Wesley looked out of the window and saw the chaos. People on their knees like Saxony, hands over their ears and clutching at their temples, while others around them looked on in horror.
The Crafters.
The Kingpin was speaking only to the Crafters.
“Today is a day of great joy and progress,” Ashwood said. “It is a day to rejoice and finally unite the realm of Uskhanya.”
Wesley winced and his knees trembled with the pain of keeping himself upright while his head spun so violently, but he’d be damned if he knelt down to Dante Ashwood.
He hadn’t done it when the shadow demon sank its teeth into him and he wouldn’t do it now.
Not here. Not like this.
“I have taken hold of the capital of our great realm,” Ashwood said. “Creije is now mine.”
Many Gods.
Wesley couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
The last district in Creije had fallen.
It didn’t seem possible.
“Wesley, what’s going on?” Tavia asked.
“It’s Ashwood,” he said. Even speaking felt painful, with the walls in his mind trying so hard to block the Kingpin out. “He’s taken Creije.”
He looked to Tavia, jaw clenched.
“It’s gone,” he said. “Our home is gone.”
Though perhaps gone wasn’t the right word. Ashwood hadn’t destroyed Creije, he’d just destroyed everything it stood for. He’d just stolen the streets from the dreamers and taken the city Wesley had built on his back, and fed it to wolves.
Tavia’s lips parted and her eyes almost instantly filled with tears. She slipped her hand into Wesley’s and squeezed it tightly, tethering him to the ground so he didn’t crumple.
Wesley looked at the tattoos that danced up his arms: the streets of Creije painted on him so he’d always remember his home and fight to keep it.
Only, everything Wesley had made now belonged to Ashwood.
Maybe it always had.
“It is with joy that I make this announcement,” Ashwood said. “I, Dante Ashwood, a man born on the streets of this great capital, a man who lived through the war and has seen the wonders of the future, will usher us into greatness.”
Ashwood’s pale lips tilted to a smile and Wesley could feel every moment of his twisted delight.
“As the new leader of Creije, I summon any and all Crafters of the realm to my capital, where they will be welcomed and respected,” he said. “I put an end to bans on black magic and declare all charms legal in this city. And I officially recognize anyone who challenges my authority as an enemy of change. Including the so-called Doyen Fenna Schulze. This is a city of magic and it will be your city of respite.”
“He’s declaring war on Schulze,” Wesley said.
He felt the blood drip from his nose and then the scratch as Tavia used her sleeve to wipe it away. It was taking everything he had not to let Ashwood’s voice consume him completely.
“I can’t keep him out,” Saxony said, her palms flat against the floor as she keeled over. “It’s too loud.”
“The first step to eliminating these enemies is to begin at home,” Ashwood said. “I will conquer the rest of this realm, starting with the government city of Yejlath. My forces are already making their way there, but I know I must prove that I’m willing to start over. To enact change and punish those who once sought to harm you. I must prove that you are safe with me and that I’ll protect you from this realm and everyone in it. Including my own people.”
There was a flicker as Ashwood waved his shadow arm, and then the vision of him exploded into eight separate clouds of screaming and blood.
Wesley’s breath lodged in his throat as he saw the familiar faces.
Ilaria. Stelios. Felix. Luca. Chiara. Greta. Enori.
All of them dying in front of him.
“It’s the underbosses of Uskhanya,” Wesley told Tavia. “Ashwood is killing them all for the Crafters to see.”
Then Casim’s face flashed in the eighth cloud and Wesley’s stomach lurched as he realized that meant Ashwood’s people were in Rishiya. That they were so, so close.
They cut through the underbosses one by one, knives at their throats and swords through their hearts. The blood splattered outward and Wesley blinked and stumbled, as though it might spill from the projection and rain down on them all.
Tavia caught his arm to steady him.
“Sacrifices are necessary for change,” Ashwood said. “I know that you think they were going to help you by sending you more buskers, but these are the vermin responsible for your shackles. These are the criminals who use your magic for profit. They are your enemies.”
The clouds disappeared and the vision in Wesley’s mind refocused on Ashwood’s ghostly face once again.
Tavia shuffled closer to him, her hand dangling by his, eyes searching the forest as if something in the wind was calling to her.
Wesley could hear it too.
He could hear the trees, no longer singing.
But screaming.
Whenever Wesley’s hand twitched against Tavia’s, the leaves of the forest hissed in warning. The branches smacked together.
They were not alone.
They were not safe.
Run, the trees said. You have to run.
“You must make a choice now,” Ashwood said. “Come to me in good faith, or die as traitors.”
Wesley kept ahold of Tavia’s hand.
And then, as sudden as a storm that had brewed in silence, an army appeared. Below the tree house, where Wesley watched the Crafters cry in pain and the rest of their people surrounding them unable to help, a new enemy blinked into existence.
First bones, then veins and skin and hair.
Teeth that glistened in the sun like monsters finally free to walk the day.
The invisibility charm they had harnessed shattered and they licked their hungry lips. Wesley could see the mark of the Loj on some of them, their eyes like broken stars. But the others, the ones who looked the most hungry and hateful, gave off a familiar wave of magic and blind devotion.
