In Chap­ter 58, we find Henk van Veen savor­ing a per­fect­ly made poached egg while on a plane, shar­ing his appre­ci­a­tion with a young stew­ard named Ash­ley. Henk pas­sion­ate­ly dis­cuss­es his cri­te­ria for an ide­al poached egg, empha­siz­ing the impor­tance of using free-range eggs and the yolk’s col­or, which he believes should be a live­ly orange rather than the over­ly yel­low ones favored by the British. He argues that the egg’s tex­ture is cru­cial too, with the yolk likened to lava that should flow smooth­ly yet slow­ly, allow­ing the toast—his ver­sion of Pompeii—to absorb its warmth with­out a rush to destruc­tion.

Henk crit­i­cizes the trend of sour­dough toast, assert­ing that seed­ed gra­nary toast is the true com­pan­ion for poached eggs, a sen­ti­ment he artic­u­lates with philo­soph­i­cal flair, quot­ing Spin­oza in a humor­ous cri­tique of mod­ern culi­nary choic­es. As he enjoys the meal, he acknowl­edges the uncom­mon yet impres­sive feat of hav­ing such a dish served in-flight, con­tem­plat­ing a vis­it to thank the chef and maybe pro­cure their con­tact details in case his per­son­al chef is unavail­able in the future.

His thoughts shift as he recalls the adven­ture he is on, track­ing a series of mur­ders from South Car­oli­na to St. Lucia, and now he is head­ing to Ire­land, where anoth­er vic­tim, Mark Gooch, is expect­ed to be found. Henk feels a thrill at the prospect of arriv­ing in Cork before Amy Wheel­er and her group, pon­der­ing the lit­tle joys of life, such as the thrill of stand­ing in the aisle dur­ing the plane’s landing—a sen­sa­tion he equates with adven­ture. Despite the steward’s insis­tence that he should buck­le up, Henk con­vinces Ash­ley to allow him to stand, rel­ish­ing in the small thrill that comes with the risk of the land­ing.

This chap­ter encap­su­lates Henk’s character—both a con­nois­seur of good food and an adven­tur­er at heart, with a taste for the unusu­al and the dar­ing, all while remain­ing acute­ly aware of the dark­er con­text that con­nects his din­ing expe­ri­ence to his pur­suit of jus­tice.

In Chap­ter 58 of “All the Col­ors of the Dark,” Saint vis­its the police sta­tion, where she meets Offi­cer Nix, who con­grat­u­lates her by shak­ing her hand and pre­sent­ing her with a cer­tifi­cate and a check for two thou­sand dol­lars. Daisy Crea­son cap­tures the moment in a pho­to­graph, and Saint’s grand­moth­er, filled with pride, plans to keep copies of the pic­ture. Fol­low­ing this, Saint has her grand­moth­er cash the check, and that sec­ond Mon­day she places the entire amount in an enve­lope and dis­creet­ly leaves it in the Macauleys’ mail­box.

While rum­mag­ing through the trash, Saint dis­cov­ers an intrigu­ing assort­ment, includ­ing a flag and an antique trea­sure chest filled with shin­ing dou­bloons. At that moment, her friend arrives, and they share a brief exchange filled with light­heart­ed teas­ing. They walk to school togeth­er, but the atmos­phere is some­what strained as Saint notes her friend’s change in demeanor—he walks qui­et­ly, with his chin low­ered, seem­ing­ly lost in thought. Despite her attempts to engage him in con­ver­sa­tion about var­i­ous local happenings—including her grandmother’s change in cig­a­rette brands and a drunk­en inci­dent at the art gallery—her friend remains unre­spon­sive.

Real­iz­ing that he may be deal­ing with pro­found emo­tion­al tur­moil, Saint takes proac­tive mea­sures. The day after his return, she rides her Spy­der to the library to study trau­ma and psy­cho­log­i­cal dis­abil­i­ties, prepar­ing her­self to sup­port him as best she can with­out invad­ing his pri­va­cy. How­ev­er, her empa­thy is test­ed when her friend abrupt­ly express­es a dras­tic desire: he states, “I need to steal a car.” This unex­pect­ed rev­e­la­tion catch­es Saint off guard, indi­cat­ing a deep­er, unre­solved dis­tress with­in him that she is unpre­pared to address. This chap­ter encap­su­lates the com­plex­i­ties of their friend­ship, high­light­ing the chal­lenges of com­mu­ni­ca­tion and the weight of unspo­ken strug­gles.

Nina sens­es some­thing is ter­ri­bly wrong as she arrives at Andrew’s house, feel­ing a pro­found sense of unease. Despite swear­ing not to return unless her daugh­ter Cece was pro­tect­ed, Nina finds her­self back and alone, her trust placed only in Enzo to safe­guard her daugh­ter from any influ­ence of her charis­mat­ic yet untrust­wor­thy hus­band. The neigh­bor­hood, filled with those swayed by Andrew’s charm, offers lit­tle solace or trust­wor­thi­ness in Nina’s eyes.

