“Easy, Mare,” I hear Ella say, trying to catch my arm, but I shove her off. I have to get to that ship. I have to stop him. “You don’t have the aim to help him from here!” she shouts, her voice fading. I’m faster in a crowd, more agile. They can’t keep up.
I work my way to the water’s edge. Desperation might swallow me whole. Cal is fighting a nymph, a powerful nymph. His greatest weakness. It terrifies me.
Boats shuttle back and forth across the harbor, the empty ones returning to load more soldiers. I watch with my teeth gritted so tightly they might shatter. Too slow.
“Teleporters!” I shout, desperate and in vain. The sound of the guns all but drowns me out. “Teleporters!” I scream again. No one comes running.
The boats might be slow-moving, but they’re my best chance. I have a foot in one when Farley catches up to me, seizing me by the shoulders. She all but drags me backward, my boots splashing through the shallow water of the docks.
I shrug her off, twisting with motions I learned a long time ago in the alleys of the Stilts. She stumbles but catches herself, hands outstretched. Her face flushes scarlet.
“Get me on that ship, Farley.” My voice shakes with anger. I feel like I might explode. “I’m not asking for your permission.”
“Okay,” she concedes, her eyes wide with a fear of her own. “Okay—”
A flash out on the water stills us both, and Farley’s words die on her lips. We watch in stunned silence as a succession of explosive rounds pummel into Iris’s ship, rocking the craft. Waves rise up to stabilize it, even as the explosions spread, red and angry, each an inferno reaching skyward. Smoke billows, black and reeking, as another wave pulls over the ship. Soldiers fall from the deck, splashing into the harbor below. From this distance, I can’t distinguish their uniforms. Red, green, or blue, I can’t tell.
But his armor flashes brightly against the fire, impossible to miss.
Without thinking, I rip the binoculars off Farley’s neck and press them to my eyes.
I feel frozen by what I see, rooted, unable to move.
Iris dodges a fireball, dipping with liquid motion, faster than Tiberias ever was. She dances out of his reach, circling even as the ship beneath them moves, churning its way toward the mouth of the harbor and the open ocean. The valiant, stupid Calore pursues.
Another wave hits him head-on, crashing blue and white with the full force of Iris Cygnet’s power. My heart stops in my chest as I imagine him crushed against the metal ship, drowning before my eyes.
He falls, his armor broken, splintered by battle, his scarlet cape torn to pieces. For such a large man, Tiberias makes such a tiny splash.
My vision spots, hazy with every emotion as my own brain overloads. Everything narrows, edged with black, until I can’t hear the crowd around me. Even Farley’s voice fades, her barking orders disappearing. I want to scream but find my teeth welded together. If I move, if I speak, all my restraint will disappear too. The lightning will have no mercy. All I can do is stare, stand, and pray to whoever might be listening.
Warm hands hold my shoulders as the electricons surround me, close enough to react if I lose control. Blue, green, white. Ella, Rafe, Tyton.
Cal, Cal, Cal.
Survive.
Nothing matters but the water, blue-and-white waves foaming with battle. Most of the soldiers who fell from the ships are still alive, bobbing up and down. But they aren’t wearing armor. They aren’t terrified of water. They didn’t face Iris Cygnet and lose. The glare from the sun makes it impossible to see much, but I squint anyway, until I can’t stand it anymore. Until I can’t open my eyes. The binoculars drop from my hands and smash.
The chaos on the water’s edge grows, until every soldier stands in wait, breathless to see the fate of the Calore prince. When they gasp as one, I force my eyes open and turn. Tyton’s grip on me turns viselike, his fingers pressed against my neck. He’ll knock me out if he has to, to protect everyone else from my sorrow.
I don’t know who dragged Tiberias out of the water, or which teleporter brought him to the shore. I don’t watch the healer as she bends, terrified, trying to save his life. I don’t care about Iris, still out in the harbor, making her escape. I can only look at him, even though I never want to see him like this. Each passing second is a ruin. I’ve been shot; I’ve been stabbed; I’ve been hollowed out. This is a thousand times worse.
