His voice is strained but alive. I squeeze my eyes shut, and I wish I had gods to thank for his life. His grip tightens on my hand, squeezing my fingers. Forcing me to look at him.
Bottle-green eyes meet mine. Eyes that have followed me my entire life. Eyes almost shut forever.
“It’s okay, Mare. I’m fine,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
We stay by him, silent guardians, as the healer works. I flinch in time with the distant rumble of explosions and artillery. Some of it far away, beyond New Town, muffled by the miles. The assault of Harbor Bay has begun, a three-pronged attack to take the city. Will they win the day? Will we?
The electricons close in on us, picking their way back through the dozen Silver corpses littering the road. Tyton idles, turning over a few with his foot, while Rafe looks on.
Ella gives me the smallest wave as she approaches. Her scarf is gone and ash colors her blue hair in streaks of gray, aging her. One hand twists idly at her side, and the thunderheads above, silent for now, spin with the motion. She winks at me, trying to put on a brave face.
Rafe and Tyton are more blatant in their grimness. Both keep their hands free, ready to push back any assault.
But no one seems to be coming. Either the fighting is concentrated elsewhere, or it’s already over.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice cracking.
Tyton’s reply is swift. “We protect our own.”
“Still more to go, but out of the woods.”
I look back to see the healer ease Kilorn into a sitting position.
Cameron helps gingerly, putting a hand to the bare skin on his back. Suddenly I feel like I’m intruding on something I shouldn’t. With the back of my hand, I quickly swipe away the blood, sweat, and tears dirtying my face.
“I’m going to find out what’s going on,” I mumble, getting to my feet before anyone can protest.
My boots crunch through the debris as I beeline for the electricons. Rafe offers a weak grin. He rips the covering off his head and runs a hand over his closely cropped green hair.
“Looks like he’ll be okay?” he says, jutting his chin back at Kilorn.
I exhale slowly. “Looks like it. What about you all?”
Ella puts an arm around me, lithe as a sapphire cat. “Had less trouble than you, that’s for sure. I think we brought a bit more firepower than anyone might expect for a place like this.”
“The Nortans here were outnumbered and unprepared.” Tyton spits at the street. “Silver kings don’t expect anyone to care, let alone fight, for a Red slum.”
I blink at the implication, surprised. “So we won?”
“They’re certainly acting like we did,” Tyton replies. He gestures with a hand, pointing to the Montfort and Guard soldiers now holding the street. They could be Red techies, if not for the machine guns hanging off them. A few seem to be laughing, exchanging pleasantries with the premier as he walks among them.
“Wonder how they’re doing in Harbor Bay,” Ella says, kicking up a puff of dust.
I lower my eyes. My heart still thunders in my chest, pumping adrenaline through my veins. It makes it hard to think about anything beyond the street. Let alone the people I love, fighting and perhaps dying a few miles away. For a second, I try to forget. Collect myself. Breathe deep and easy. It doesn’t work.
“Premier,” I bark, crossing to him with force.
He looks back, smiling, and even waves a hand to motion me over. Like I need an invitation. “Barrow,” he says. “Congratulations on a job well done.”
It’s hard to feel celebratory with Kilorn lying a few feet away, even with a healer patching him up. That was far too close.
“What about the city? Any word from Farley?”
His smile freezes in place. “Some.”
Something tightens in my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand. “Is she alive?”
Davidson indicates one of his soldiers, her pack a mess of wires and radio equipment. “As of a few minutes ago, yes. I spoke to the general myself.”
And Tiberias?I bite back the urge to ask about him, at least by name. “Did everything go to plan?” I force out, my mind flying over the many facets of the Harbor Bay invasion.
The premier’s face tightens. “Did you expect it to?” he murmurs.
I almost snarl in frustration. Another round of artillery thunders miles away.
As the adrenaline in me ebbs, a cold takes over, threatening to numb my body. I look back for a moment, watching Cameron as she kneels with Kilorn. They aren’t talking. Both of them are wide-eyed, nearly pinned down by exhaustion and the aftertaste of fear. Then I glance to the electricons. All three of them stare back, resolute.
Ready to follow. Ready to protect their own.
My decision only takes a split second.
“Get me a transport.”
NINETEEN
Evangeline
I’ve never liked HarborBay. It stinks of fish and salt water, even in the Silver districts. Soon it will smell only of blood.
The two weeks of rest in the Rift flew by, each minute passing faster than the last. Only last night I was home, nestled against Elane, whispering my good-byes. I wasn’t afraid then. I believed Father wouldn’t let his heirs anywhere close to true danger. Ptolemus and I would be safe, held in reserve to watch the siege and wade in when the fighting ebbed.
I was wrong.
His hunger is deeper than I ever imagined.
He put us on the front lines without a thought.
Now our boats race over the ocean waves, skimming along the stormy blue, cresting with each flash of white foam. I narrow my eyes against the spray, even behind my goggles. The wind tears at my hair with the damp chill of seawater. It would knock me over if my boots weren’t fused to the steel deck below my feet. My ability courses, a low pulse in time with my boat skipping over the water.
