance against royalties.” Thank you to my day job cohort, for making earning my living so damn fun. To Wop House for every multi-time-zone hangout session, and for the epic adventures we’ll have when we can see each other again. Thank you, Mom and Dad—I swear one of these days I’ll write a book where the science passes muster, but in the meantime I’m grateful for your patience. Sarah, you’re on your way—thank you for bringing a few of my wildest dreams to life with your art. And to Mariano, here’s another no u.
Thank you to the librarians, booksellers, booktubers, bookstagrammers, and everyone who’s done anything, small or large, to put my work in other people’s hands. I would be nowhere without your support.
And to you, the reader, whoever you are. Thank you for joining me on yet another roller-coaster ride—now on to the grand finale. I’d promise not to do another diabolical rug pull, but at this point you should know what you signed up for.
Also by
EMILY SKRUTSKIE
Bonds of Brass
Hullmetal Girls
The Abyss Surrounds Us
The Edge of the Abyss
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
EMILY SKRUTSKIE was born in Massachusetts, raised in Virginia, and forged in the mountains above Boulder, Colorado. She attended Cornell University and now lives and works in Los Angeles. Skrutskie is the author of Bonds of Brass, Hullmetal Girls, The Abyss Surrounds Us, and The Edge of the Abyss.
skrutskie.com
Twitter: @skrutskie
Instagram: @skrutskie
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