Silver skin is a colder color than our own, as if drained of warmth. But I’ve never seen a Silver look like he does. His lips are blue, his cheeks like glowing moonlight, every inch of him soaking or bleeding. His eyes are shut. He isn’t breathing. Tiberias looks like a corpse. He could be a corpse.
Time stretches. I live in this cursed second, trapped, doomed to watch little pieces of his life ebb away. Kilorn survived in New Town. Will I lose Tiberias in Harbor Bay?
The healer puts her palms to his chest, sweat beading on her brow.
I pray to any god who might exist. To anyone who might listen.
Then I beg.
Water sprays from his mouth as he coughs violently, his eyes flying open at the same time. I almost collapse, and only the electricons keep me standing against the sudden rush. Gasping, I put a hand to my mouth to stifle the sound, only to feel tears on both my cheeks.
The crowd of people around him surges, Anabel moving to kneel at his side. Julian is there too. They croon over their boy, smoothing his hair, bidding him to lie still as the healer continues her work.
He nods weakly, still getting his bearings.
I turn away before he sees me and realizes how much I want to stay.
Ocean Hill was a favorite of Coriane, the dead queen I never knew. It’s a favorite of her son as well.
The palace is polished white stone with blue domed roofs crowned in silver flames, still magnificent even through the trailing smoke and falling ash. We circle the plaza in front of the palace gates, usually a mess of traffic. The only activity seems to be at the neighboring Security Center, now overrun with coalition soldiers. As we pass, they rip down the red, black, and silver banners, as well as the hung images of Maven Calore. One by one, they set fire to the symbols. I watch his face burn, blue eyes locked on mine through a devouring tangle of red flame.
The streets themselves are empty, and the fountain I remember, beautiful beneath a dome of crystal, is dry. War walks the stones of Harbor Bay.
The palace gates are already open, yawning wide for Farley and me. We’ve been here before, as intruders. Fugitives. Not today.
When the transport slows, Farley is quick to clamber out, gesturing for me to follow. But I hesitate, still haunted by the events of the morning. It’s only been a few hours since I watched Tiberias almost die. I can’t get the sight out of my head.
“Mare,” she prods, her voice low. It’s enough to snap me into action.
The cerulean doors of the palace swing open on silent hinges, revealing two members of the Scarlet Guard keeping watch. Their ripped scarves are ruby bright, hopelessly out of place, and a sharp, unmistakable sign.
We have returned here as conquerors.
Ocean Hill still reeks of disuse and abandonment. I don’t think Maven ever set foot inside once he became king. Coriane’s faded golden colors hang from the walls and vaulted ceiling. It remains a tomb to a forgotten queen, empty but for her memory and perhaps even her ghost.
I see an odd reversal as I walk, noting the faces around me. A few Reds of the Scarlet Guard keep watch, their weapons openly displayed, but most seem without purpose. Recovering in the wake of battle, dozing against opulent columns or lazily exploring the many salons and chambers branching off the central gallery. It’s the Silvers who busy themselves with more menial work, probably on Anabel’s orders. They have to prepare Tiberias’s new seat, his palace, to mark him as a legitimate ruler and king. They open windows, pull the covers from furniture, even dust off sills and statues. I blink at the sight, overwhelmed. Silvers doing housework. What a concept. The Red servants must have fled, and the Reds still here certainly won’t do it for them.
I don’t recognize anyone in passing. No Julian. Not even Anabel supervising as her sworn soldiers prepare the palace. It worries me, because there’s only one other place they could be. And clearly they have to be there.
I’m almost sprinting when Evangeline catches me, springing out from around a corner. Her armor is gone, discarded for lighter underclothes. If the battle was difficult for her, she certainly doesn’t look it. While everyone else is dirty, if not still bloody, Evangeline Samos looks fresh from a cold bath.
“Get out of my way” is all I can manage, trying to step around her. Farley halts, looking on with a glare.
