Blood was dripping between her fingers and down her hand as she clenched her fist.
Malachiasz gave a lopsided grin and it was another spike through Nadya’s heart. He stepped away from the king, folding his hands behind his back. The king’s attention locked onto her.
There was no warning when the king’s power moved against her. A heartbeat and the stones of the floor were rippling like water, the floor soon gone from underneath Nadya’s feet. A blink and she slammed to the ground in front of him, her voryen flying out of her hand and clattering across the floor.
“What is this?” The king of Tranavia grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head up.
She bit back a cry of pain and shoved her magic harder up at the veil. If this was when she died, then fine. Fine. She would tear this veil down first and bring the gods back to Tranavia with her dying breath.
There was no chance to respond to the king’s question, no time for even a clever quip; the king slammed his hand against the side of her face and this time she screamed.
Lances of white heat drove through her skull. Everything splintered—black and white and red and black again—and she nearly passed out. The king dropped her.
She caught herself on one hand. Her stomach churned, threatening to upheave its contents onto the grotesque floor of bleached bones.
“Well, child, you’re in a rough spot now, aren’t you?”
Hello, Velyos. It felt good to be able to commune with a god once more, even if Velyos was something else. Something not quite a god. But something with power Nadya could harness nonetheless. Her vision was blurry when she opened her eyes, and blood dripped from her nose. She felt a shift of power, saw the king’s hand move down toward her. A killing blow.
She caught the power against her own. It rattled her to her bones, her elbow buckling underneath her. She couldn’t stop it. It was too much, too strong, all she could do was hold it off for a few seconds before it consumed her.
“You don’t want to break the veil, you know that, right?” Velyos said. “Do you really want to destroy this country and all within it?”
If I don’t bring the gods back, the king will win. Tranavia will win. I can’t do this on my own. I came here to bring the gods back.
“I have shown you the truth, and still you want their aid?”
Nadya faltered and her magic with it. The king’s power flooded through the cracks in her shield and with it her dreams came back to her.
Too many people have thought me so naïve that they could control me. I won’t allow you to do that as well.
But she still couldn’t do this alone.
“Perhaps you don’t have to.”
The cathedral doors came crashing open. The magic slamming her down ceased.
Serefin Meleski, covered in blood and surrounded by a constellation of glittering lights and fluttering moths, strolled into the room. Nadya’s chest clenched as she touched the power roiling off him. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Unlike the Vultures, unlike the horror his father had become. This was ethereal and darkly enchanting.
As she grasped what his power felt like, it was as if she had been doused in ice water.
It was like the power of the gods. Or, no, like the power she was glancing upon when talking to Velyos.
As Serefin scanned the room, his gaze caught hers. She tensed as recognition flickered in his pale blue eyes. But then his lips twitched just so into a smile.
Not alone, then?
“No,” Velyos responded. “Not quite.”
SEREFIN
MELESKI
A day before and Serefin would have had the cleric arrested on sight. A week earlier and he would have immediately killed her for the power her blood harbored. But, now, seeing the girl crumpled on the floor with blood smeared across her face and murder in her eyes, Serefin had never been so happy to see anyone in his life.
Of course the girl from some backwater Tranavian city was the cleric hiding in plain sight. Serefin would have deemed himself foolish for missing all the signs, except he had the excuse of being worried about other, greater things. A pointless excuse, all things considered.
“Father,” he called radiantly. “I don’t know which I’m more offended by, that you murdered me, or that you used my death for your own gains—if I died. Did I die? It’s all very unclear. But, I’m here now! While I applaud the imagination required to get so much from my death, really, I do—I had no idea I was so important and everyone likes to feel special—I’m hurt that I don’t get to reap any of the rewards from it. Because, you know, I’m apparently dead.”
The shock on Izak Meleski’s face was the greatest gift Serefin’s sad life had ever given him.
“Serefin,” he said, his voice choked.
“Oh, don’t sound so surprised,” Serefin said. “As if you care.”
The Black Vulture stepped down from his dais, hands folded behind his back, face carefully impassive. He approached Serefin slowly. The moths fluttered in nervousness around Serefin.
“Your Highness,” Malachiasz said, bowing his head. “You do realize what this means, don’t you?”
Serefin had no idea what the Vulture was talking about. He eyed the younger boy as he circled him, slowly.
“I can’t say I do, Your Excellency,” Serefin replied.
Malachiasz spun on his heels, facing the king again. “I believe this is a coup.” His cheerful smile revealed iron teeth.
Izak’s face darkened and power roiled in the black corners of the hall. Malachiasz turned to Serefin again.
Serefin drew the dagger from his belt and cut a thin line down his forearm. The stars around his head brightened. Malachiasz looked up at them, a hand lifting to nudge one of the moths in the air with an iron claw.
“Fascinating,” he murmured.
Then he was gone and darkness was sweeping across the floor in an inky flood toward Serefin.
So, now I have to fight off my father’s magic—the likes of which I do not understand—with my own which I also do not understand, Serefin thought grimly.
The Black Vulture swept back up to his throne. He idly spun a chalice on the armrest and Serefin watched as the cleric stood and darted for a dagger that rested a few steps away.
It was time to test just what he could do with this power.
NADEZHDA
LAPTEVA
Malachiasz’s eyes closed. He tilted his head back, baring his throat to Nadya’s blade.
“Did I make a mistake not killing you?” she whispered, her voice cracking. Tears burned her eyes.
“Almost definitely.” His hand tightened over the arm of the throne. His eyes opened, flickering onyx.
Nadya lifted her gaze in time to watch as all the Vultures—the ones who had defected from Malachiasz—toppled. She hissed out a breath, pressed her forehead against the side of his head. “What have you done?”
“There was no way to stop this,” he rasped. “It was set into motion a long time ago. It was always going to happen.”
“And you returned to see your great victory through,” she said through clenched teeth. “Bring the cleric—she’ll be useful—she can watch her kingdom fall.”
A flicker of pain crossed his face. “Are we so different, Nadya?” He lifted his hand, fingers tipped with long claws, and pressed his thumb against her lips. “We both long for freedom. For power. For a choice. We both want to see our kingdoms survive.”