Crafters.
Soldiers.
Dante Ashwood’s willing followers.
“This is a new realm,” Ashwood said, his voice barely a murmur as their enemies descended. “And we shall build it together.”
19
TAVIA
Tavia ducked as a ball of fire flew straight at her head.
“How did they find us?” she yelled as Wesley grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said over the screams. “They’re here now.”
He threw open the door and barreled through, Tavia and Saxony following behind.
She knew he was lying, though, because it definitely mattered and they were definitely all thinking the same thing: Zekia.
Saxony’s sister had betrayed them, again.
She had finally told the Kingpin where her family was.
They ran down the tree house steps, skipping two or three at a time, until finally they crashed onto the mud.
Tavia looked around the forest, at the chaos that was descending.
Blood stained the warning leaves and her allies were tripping over bodies as they made to run toward, or from, their enemies. They threw magic at each other in a deafening roar, with lights of blinding white and blue flashing across Tavia’s vision like some kind of deadly rainbow.
“I have to find Amja and my father!” Saxony yelled, running for the center of camp.
Tavia lost sight of her in moments and then a bolt of lightning, conjured from a clear sky, headed toward her.
Tavia and Wesley dove out of the way, and she landed with a heavy thud in the soil. She cursed at the row of bruises she knew would appear down her legs by tomorrow.
If she lived until tomorrow.
Tavia pushed herself to her feet and grabbed two of the knives from her belt. A Crafter surged toward her and Tavia flung her arm out, slicing the
knife across his neck.
One down. Only a hundred left to go, she thought, throwing a punch at another.
He took it to the nose and while he was busy clutching at his face, Tavia took the opportunity to jam her knife into his chest.
But stabbing someone wasn’t always easy. It wasn’t like slicing a loaf of bread. It was hard and gristly and Tavia winced as she desperately tried to pull the knife back out, only for the blade to get stuck somewhere in the man’s chest.
She sighed, and left that knife behind. She had plenty more.
Beside her, Wesley was taking on three Crafters, slamming his fist into the face of one, and his magic into the others. She made to help him, but a beam of light shot out toward her from behind a distant tree.
Tavia barely dodged it in time.
She swore, loudly, hoping that was the last time she was thrown to the ground, because her ego—and her bruised ass—couldn’t handle much more.
“For the love of the Many Gods,” Tavia said, glaring at the sky. “Could you cut me a break?”
“You’re praying right now?” Wesley asked, appearing suddenly by her side like a ghost.
He pulled Tavia to her feet.
“Want to splash some blessed water on our enemies, too?”
Tavia ignored him and threw one of her knives at a nearby attacker. It landed straight in the center of his forehead and the way that Wesley’s eyebrows shot up was almost comical.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked.
Tavia shrugged, like she wasn’t extremely impressed with her own aim.
“Karam,” she said, as casually as she could muster.
Wesley let out a low whistle. “I’m not sure whether to be scared or turned on.”
Tavia elbowed him in the stomach, harder than she’d intended, and Wesley let out a low grunt.
“Turned on it is,” he mumbled as Tavia ran toward a group of Crafters she could see surrounding Saxony.
There were six of them hurling balls of energy at her like they were stones. Saxony snarled, her Energycrafter shield shuddering with the force of their power.
Tavia could see her skin begin to take on a red hue as her fire magic grew inside of her, set to spill out like a volcano and send these bastards back to the fire-gates.
Tavia kicked one of them from behind, which was a cheat’s move but she really didn’t care. Her foot jabbed into the back of his knee and he went down like a shot. Before he had time to turn and react, Tavia stabbed her knife into his spine.
Saxony’s shield splintered.
There was blood covering her side and spreading from her ribs. Tavia gasped, but as she started to run to her, Saxony let out an almighty yell and the flame burst out of her like spikes, impaling the five remaining Crafters.
They crumpled to the ground and the fire spread across their bodies until they dissolved to ash.
“Damn it,” Saxony said. “One of them pierced my shield.”
Tavia stepped through the cinders with a wince.
“You’re lucky it was just one,” she said.
She held out a hand and hauled Saxony to her feet. Her palms felt like pure fire, but Tavia didn’t pull away. She kept her grip firm and steady, helping Saxony to regain her balance as she pressed a hand to her bleeding ribs.
“Are you okay?” Tavia asked.
Her skin felt like it was blistering.
Saxony clutched her ribs.
“Go and help the others,” she said. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Tavia shook her head.
“I’m not leaving you to bleed out,” she said, gripping on to Saxony’s arm a little tighter. “Let me help you.”
She had a good reason to be angry with Saxony. Many good reasons, in fact, but Tavia wasn’t going to abandon her on a battlefield.
“I appreciate the heroics, but I can heal this myself in a few minutes,” Saxony said. “Go and help somebody who needs it.”
Tavia looked between Saxony and the bloodbath surrounding them.
“You sure?” she asked.
“I am,” Saxony said, pushing her away. “Go!”
So Tavia did.
She ran without aim, punching and kicking. Slicing her knives across throats and jamming them into people’s stomachs like Karam had shown her.