“Let her go, Samos,” she snarls.
Evangeline ignores her. Instead she seizes my shoulders, forcing me to look her in the eye. I resist the familiar urge to deck her and instead let her look. To my surprise, she searches me over, eyes lingering on my many cuts and bruises.
“You should see a healer first; we have plenty,” she says. “You look horrible.”
“Evangeline—”
She sharpens. “He’s fine. I promise you that.”
My eyes snap to hers. “I know that,” I hiss. “I saw him with my own eyes.” Even so, I clench my teeth at the memory, too fresh and still too painful.
He’s alive; he survived her, the nymph princess,I remind myself. His brother’s deadly queen. I could wring his neck for doing it, challenging a nymph in the middle of the Bay. I’ve seen Tiberias Calore balk at swimming across a stream. He hates water, fears it like nothing else. It’s the worst and easiest way for him to die.
Evangeline bites her lip, watching me. She likes something in what she sees. When she speaks again, her voice is changed, softened. A featherlight whisper. “I can’t forget it. How he sank like a stone, armor and all,” she says, moving close enough to speak in my ear. The words twist around me, prickling on my skin. “How long was it until the healers got him breathing again?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to remember. I know what you’re doing, Evangeline. And it’s working. Tiberias, pale and dead, his body soaked through. Mouth parted, eyes open and empty. Unseeing. Shade’s body was the same, and it haunts me still. When I open my eyes again, Tiberias’s corpse is still there, hovering in my mind. I can’t shake the sight.
“That’s enough,” Farley says, stepping bodily between us. She all but hauls me away, with Evangeline smirking.
She falls into step behind us, prodding me in the right direction like I’m a cow being led to pasture. Or slaughter.
I don’t know Ocean Hill, but I know palaces well enough to know what I’m looking for. We climb a garish, winding stairwell to the residences, a floor dotted with royal chambers and apartments. Up here, away from the more public levels, the dust is worse than ever. It puffs up from the carpet in clouds. Coriane’s colors are all over. Gold and yellow, pale and worn. Forgotten everywhere but here. I wonder if they bring her son pain. Her son who almost joined her in death.
The king’s chambers are vast, opening off a guarded entry lined with Lerolan soldiers. They share Anabel’s colors and her coloring. Black hair and bronze eyes. Tiberias’s eyes. No one stops us as we pass, stepping into the sunken room now serving as a receiving chamber. A very crowded one.
I see Julian first, his back to the arched windows looking out on the now-sparkling Bay. It gleams blue in the afternoon sun. He angles his face to me, features pulling into an expression I can’t name. Sara Skonos stands at his side, her posture violently straight with her hands clasped in front of her. Though her hands are clean, the sleeves of her simple uniform are crusted to the elbows in both red and silver blood. I shudder at it. She doesn’t notice me at first, focused on the mountainous man in the center of the room. He sinks to his knees.
Farley quietly takes a seat, maneuvering herself in between a pair of Scarlet Guard lieutenants. She gestures for me to join her, but I stay put. I prefer the edges of this particular crowd.
I’ve never officially met the ruling lord of House Rhambos, but I recognize his bulk, even kneeling. His robes are unmistakable, resplendent in rich chocolate and crimson edged with precious stones. He is their leader, and the ruling governor of this city and region. His hair is dirty blond giving over to gray, braided back from his face in once-intricate rows. They’re coming undone, either from the battle or from the great lord pulling at his hair in desperation. I suppose both.
Silvers are not accustomed to surrendering.
I exhale, and will myself to look up from Rhambos’s shoulders to the true king standing above him. Sword in hand. The sight of him erases the corpse from my mind.
His fingers hold firm, unwavering, his grip tight on the adorned hilt of the ceremonial blade. Where it came from, I don’t know. It isn’t the sword Elara made him kill his father with, but it looks close enough. And I’m sure he remembers it now, as he stands above another man begging for his life. It must pain him, to do this to someone else. And of his own volition this time.
