But that was ridiculous.
Because she was Cassi. She was Kasiandra. And what exactly would Xander see if he knew the real her? The woman who mutilated his brother? The woman who spent her entire life lying to his mate? The woman who helped a foreign king infiltrate his kingdom? The woman who was helping to destroy his whole world?
She'd told Malek she refused to kill Xander because he was good, because she didn't want to be a killer, because she wanted to be better. Lies. Xander was good, but so were the thousands of people hidden within the mist whom his very existence put at risk. And while she didn't want to be a murderer, it was a line she'd tiptoed before. The first time she'd met Rafe he'd been at the wrong end of her arrow, and she would have released it to protect Lyana if her friend hadn't ordered her off. So that left being a better person—better than whom? Malek? The dragons? The man with his head on an executioner's block? Good and evil were malleable concepts. In the world above, magic was a felony. In the world below, it was a saving grace. There was no right and wrong.
The truth was far simpler, so simple, in fact, she'd been able to ignore it until the moment when her lips pressed softly against his skin and her heart pounded in her chest, with his arm wrapped around her waist and his breath against her neck, with their bodies so close there was no room left for denial. No noble reason stood behind her refusal to kill Xander. It was selfish—perhaps the most selfish thing she'd ever done. She didn't want to kill him because that day in Pylaeon, while the city burned around them, he'd held her close, much like tonight, and for a brief second in his arms, she'd felt worthy—of being saved, of being loved, of being seen—and she didn't want to let that feeling go. To Malek, she was a weapon. To Rafe, an enemy. To Lyana, a traitor. To Luka, a liar. To her mother, a sacrifice. To her father, nothing. But to Xander, she was worthwhile—and if she killed him, even if it was over quickly, with his dying breath he'd know he'd been wrong. And so would she.
It was a pretty poor reason to risk the fate of the world. She didn't need Malek to tell her so, just as she didn’t need him to tell her what to do next. Xander had to die. Cassi needed to kill him, and Helen, and the queen. She needed to keep the truth from spreading before more avians decided it was time to explore the lands beneath the mist. And when all the murders were done, she'd take this diary to her king and go home.
Sucking in a breath, Cassi wiped her cheeks dry, then swallowed the knot in her throat. Once she was composed, she slipped from the library room and took to the streets, in no hurry to return to the castle. She walked and walked and walked, each step slow and steady, her thoughts a thousand miles away. The gentle thud against her ribs was the only reminder that she had a heart, though it felt like nothing more than a yawning void. The plan came together quickly—so quickly she couldn't help but wonder if maybe it had been in the back of her mind all along.
Tomorrow night, she'd be back in Pylaeon with Xander, Helen, and the queen.
Tomorrow night, while the rest of the city slept, she'd make her move.
35
Rafe
They arrived in Da'Kin in the dead of night, enshrouded by thick charcoal fog, a thin sliver of mage light guiding them through the dark. Brighty stood next to Captain at the wheel and whispered directions, her photo'kine-enhanced sight able to pick up the dull beacon far better than anyone else's. Their orders had been to take the dragon directly to a warehouse floating at the edge of the city where the king would be waiting.
Rafe wasn't surprised by the need for so much secrecy—it wasn't every day a dragon showed up in chains. The display would have caused a stir. The gods, he'd been staring at the beast for the better part of a week, and even he couldn't quite believe his eyes. Every morning, he woke expecting to learn it had escaped. Archer hardly slept for fear of the metal loosening. Pyro kept a near-constant watch for wayward flames. Brighty, too, seemed a bit more on edge than usual. He'd caught her glancing over her shoulder more than once, same as he, their eyes drawn to the eerie orange glow sifting through the fog.
Even now, a shiver ran down his spine at the sight of the fiery hues trailing behind the ship. The dragon's body burned with an inner heat no amount of ocean water could douse. Spout tried, again and again, but no matter how many waves crashed along the creature’s back, the blaze returned, seeping through its scales, brighter with each breath, as though its skin contained liquid fire. Leech was itching to take samples. Rafe had seen the agro'kine stand at the stern with a vial in his palm and a longing look in his eyes more than once, but Captain forbade it. The dragon was for the king alone.
Rafe, for one, couldn't wait to be rid of it.
My wings. My wings. For the past few days, he'd been repeating the words like a prayer, to keep his mind focused and his heart steady, but now they brought a giddy lightness to his chest. It’s almost time to get back my wings.
He left the dragon behind and turned toward the city, catching the hint of shadows through the mist. As they neared, the hazy outlines gradually sharpened. Four figures stood before a looming warehouse, their faces lit by mage light. One was clearly a photo'kine. His palm glowed a brilliant white, and beneath his flopping crimson hair, he had the same milky eyes as Brighty. Next to him was the sharp-faced ferro'kine Rafe recognized from his brief meeting with the king. He wouldn't soon forget the face of the woman who'd forcibly dragged him through the halls, metal binds digging into his wrists and ankles as he stumbled behind her. The other two he didn't know. One was a short woman with brown hair in a knot atop her head. The other was an older man with wrinkled olive skin.
Rafe leaned closer, frowning as he searched for another form in the shadows outside the halo of light, but there was no one else.
Where the gods was the king?
If he didn’t come—
If he doesn't show—
No. Stop.
Rafe squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his doubts to the bottom of the sea. They had a deal. He'd get his wings back. The king was there, somewhere. And if he wasn't, Rafe would rip this city apart to find him.
"Rafe," Patch bellowed across the deck in his deep voice. "How about you quit staring and make yourself useful?"
With a sigh, Rafe pushed off the rail and hurried to help with the sails. It was strange to think that there had been a time when he could hardly stand on the ship, his feet unable to adjust to the constant rolling of the sea. Now he sidled up the nets without problem, loosening knots and retying them. Squirrel dropped a line down to him, and he passed it down to Jolt, no words required as they worked. When he jumped back onto the deck, he didn't need to wait for orders. Brighty stretched her arm back without even looking, expecting his presence, and Rafe took the rope and tied it to the cleat. Together, they hefted one of the thicker ropes over the edge and tossed it to the mages waiting on the dock. Within minutes, the ship was secured.
As soon as the gangplank was lowered, Captain and Patch marched to the waiting mages. Rafe itched to run after them, but he knew when he wasn't wanted. Instead, he took his spot by the rails, leaning his forearms against the damp wood as he stared, not bothering to hide his interest. They spoke in hushed tones, their gazes ever so often darting to the ship or the dragon floating just behind it, but never once landing directly on him.