He sets his jaw, a picture of determination. A mountain. Even now, in burned clothes, bruised, his body a wreck and his mind a ruin, he looks like a king. Cal is exactly the kind of person who will never kneel. It’s not in him. He was not made that way.
But I’ve been broken too many times to break again.
“Cal, let me go. Let me get him.” It sounds like begging.
This time he steps forward. And the flames on his fingers turn blue, so hot they singe the air. Still they waver before my ability, fighting to breathe, fighting to burn. I could snuff them out if I wanted to. I could seize all that he is and tear him apart, kill him, feel every centimeter of him die. Part of me wants to. A foolish part, ruled by anger and rage and blind vengeance. I let it fuel my ability, let it make me strong, but I don’t let it control me. Just as Sara taught. It’s a thin line to walk.
His eyes narrow, as if he knows what I’m thinking. So I’m surprised when he says the words. I almost don’t hear them over the sound of my hammering heart.
“Let me help.”
Before the Scarlet Guard, I used to think allies operated on exactly the same page. Machines in tandem, working toward the same goal. How naive of me. Cal and I are seemingly on the same side, but we absolutely do not want the same thing.
He’s open with his plan. Detailing it fully. Enough for me to realize how he intends to use my rage, use my brother, to fulfill his own ends. Distract the guards, get into the core tower, use your silence as a shield, and make the Silvers hand over their hostages in exchange for freedom. Julian will open the gates; I’ll escort them myself. No bloodshed. No more siege. Corvium will be entirely ours.
A good plan. Except the Silver garrison will go free, released to rejoin Maven’s army.
I grew up in a slum, but I’m not stupid. And I’m certainly not some moon-eyed girl about to swoon over Cal’s angled jaw and crooked smile either. His charm has its limits. He’s used to bewitching Barrow, not me.
If only the prince had a bit more edge. Cal is too softhearted for his own good. He won’t leave the Silver soldiers to the Colonel’s nonexistent mercy, even if the only alternative is letting them go just to fight us again.
“How long do you need?” I ask. Lying to his face isn’t difficult. Not when I know he’s trying to trick me too.
He grins. He thinks he’s won me over. Perfect. “A few hours to get my ducks in a row. Julian, Sara—”
“Fine. I’ll be at the outer barracks when you’re ready.” I turn away, forcing an oh-so-thoughtful stare into the distance. The wind picks up, stirring my braids. It feels warmer, not because of Cal, but from the sun. Spring will be here eventually. “Need to clear my head.”
The prince nods in understanding. He claps a fiery hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. In reply, I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. As soon as I turn my back, I let it drop. He stays behind, his eyes burning holes into my back until the gentle curve of the ring wall obstructs me from view. Despite the rising temperature, a shiver trembles down my spine. I can’t let Cal do this. But I’m not going to let Morrey spend one more second in that tower.
Up ahead, Farley marches in my direction, moving as fast as her body will allow. Her face darkens when she spots me, her brow furrowing so intensely her entire face turns beet red. It makes the pearly white scar at the side of her mouth stand out worse than usual. All in all, an intimidating sight.
“Cole,” she snaps, her voice as stern as her father’s. “I was afraid you were about to go and do something really stupid.”
“Not me,” I reply, dropping to a mutter. She cocks her head, and I motion for her to follow.
Once we’re safely inside a storeroom, I tell her everything as fast as I can. She huffs through it all, as if Cal’s plan is just an annoyance and not completely dangerous to us all.
“He’s putting the entire city at risk,” I finish, exasperated. “And if he goes through with it—”
“I know. But I told you before: Montfort and Command want Cal with us, at almost any cost. He’s all but bulletproof. Anyone else would be shot for insurrection.” Farley scratches both hands along her scalp, pulling at stray bits of her blond hair. “I don’t want to do that, but a soldier who has no incentive to take orders and harbors his own agenda is not someone I want watching my back.”