Park­ing dis­creet­ly behind what seems to be an unwatched house, Nina’s attempt at stealth is inter­rupt­ed by Suzanne, a once con­fi­dant turned betray­er. Suzan­ne’s con­cern, hid­den under the guise of a missed lunch and neigh­bor­hood rumors, bare­ly masks her true inten­tions of seek­ing gos­sip. Nina deflects, pre­serv­ing the facade of a uni­fied front against rumors that depict her as either aban­doned or wrong­ly accused.

Upon reen­ter­ing her home, now alien and unwel­com­ing, Nina is met with silence and darkness—a tes­ta­ment to her estranged rela­tion­ship with Andrew. Her attempts at rekin­dling any sem­blance of normalcy—ringing the door­bell to her own home, the cau­tious entry—are met with noth­ing but the echo of her own move­ments. The pres­ence of Andrew’s BMW in the garage pro­vides no clues, leav­ing Nina’s mind to race with pos­si­bil­i­ties of where Andrew and Mil­lie might have van­ished to.

This chap­ter paints a vivid por­trait of iso­la­tion, betray­al, and the des­per­ate search for truth with­in the con­fines of a seem­ing­ly bro­ken home. Nina’s jour­ney is laden with uncer­tain­ty and the shad­ows of past betray­als, each step for­ward a tes­ta­ment to her resolve amid the crum­bling facade of her for­mer life.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

