Without even thinking, Avalkyra leapt, and it was like they were back at Rider training, sparring again. The staff whipped beneath her feet, and as the momentum carried it wide, her opponent left her body exposed. Avalkyra kicked out hard, landing a blow across the woman’s middle and delighting in the sound of impact and the way the breath whooshed from her lungs. The woman didn’t stagger or slow, but drew the staff forward again, this time relying on brute strength over surprises or tricks. She took the butt of the wooden stick and lunged forward, aiming a blow that, if it landed, would likely crack Avalkyra’s ribs.
But it did not land.
Avalkyra knew this move—she’d dodged it countless times before—and so she didn’t step backward, which would have only delayed the inevitable, or try to duck or block it. She merely turned her body, shrinking the target and allowing the staff to slip by her, harmless as a summer breeze.
The woman hesitated then—just for a fraction of a second—and let out a growl of frustration as she jerked the staff sideways. The impact was more of a shove than a blow, and Avalkyra absorbed it against her stomach before putting both hands onto the smooth wood and wrenching it from her attacker’s grasp.
Startled as she was by actually landing a hit, the staff slipped easily from her fingers, and Avalkyra smiled in triumph as she swung the weapon—plain, but well crafted—around her head in a lazy spin before swiping downward in a diagonal slash and hitting the woman’s shoulder with an echoing crack. As she staggered, Avalkyra swiped her feet out from under her—using the same sequence of moves the woman had tried and failed to execute—before leveling the butt of the weapon at her face and looming over her.
She waited, the woman panting and clutching at her shoulder, though Avalkyra hadn’t dealt a severe injury.
When it was clear Avalkyra had the upper hand and the woman wasn’t going to try anything drastic, Avalkyra lowered the weapon to the ground, holding it like a walking stick, and drew back her hood.
The sun was cresting the distant peaks of Pyrmont, casting hazy pearlescent light across the grassy clearing, sparkling on specks of dew like a field of earthbound stars and causing Avalkyra’s hair to glow red as the dawn.
“Sidra of Stel,” Avalkyra said at last. “You’ve aged terribly.”
Sidra stared up at her, heavy brow furrowed with incomprehension. She ignored the jibe, her eyes roving Avalkyra’s face, trying to understand how her dead queen could be standing before her, even younger than she’d been when she died. Her gaze latched onto Avalkyra’s red hair, darting between it and Avalkyra’s eyes and back again. Something flickered in Sidra’s expression.
“Impossible…,” she murmured.
No, Avalkyra said, using what little magical energy she had left. The adrenaline that had spiked during their fight was ebbing away, leaving her weary and depleted. Not impossible.
“My queen,” Sidra whispered, as though barely daring to believe it. She scrabbled onto one knee and lowered her head in a bow.
A sense of rightness, of long-awaited justice, expanded in Avalkyra’s chest. This was how it was meant to be: Avalkyra standing proud, a queen once more, and her loyal subjects bowing before her.
It soon became clear that Sidra’s homage was more than just subservience—more than fealty. As Sidra offered her body to Avalkyra’s service, she also offered her mind.
It was a promise Avalkyra had demanded of her entire patrol. Shadow magic could be forced on almost anyone—though magical minds were often easier, open and searching as they were—but that took effort and skill and time.
Something powerful happened, however, when a shadowmage was invited in. Knowledge of shadow magic made a mind more susceptible to its influence, and if that person chose to welcome that magic inside… well, it made putting a bind in place much easier. Avalkyra had put binds on her entire patrol, and she would do it again, one by one.
Avalkyra let her magic flow into Sidra. Then she drew it back out again, leaving the bind in her wake. She was surprised at how easy it was. Tiring, yes. Draining—definitely. But not hard. Sidra’s mind was willing, and though Avalkyra’s original bind had disappeared upon her death, Sidra’s mind recognized the sensation and absorbed her magic quickly.
Avalkyra knew it was a risk—she could barely hold her bind on the phoenix, never mind create a new one—and she had other, more pressing needs for her shadow magic. But this was important. Avalkyra couldn’t afford to trust anyone, even the warriors who had been in her inner circle, and with Sidra’s bind in place, she could turn her focus to other matters. To Veronyka.
“What news?” she asked, striding into the farmhouse and helping herself to the food and water she found in a cold box under the window. She took a seat on Sidra’s bed and waited.
It was an old routine between them, a request for an informal report. Sidra might not have been a true spy, but Avalkyra had often handed her to Ilithya to use as she saw fit. The woman was observant, had a good memory, and was utterly devoid of her own ambitions. As reliable a servant as Avalkyra could hope for even without the bind—and with it, she was virtually infallible.
Sidra joined her inside, though she remained standing at attention.
“War is brewing,” Sidra said, and Avalkyra waved her on.
“Tell me.”
When we faced our first battle during the Stellan Uprising,
I learned that even when we were on the same side, we stood for
opposing ideals. While Avalkyra was skilled at ripping bodies
apart, I was skilled at putting them back together.
- CHAPTER 16 - TRISTAN
THE DAY WAS NOTHING but clear blue skies, warm golden sun, and the crisp, scented breeze swishing through the tall grasses that lined the field outside the village. Tristan couldn’t have asked for better conditions for Veronyka to gain her Master Rider status and for the rest of his patrol to prove they were ready to do something real at last.
When Tristan told his patrol about the soldiers near the border and the commander’s plans to garrison the Prosperity outpost, they’d all jumped at the chance. When he’d explained that they had to audition a sixth member the following morning in order to do it, they were less enthusiastic. He knew they were tired from travel and a bit uncertain that Veronyka could be the sixth member they needed. She was fairly new, after all. But the fact of the matter was, even without Tristan’s belief in her and his desire to have her as part of his patrol, she was their best shot.
He’d been up most of the night, alternating between worrying about the trials and fuming about the argument with his father. He knew Cassian wasn’t telling him the full truth. It was infuriating. And his plans for the Grand Council were downright foolish. How could he think the council would let him fly into the empire, into the capital city, and argue his case? It was surely a trap. Worst of all, Tristan couldn’t shake the feeling that even if they did pass the tests today and become a full patrol, his father would still try to keep them as far away from the action as possible. The commander spoke constantly of Tristan’s patrol’s lack of experience and yet balked at the idea of giving them a chance to gain any. They’d held Azurec’s Eyrie against a surprise attack of hundreds of empire soldiers—surely that counted for something?