Tiberias looks paler than usual, cheeks drained of color. But in shame or fear, I can’t tell. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Or pain. In spite of it, he is every inch a king. His armor cleaned, his crown donned. The angled lines of his jaw and cheekbones look sharper somehow, honed by the sudden weight on his shoulders. It’s a mask, all of it. A brave face he must wear. His other hand is empty, fingers bare without flame. No fire but the one burning in his eyes.
“The city is yours,” Rhambos says, his head bowed and hands raised.
Queen Anabel steps close to her grandson’s shoulder, fingers curled like talons. She might be the only person on earth who can seem royal without her finery. “You will address him properly, Lord Rhambos.”
He is quick to acquiesce, dipping further, almost kissing his lips to the carpeted floor. “Your Majesty, King Tiberias,” he offers without hesitation. He spreads his hands wide in open faith. “The city of Harbor Bay, and the entirety of the Beacon region, is rightfully yours. Returned to the true king of Norta.”
Tiberias looks down his straight nose, turning the blade. The edge catches the light. The lord flinches, squinting against the sudden glare. “And what of House Rhambos?” he asks.
Next to me, Evangeline snorts into her hand. “What a performance.”
“We are yours as well, to do with as you wish,” the lord murmurs, his voice broken. For all he knows, Tiberias could execute his entire family. Pull them out at the root. Wipe their name and their blood from the face of the earth. Silver kings have done worse for less. “Our soldiers, our money, our resources are at your disposal,” he adds, listing off all his house can give. All his living house can give.
A beat of silence stretches, taut as a pulled wire. Threatening to snap apart. Tiberias surveys Lord Rhambos without blinking, without feeling, his face blank and unreadable. Then he bears a smile. It bleeds warmth and understanding. I can’t tell if it’s real.
“I thank you for it,” he says, inclining his head a fraction. Beneath him, Lord Rhambos all but shudders in relief. “Just as I will thank every member of your house when they follow your example and pledge an oath of loyalty to me. Forsaking the false king who sits on my father’s throne.”
At his side, Anabel beams. If she coached him, she did it well.
“Yes—yes, of course,” Rhambos stammers. He all but falls over himself to agree. I notice Tiberias edging his toes away, lest the fallen lord try to kiss them. “That will be arranged as soon as possible. Our strength is yours.”
Tiberias’s face tightens. “By tomorrow, my lord.” Leaving no room for argument.
“By tomorrow, Your Majesty,” Rhambos replies, bobbing his head. Still kneeling, he clenches both meaty fists. “All hail Tiberias the Seventh, King of Norta and true Flame of the North!” he shouts, his voice stronger by the second.
The crowd of advisers and soldiers, both Silver and Red, responds in kind, repeating the obnoxious titles. A bit of color returns to Tiberias’s cheeks as he flushes. His eyes dart back and forth, trying to note who cries his name and who doesn’t. His eyes land on me and my unmoving lips. I hold his gaze, feeling a thrill as I keep my mouth resolutely shut.
Farley does too, examining her nails instead of the unfolding pageantry.
Anabel basks in it, one hand on her grandson’s shoulder. Her left hand, laid just so to display an old wedding ring set with a black gemstone. The only jewelry on her, and the only one she ever needs.
“All hail,” she murmurs, her eyes shining as she looks up at Tiberias. At some flicker in his face, she springs into action, moving in front of him. She clasps her lethal hands together, ring still exposed. “The king thanks you for your loyalty, as do I. We have much to discuss in the coming hours.”
It’s as good as a dismissal. Tiberias turns, putting his back to the room, and I realize what an admission it is. He’s tired. He’s wounded. Maybe not in body, but somewhere deep, where no one can see. The rigid set of his shoulders, his familiar posture, slumps beneath the ruby-red pauldrons of his armor. Releasing some weight. Or giving in to it.
Somehow, all thoughts of his corpse come rushing back. Dread pools in me, threatening to fill me up and drag me down.