We ride with the fog, hidden for now. Montfort’s storm soldiers are talented and powerful. I note ours at the corner of my eye, tall and willowy in her green uniform tightened by ballistic armor. She is helmeted too, only her hands bare, fingers splayed at her sides to drag the fog. No more coveralls or training outfits for anyone. This is real.
House Samos leads the assault from the water, pushing on our metal crafts at high speed. Father is willing to risk our house for victory. Three cousins form the diamond wedge of our frontal assault, their crafts slicing ahead of us. Behind me in my boat, Ptolemus stands firm, his body weighed down with mirrored armor and weaponry. Gun belts crisscross my hips, snug against my muscles. I have a pistol, though I prefer to throw the bullets myself if need be. My cousins of House Samos vary, carrying rifles as well as shard explosives. I picture the seawalls of Fort Patriot, high against the waves. Our first obstacle. My focus sharpens as we approach, narrowing to this place and our objective.
Win the city.
Survive.
Go home.
They will see us coming. Or at least they’ll see the fog rolling off the water. It’s early morning, though, when the air is still heavy and gray. A natural fog wouldn’t seem out of place. It could give us cover longer than anything else. And when Cal strikes from the land, and House Laris from the air, the city guards and the Patriot garrison won’t know where to turn. Which front to fight.
Everything is well coordinated, from the grander assault to each individual boat. Our ranks are well organized. Two magnetrons, one storm, one gravitron at least to each craft, supplemented by trained Red soldiers or other newbloods of Montfort. As well as a few healers sprinkled through each battalion.
Everyone has their job, and if we’re all going to survive, we’re going to do them well.
Fort Patriot looms, a hazy shadow darkening as our fog pushes on. The seawall rises from a breaking rush of white waves. No land below. No foothold. No matter.
For all my anger and rage, I wish my father were here. There is no safer place than his side.
My concentration breaks for a moment as my focus shifts to my brother. I can sense him behind me, and easily trace the shape of his armor. We each carry a small but solid disk of copper tucked into our belts. An odd metal for an attack. Easy to distinguish and feel. Easy to track. I hold on to the sensation of his and mine, memorizing it. If things go wrong, I want to be able to find Tolly as quickly as I can.
The fog outstrips us, easing against the fast-approaching seawall. Whatever clock ticks inside me grows louder, more insistent. It’s time.
Shivering, I turn with a jolt and wrap my arms around Tolly’s shoulders. The hug is quick, sharp, and not gentle. The clang of metal on metal as our armor meets is swallowed by the roaring waves and the rising thunder of my heartbeat.
“Stay alive,” he whispers. I can only nod as I turn back around.
No movement on the seawall, either above or below. Just the waves. Maybe the fog has worked.
“Ready?” I hiss over the din, looking to the barrel-chested Montfort gravitron.
He dips his chin in assertion before crouching against the boat, putting his hand to each side. His palms go flat. Ready to lift.
In the other boats, the other gravitons do the same.
The soldiers behind me kneel. The storm, our two oblivions of Lerolan, and Ptolemus brace for the leap. No Reds in my boat. I want to survive this, and do it without relying on the weakness of red blood, no matter how trained they might be.
I bend down with the rest, my muscles tensing, dreading the chance of impact, if the gravitron isn’t up to snuff. At this speed, I might not be able to stop the boat from slamming into the seawall.
Waves break along the base of the wall, steel gray beneath the fog. They lap high, higher than the crusted saltwater line worn against the wall. Higher than any high tide.
My heart drops in my chest.
“Nymph strike!” I manage to scream as another towering wave crashes—backward.
So begins the battle of Harbor Bay.
The sudden, furious wall of water tosses the lead boats like toys, spilling soldiers of the Rift and Montfort across the churning ocean break. Only the gravitons escape, bouncing up and out of the water’s grasp. I spot the Samos cousins utilizing control of their armor to stay afloat or skim the waves, but they’re weighed down, and not strong enough to pull themselves out of harm’s way. I don’t know about the rest.
We have nymphs of our own, Montfort-born Silvers. But far fewer and far weaker than whoever must be on the Patriot walls. Whatever we do to calm the boiling waves isn’t enough.
Another wave rises, half as high as the wall, blocking out the graying light, casting a shadow across our line of craft. It will flatten us, drown us, slam us against the seabed.
“Push through!” I command, clenching my fists on the prow of our boat. Pouring myself and my ability into the hull. I hope the gravitron can hear me. I know Ptolemus does.
The craft ripples under our touch, narrowing, fluting, the prow sharpening to a knife’s edge. Gaining speed. I flatten myself as much as I can. We angle at the wave, a bullet with passengers.
The water is a cold slap, and all I can do is keep my mouth shut as it blasts over us. We rocket through the wave, bursting into midair on the other side. Sailing up and over, toward the seawall.