She wasn’t sure how all of this blood would ever wash from her hands.
And then she spotted a group of enemy soldiers, circling like vultures around someone, and suddenly she wasn’t so worried about shedding too much blood.
Nolan.
That son of a bitch, she thought.
He and his friends were advancing on Saxony’s father.
Tavia ran toward them, reaching into her pocket and flinging out the first charm she thought would be of any use. It was a simple wind charm, but it sent them flying backward onto the ground with a loud crash.
“Are you okay?” Tavia asked Bastian, her eyes quickly scanning him for any wounds.
Bastian nodded and let out a shaken breath. “You have strong magic.”
“I wish I could take credit, but I stole most of it.”
Bastian laughed and put a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you,” he said.
“Nice trick,” Nolan said, dusting himself off. “But it’ll be your last.”
In front of him like a barrier, five thugs looked at her like hungry beasts.
“At least you get to go out with a bang,” Nolan said. “Creije’s best busker defeated by Rishiya’s best. It’s kind of poetic.”
“Read better poetry,” Tavia said.
Nolan ignored her and from his pocket he pulled out a small round object that looked a little like a fortune orb, save for the fact that it was not made of glass—or the watery kind of magic that looked like glass—but instead from some kind of stone.
It was bright blue, with pinpoints of white freckled around the polished smooth surface. It looked old and dangerous the way most magic often did, and perched atop its perfectly rounded tip was a thin fuse.
“What’s that?” Tavia asked.
Nolan twirled it in his hand like a prize. “I call it a Star Egg,” he said. “You stole a bunch of them from me back in Rishiya. Or don’t you remember?”
Tavia remembered.
“Luckily, I had a couple in my private stash,” he said. “But I’ll be looking to get back everything you took from me soon enough.”
A lot of the magic Tavia had stolen was already distributed among the buskers, but the rest—the things kept aside for training, or the few rare cases where she couldn’t figure out the nature of the charm—had been cataloged and stored for safekeeping.
She was glad Nolan hadn’t found that store and reclaimed his mysterious treasures yet.
“Want to see what it does?” Nolan asked.
She really didn’t.
Tavia flung out a charm and the marble beelined for the buskers trying to protect Nolan. It burst into a hundred tiny insects that swarmed around three of them, biting and stinging without relent.
They yelled, waving their hands through the air to keep the creatures at bay. But by the time they parted to let Tavia get to Nolan, it was too late.
He had pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit the fuse of the Star Egg.
Nolan took a worrying step back and said nothing before throwing a shield over himself.
The Star Egg exploded in a loud whistle, shooting sparks up into the sky like a lightning bolt in reverse. They were gold and glistening and when they hit the clouds, they screamed and then scattered across the night like rain, readying to pour down on the camp.
Quickly, Tavia pulled a shield charm from her own pocket and cast it overhead. Whatever crap magic Nolan had loaded into that device, she didn’t want it getting anywhere near her or Bastian.
The sparks hissed angrily over the shield, but for a good twenty feet in any direction of her, the ground sizzled and smoked. People fell to the ground, blisters burning on their skin as they screamed and screamed for th
e pain to stop.
They were dying. Dozens of people. Including Nolan’s friends who she’d taken down with the insect charm.
Many Gods.
The Star Egg was like nothing Tavia had ever seen. What had looked like a glorious explosion in the sky was now washing down like deadly poison, melting people’s skin to the bone, while Nolan looked on with a smug smile.
“Now that’s a shame,” Nolan said. “I put a perfectly good acid charm inside of that thing and you didn’t even die.”
Tavia swallowed as the light subsided and her shield began to crumble.
“Guess I’ll just have to gut you instead,” Nolan said.
Tavia cursed and readied to show Nolan that he didn’t know who he was dealing with.
“There’s a busker trying to kill you,” a voice whispered in her ear.
Tavia jumped at the sound of Wesley, suddenly beside her.
“Are you trying to kill me?” she asked, hand pressed to her chest.
Wesley didn’t answer, but his eyes narrowed toward Nolan.
“I don’t appreciate you attacking my best busker.”
“You’re the underboss of Creije,” Nolan said. “I’ve been wanting to meet you.”
“Why? You got a death wish or something?” Wesley asked.
Nolan smirked. “You’re not so tough,” he said. “The infamous Wesley Thornton Walcott, come to save the—”
Wesley pulled out his gun and shot Nolan straight in the head, before he had the chance to finish.
His aim hadn’t suffered one bit in the months of captivity.
Nolan’s body fell to the ground.
“Definitely had a death wish,” Wesley said.
“By all that is holy,” Bastian said, with a gasp.
“I’ve never been called holy before.” Wesley holstered his gun. “Godly, maybe.”
He turned to Tavia, his eyes scanning over her bruised arms and the scratches she knew were marked across her face.
He reached out and pressed a hand to her cheek, and Tavia nearly froze with the shock of his touch. Warm hands pressed against her skin, in a way that was more tender than she could bear.
“I was going to take care of him,” Tavia said. “Nolan was my problem to solve.”
Wesley dropped his hand back to his side.
Tavia felt the cold absence of his touch.
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