“Command.” I hate the word, and whoever the hell it stands for. “Beginning to think they may not have our best interests at heart.”
Farley doesn’t disagree. “It’s hard, putting all our faith in them. But they see what we don’t, what we can’t. And now . . .” She heaves a breath. Her eyes lock on the floor with laser focus. “I hear Montfort is about to get a lot more involved.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
I scoff. “Don’t have the full picture? I’m shocked.”
The glare she aims at me could cut through bone. “The system isn’t perfect, but it protects us. If you’re going to be sullen, I’m not going to help.”
“Oh, now you have ideas?”
She grins darkly.
“A few.”
Harrick hasn’t lost his tendency to twitch.
He bobs his head up and down as Farley hisses our plan, lips moving quickly. She won’t be going into the tower with us, but she’s going to make sure we can actually get in.
Harrick seems wary. He isn’t a warrior. He didn’t come to Corros and he didn’t participate in the Corvium raid either, even though his illusions would have helped immensely. He arrived with the rest of us, trailing behind the pregnant captain. Something happened to him back when we still had Mare, on a newblood recruitment gone wrong. Since then, he’s stayed out of the fray, on the defense instead of in the thick of battle. I envy him. He doesn’t know what it feels like to kill someone.
“How many hostages?” he asks, voice quivering like his fingers. A red flush blooms in his cheeks, spreading beneath winter-paled skin.
“At least twenty,” I answer as quickly as I can. “We think my brother is one of them.”
“With at least fifty Silvers on guard,” Farley adds. She doesn’t gloss over the danger. She won’t trick him into doing this.
“Oh,” he mumbles. “Oh dear.”
Farley nods. “It’s up to you, of course. We can find other ways.”
“But none with less chance of bloodshed.”
“That’s right. Your illusions—” I press on, but he holds up a trembling hand. I wonder if his ability shakes like he does.
His mouth opens, but no words come out. I wait on tenterhooks, imploring him with every nerve in my body. He has to see how important this is. He has to.
“Fine.”
I have to restrain myself from celebrating. This is a good step, but not victory, and I can’t lose sight of that until Morrey is safe. “Thank you.” I clasp his hands, letting them shake in mine. “Thank you so much.”
He blinks rapidly, brown eyes meeting mine. “Don’t thank me until it’s over.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Farley mutters. She tries not to look grim, for our sakes. Her plan is hasty, but Cal is forcing our hand. “All right, follow me,” she says. “This is going to be quick, quiet, and with a little luck clean.”
We follow in her wake as she dodges soldiers of the Scarlet Guard as well as the Reds defecting to our side. Many touch their brows in deference to her. She’s a well-known figure in the organization, and we’re banking on the level of respect she commands. I pull at my braids as we go, tightening them as best I can. The tug is a good pain. It keeps me sharp. And it gives my hands something to do. Or else I might twitch as badly as Harrick.
With Farley leading the way, no one stops us at the ring gates, and we march to the center of Corvium, where the core tower looms. Black granite thrusts into the sky, dotted with windows and balconies. All are neatly shut, while soldiers ring the base in the dozens, keeping watch over the two fortified entrances to the tower. Colonel’s orders, I bet. He wasted no time doubling the guard after he realized I want in—and Cal wants the Silvers out. The captain doesn’t lead us up to the tower, but past it, into one of the structures built up against the central ring wall. Like the rest of the city, it is gold, iron, and black stone, shadowed even in broad daylight.
My heartbeat thuds, faster with every step forward into the gloom of one of the many prisons dotting Corvium. As planned, Farley leads us down a staircase, and we descend to the cell level. My skin crawls at the sight of bars, the stone walls waxy in the dim light of too few bulbs. At least the cells are empty. Cal’s defecting Silvers are over the Prayer Gate, confined to the room directly above arches of Silent Stone, where their abilities are nonexistent.