“Brace!” Ptolemus roars as we hurtle for the stone at high speed.
I grit my teeth, fingers digging into the metal hull. Pulling, pushing. Hoping we don’t fall, hoping we don’t crash.
The gravitron gives us the extra bounce we need, keeping us airborne. We hit hard, hull against the seawall. Sliding up, against gravity.
Other crafts slam in alongside us, racing up in tangled formation.
Most of our assault made it.
Metal screams along stone, outpacing the waves below, even as they reach higher and higher, casting spray like rain. I spit seawater and blink, glad for my goggles as we push up and over.
Nymphs line the ramparts, marked by blue stripes on clouded gray or black uniforms. Trained Silver soldiers and guards. The garrison of Fort Patriot, bolstered by Lakelander uniforms.
We spill from our boats with little grace, sliding onto the walkway crowning the wall. I use my own armor to stop me from toppling over the edge, while Ptolemus shreds the boat with abandon, sending razor edges spiraling in all directions. The gravitrons fling enemy soldiers into the sea. Fog crawls over the walls and into the fort, obscuring our soldiers. Somewhere, a few of our storms break off. Their job is to call up thunder. Cultivate lightning. Shock and awe the garrison, send them running. Make them think Barrow is here.
Blooms of fire and smoke dot the walls. Oblivions weave, leaving burning corpses in their wake. One shrieks as he’s caught off guard and hurled over the wall into the angry waters.
Fort Patriot crawls with enemy strongarms. Blood of House Rhambos, or their Greco and Carros cousins. One of them, a woman muscled like a mountain, tears a Montfort storm apart before my eyes, ripping flesh and bone like paper.
I keep my head. I’ve seen worse. I think.
Gunfire peppers the air. Bullets and abilities are a deadly combination.
I raise an arm, fist clenched, shielding myself from the assault. Bullets bounce off my ability, flattened or sheered. I catch a few and send them hurtling back into the fog, hunting after the flashes of turret fire.
We have to open the gates. Win the fort.
Our objective, our job, is straightforward but not simple. Fort Patriot bisects the famed harbor of the city, dividing the waters into the civilian Aquarian Port and the War Port. Right now, I only care about one.
The low thunder of heavy guns, the kind found on battleships, beats like a drum. I try to trace the missiles, reaching across the distance to decipher their trajectory. It’s too far, but I can guess. I’m Silver. I know how we think.
“Form a shield!” I shout to the Samos magnetrons, pulling upon the metal from our boats and weapons.
Ptolemus follows my lead, knitting together a steel wall as quickly as he can. The whistle of artillery grows closer and I look up, squinting through the haze. With a snap, I rip the goggles off my face to see an arc of smoke looping overhead.
The first missile explodes fifty yards ahead, pulverizing a section of the seawall, turning friend and foe to gray or pink mist in equal measure. Only the oblivions survive, some naked, their armor and uniforms charred right off their bodies. We cower behind our steel, weathering the blast as it pulses forward.
The smoke stings, acrid and poisoned with bone dust.
We won’t survive a direct hit like that. Not with what we have here. We can deflect the missiles as best we can, but it’s only a matter of time before one of them catches us. “Get off the wall,” I force out, tasting blood. “Into the fort.”
All to plan.
Get the battleships to open up, pummel their own walls. Keep the heavy fire on the fort, not the city or the Air Fleet.
That’s what Cal said they would do, and somehow the idiots are doing it.
Another round hits, cracking stone, as we grapple down the seawall, our ranks bleeding into Patriot. I look back, counting as quickly as I can. Maybe sixty of us made it in, down from our original strike group of seventy-five souls. Seventy-five deadly Silvers and battle-hardened Reds, their guns lethal and precise.
But their fire is reserved for Silvers. I notice they don’t bother with the soldiers in rusty red uniforms, the many conscripted assigned to the Patriot garrison. Some of those Reds follow their officers, running out to fight our ranks as we push on. Fewer than expected, though. As General Farley assured us, the word went out through her channels. The Reds of the city have been warned. When the assault comes, turn. Run. Or fight with us if you can.
Many do, joining our train of death.
Thunderheads pulse above, turning the sky black. Their lightning is unpredictable, less powerful than Mare’s. But a symbol all the same.
Enemy soldiers look up as we approach, the Silvers eyeing what can only be the work of the lightning girl.
She isn’t here, you idiots,I sneer in my head. Cowards, afraid of a bit of flashing light.
The interior fort is an experiment in chaos. By now Cal will have begun his own assault, marching his battalion up and out of the tunnel system Harbor Bay is built on. It is an old city, well preserved through the ages, with deep and twisting roots. The Scarlet Guard knows them all.
We make it to the central byway of the fort, moving quickly and without pattern. Leading the battleship fire, letting it follow and destroy. Keeping the worst weaponry from the city itself. Cal is so preoccupied with protecting innocents, probably just to show Mare he can. Hanging me out to dry in the process.