“I’ll distract the lower-level guards while Harrick slips you both past,” she says quietly, trying not to let her voice echo. Farley smoothly passes me two keys. “Iron first.” She indicates the rough, black metal key as big as my fist, then the glinting, dainty one with sharp teeth. “Silver second.”
I tuck them into separate pockets, easily within reach. “Got it.”
“I can’t muffle sound as well as sight yet, so we have to be as quiet as possible,” Harrick murmurs. He nudges the inside of my arm and matches his steps to mine. “Stay close. Let me keep the illusion as small as I can for as long as possible.”
I nod, understanding. Harrick needs to save his strength for the hostages.
The cells wind deeper and deeper into the ground beneath Corvium. It gets damper and colder by the minute, until my breath fogs. When light blazes around a corner, I feel no comfort. This is as far as Farley goes.
She gestures silently, waving us both back. I tuck closer to Harrick. This is it. Excitement and fear rage through me. I’m coming, Morrey.
My brother is close, surrounded by people who would kill him. I don’t have time to care if they kill me.
Something wobbles before my vision, dropping like a curtain. The illusion. Harrick braces me against his chest and we walk together, our footsteps matching. We can see everything well enough, but when Farley looks back to check, her eyes search wildly, sweeping back and forth. She can’t see us. And neither can the Guardsmen around the corner.
“Everything okay down here?” she crows, stomping on the stone much louder than necessary. Harrick and I follow at a safe distance and turn the passage to see six well-armed soldiers with red scarves and tactical gear. They stand across the narrow hall, shoulder to shoulder, firmly set.
They jump to attention in Farley’s presence. One, a meaty man with a neck bigger than my thigh, addresses her on behalf of the rest. “Yes, Captain. No sign of movement. If the Silvers intend to make an escape attempt, it won’t be through the tunnels. Even they aren’t that foolish.”
Farley clenches her jaw. “Good. Keep your eyes—oh!”
Wincing, she doubles over, bracing a hand on one of the midnight-black walls. The other clutches her belly. Her face furrows in pain.
The Guardsmen are quick to aid her, three jumping to her side in an instant. They leave a gap in their ranks much bigger than they need. Harrick and I move quickly, sliding along the opposite wall to reach the sealed door dead-ending the passage. Farley watches the door as she kneels, still faking a cramp or something worse. The illusion around me ripples a bit more, indicating Harrick’s concentration. He’s not just hiding us now, but a door yawning open behind a half-dozen soldiers assigned to protect it.
Farley yelps as I shove the iron key into the lock, twisting the mechanism. She keeps it up, her hisses of discomfort and cries of pain alternating in steady rhythm to distract from any squeaky hinges. Luckily, the door is well oiled. When it swings open, no one can see, and no one hears.
I shut it slowly, preventing the slam of iron on granite. The light disappears inch by inch, until we are left in almost pitch-black darkness. Not even Farley or her soldiers’ fussing follows, sufficiently muffled by the closed door.
“Let’s go,” I tell him, linking my arm to his tightly.
One, two, three, four . . .I count my steps in the darkness, one hand trailing on the freezing cold wall.
Adrenaline kicks in when we reach the second door, now directly below the core tower. I didn’t have enough time to memorize its structure, but I know the basics. Enough to get to the hostages and walk them right out into the safety of the central ward. Without hostages, the Silvers will have nothing to bargain with. They’ll have to submit.
Feeling along the door, I poke around for the keyhole. It’s small, and it takes a good amount of scraping to get the key in the lock properly. “Here we go,” I murmur. A warning to Harrick, and to myself.
As I ease open the way into the tower, I realize this could be the last thing I ever do. Even with my ability and Harrick’s, we’re no match for fifty Silvers. We die if this goes wrong. And the hostages, already subjected to so many horrors, will probably die too.
I won’t let that happen. I can’t.
The adjoining chamber is just as dark as the tunnel, but warmer. The tower is tightly sealed against the elements, just like Farley said. Harrick crowds in behind me and we shut the door together. His hand brushes mine. It isn’t twitching now. Good.
There should be some stairs . . . yes. I nudge my toes against a bottom step. Keeping my grip on Harrick’s wrist, I lead us up, toward dim but steadily growing light. Two flights up, just like the two flights down we took in the prison cells.
Murmurs reverberate off the walls, deep enough to hear but too muffled to decipher. Harried voices, whispered arguments. I blink rapidly as the darkness lifts and we reach the ground floor of the tower, our heads poking up from the steps. Warm light pools around us, illuminating the circular stairwell twisting up the tall, central chamber. The spine of the tower. Doors branch off at several landings, each one bolted shut. My heart beats a thunderous rhythm, so loud I think the Silvers might hear it.
Two of them patrol the stairwell, tense and ready for an assault. But we’re not soldiers and we aren’t Scarlet Guard. Their figures ripple slightly, like the surface of disturbed water. Harrick’s illusions are back, shielding us both from unfriendly eyes.
We move as one, following the voices. I can barely stand to breathe as we ascend the steps, making for the central chamber about three stories up. In Farley’s schematics, it spread the width of the tower, occupying an entire floor. That’s where the hostages will be, and the bulk of the Silvers holding out for Maven’s rescue or Cal’s mercy.
The Silver patrolmen are heavily muscled. Strongarms. Both have stone-gray faces and arms the size of tree trunks. They can’t snap me in two, not if I use my silence. But my ability has no effect on guns, and both have many. Double pistols, along with rifles slung across their shoulders. The tower is well stocked for a siege, and I guess that means they have more than enough ammunition to hold out.
One strongarm descends the stairs as we approach, his footsteps lumbering. I thank whatever idiot Silver put him on watch. His ability is brute force, nothing sensory. But he would certainly feel us if we bumped into him.
We slip by him slowly, our backs edged against the exterior tower wall. He passes without so much as a whiff of uncertainty, his focus elsewhere.
The other strongarm is more difficult to pass. He leans against a door, long legs angled out in front of him. They almost block the steps entirely, forcing Harrick and me to the far side of the stairs. I’m grateful for my height. It allows me to step over him without incident. Harrick is not so graceful. His twitching returns tenfold as he straddles the steps, trying not to make a sound.
Gritting my teeth, I let silence pool beneath my skin. I wonder if I can kill both these men before they raise the alarm. I already feel sick at the thought.
But then Harrick lurches forward, his foot catching the next step. It doesn’t make much noise, but enough to stir the Silver. He looks back and forth, and I freeze, gripping Harrick’s outstretched wrist. Terror claws at my throat, begging to scream out.
When he turns his back, looking down at his comrade, I nudge Harrick.
“Lykos, you hear something?” the strongarm calls down.
“Not a thing,” the other responds.
Each word covers our darting steps, allowing us to reach the top of the stairs and the door cracked ajar. I breathe the quietest sigh of relief imaginable. My hands are shaking too.
Inside the room, voices bicker. “We have to surrender,” someone says.
Barks of opposition sound in response, drowning out our entry. We slip in like mice and find ourselves in a room crawling with hungry cats. Silver officers congregate along the walls, most of them wounded. The smell of blood is overpowering. Moans of pain permeate the many arguments arcing across the chamber. Officers shout each other down, their faces pale with fear, grief, and agony. Several of the wounded seem to be dying. I gag at the sight and stench of men and women in all states of injury. No healers here, I realize. These Silver wounds won’t disappear with the wave of a hand.
Even so, I’m not made of ice or stone. The ones with the worst injuries are lined up along the curved exterior wall, just a few yards from my feet. The closest one is a woman, her face scraped with cuts. Silver blood pools beneath her hands as she tries in vain to keep her guts inside her body. Her mouth flaps open and closed, a dying fish gasping for air. Her pain is too deep for ramblings or screams. I swallow hard. A strange thought comes to me: I could put her out of her misery if I wanted. I could extend a hand of silence and help her slip away in peace.