CHAPTER
58
We imme­di­ate­ly returned to Velaris, not trust­ing the queens to go long
with­out notic­ing the Book’s absence, espe­cial­ly if the vague men­tion of the
sixth allud­ed to fur­ther foul play amongst them.
Amren had the sec­ond half with­in min­utes, not even both­er­ing to ask
about the meet­ing before she van­ished into the din­ing room of the town
house and shut the doors behind her. So we wait­ed.
And wait­ed.
Two days passed.
Amren still hadn’t cracked the code.
Rhys and Mor left in the ear­ly after­noon to vis­it the Court of Night­mares
—to return the Ver­i­tas to Keir with­out his know­ing, and ensure that the
Stew­ard was indeed ready­ing his forces. Cass­ian had reports that the
Illyr­i­an legions were now camped across the moun­tains, wait­ing for the
order to fly out to wher­ev­er our first bat­tle might be.
There would be one, I real­ized. Even if we nul­li­fied the Caul­dron using
the Book, even if I was able to stop that Caul­dron and the king from using it
to shat­ter the wall and the world, he had armies gath­ered. Per­haps we’d take
the fight to him once the Caul­dron was dis­abled.
There was no word from my sis­ters, no report from Azriel’s sol­diers that
they’d changed their minds. My father, I remem­bered, was still trad­ing in
the con­ti­nent for the Moth­er knew what goods. Anoth­er vari­able in this.
And there was no word from the queens. It was of them that I most
fre­quent­ly thought. Of the two-faced, gold­en-eyed queen with not just a
lion’s col­or­ing … but a lion’s heart, too.
I hoped I saw her again.
With Rhys and Mor gone, Cass­ian and Azriel came to stay at the town
house as they con­tin­ued to plan our inevitable vis­it to Hybern. After that
first din­ner, when Cass­ian had bro­ken out one of Rhys’s very old bot­tles of
wine so we could cel­e­brate my mat­ing in style, I’d real­ized they’d come to
stay for com­pa­ny, to dine with me, and … the Illyr­i­ans had tak­en it upon
them­selves to look after me.
Rhys said as much that night when I’d writ­ten him a let­ter and watched it
van­ish. Appar­ent­ly, he didn’t mind his ene­mies know­ing he was at the
Court of Night­mares. If Hybern’s forces tracked him there … good luck to
them.
I’d writ­ten to Rhys, How do I tell Cass­ian and Azriel I don’t need them
here to pro­tect me? Com­pa­ny is fine, but I don’t need sen­tries.
He’d writ­ten back, You don’t tell them. You set bound­aries if they cross a
line, but you are their friend—and my mate. They will pro­tect you on
instinct. If you kick their ass­es out of the house, they’ll just sit on the roof.
I scrib­bled, You Illyr­i­an males are insuf­fer­able.
Rhys had just said, Good thing we make up for it with impres­sive
wingspans.
Even with him across the ter­ri­to­ry, my blood had heat­ed, my toes curl­ing.
I’d bare­ly been able to hold the pen long enough to write, I’m miss­ing that
impres­sive wingspan in my bed. Inside me.
He’d replied, Of course you are.
I’d hissed, jot­ting down, Prick.
I’d almost felt his laugh­ter down the bond—our mat­ing bond. Rhys wrote
back, When I return, we’re going to that shop across the Sidra and you’re
going to try on all those lacy lit­tle under­things for me.
I fell asleep think­ing about it, wish­ing my hand was his, pray­ing he’d
fin­ish at the Court of Night­mares and return to me soon. Spring was
burst­ing all across the hills and peaks around Velaris. I want­ed to sail over
the yel­low and pur­ple blooms with him.
The next after­noon, Rhys was still gone, Amren was still buried in the
book, Azriel off on a patrol of the city and near­by shore­line, and Cass­ian
and I were—of all things—just fin­ish­ing up an ear­ly after­noon per­for­mance
of some ancient, revered Fae sym­pho­ny. The amphi-the­ater was on the
oth­er side of the Sidra, and though he’d offered to fly me, I’d want­ed to
walk. Even if my mus­cles were bark­ing in protest after his bru­tal les­son that
morn­ing.
The music had been lovely—strange, but love­ly, writ­ten at a time,
Cass­ian had told me, when humans had not even walked the earth. He
found the music puz­zling, off-kil­ter, but … I’d been entranced.
Walk­ing back across one of the main bridges span­ning the riv­er, we
remained in com­pan­ion­able silence. We’d dropped off more blood for
Amren—who said thank you and get the hell out—and were now head­ed
toward the Palace of Thread and Jew­els, where I want­ed to buy both of my
sis­ters presents for help­ing us. Cass­ian had promised to send them down
with the next scout dis­patched to retrieve the lat­est report. I won­dered if
he’d send any­thing to Nes­ta while he was at it.
I paused at the cen­ter of the mar­ble bridge, Cass­ian halt­ing beside me as I
peered down at the blue-green water idling past. I could feel the threads of
the cur­rent far below, the strains of salt and fresh water twin­ing togeth­er, the
sway­ing weeds coat­ing the mus­sel-flecked floor, the tick­ling of small,
skit­ter­ing crea­tures over rock and mud. Could Tar­quin sense such things?
Did he sleep in his island-palace on the sea and swim through the dreams of
fish­es?
Cass­ian braced his fore­arms on the broad stone rail­ing, his red Siphons
like liv­ing pools of flame.
I said, per­haps because I was a busy­body who liked to stick my nose in
oth­er people’s affairs, “It meant a great deal to me—what you promised my
sis­ter the oth­er day.”
Cass­ian shrugged, his wings rustling. “I’d do it for any­one.”
“It meant a lot to her, too.” Hazel eyes nar­rowed slight­ly. But I casu­al­ly
watched the riv­er. “Nes­ta is dif­fer­ent from most peo­ple,” I explained. “She
comes across as rigid and vicious, but I think it’s a wall. A shield—like the
ones Rhys has in his mind.”
“Against what?”
“Feel­ing. I think Nes­ta feels everything—sees too much; sees and feels it
all. And she burns with it. Keep­ing that wall up helps from being
over­whelmed, from car­ing too great­ly.”
“She bare­ly seems to care about any­one oth­er than Elain.”
I met his stare, scan­ning that hand­some, tan face. “She will nev­er be like
Mor,” I said. “She will nev­er love freely and gift it to every­one who cross­es
her path. But the few she does care for … I think Nes­ta would shred the
world apart for them. Shred her­self apart for them. She and I have our …
issues. But Elain … ” My mouth quirked to the side. “She will nev­er for­get,
Cass­ian, that you offered to defend Elain. Defend her peo­ple. As long as she
lives, she will remem­ber that kind­ness.”
He straight­ened, rap­ping his knuck­les against the smooth mar­ble. “Why
are you telling me this?”
“I just—thought you should know. For when­ev­er you see her again and
she piss­es you off. Which I’m cer­tain will hap­pen. But know that deep
down, she is grate­ful, and per­haps does not pos­sess the abil­i­ty to say so. Yet
the feeling—the heart—is there.”
I paused, debat­ing push­ing him, but the riv­er flow­ing beneath us shift­ed.
Not a phys­i­cal shift­ing. But … a tremor in the cur­rent, in the bedrock, in
the skit­ter­ing things crawl­ing on it. Like ink dropped in water.
Cass­ian instant­ly went on alert as I scanned the riv­er, the banks on either
side.
“What the hell is that?” he mur­mured. He tapped the Siphon on each
hand with a fin­ger.
I gaped as scaled black armor began unfold­ing and slith­er­ing up his
wrists, his arms, replac­ing the tunic that had been there. Lay­er after lay­er,
coat­ing him like a sec­ond skin, flow­ing up to his shoul­ders. The addi­tion­al
Siphons appeared, and more armor spread across his neck, his shoul­ders,
down his chest and waist. I blinked, and it had cov­ered his legs—then his
feet.
The sky was cloud­less, the streets full of chat­ter and life.
Cass­ian kept scan­ning, a slow rota­tion over Velaris.
The riv­er beneath me remained steady, but I could feel it roil­ing, as if
try­ing to flee from— “From the sea,” I breathed. Cassian’s gaze shot
straight ahead, to the riv­er before us, to the tow­er­ing cliffs in the dis­tance
that marked the rag­ing waves where it met the ocean.
And there, on the hori­zon, a smear of black. Swift-moving—spreading
wider as it grew clos­er.
“Tell me those are birds,” I said. My pow­er flood­ed my veins, and I
curled my fin­gers into fists, will­ing it to calm, to steady—
“There’s no Illyr­i­an patrol that’s sup­posed to know about this place … ‚”
he said, as if it were an answer. His gaze cut to me. “We’re going back to
the town house right now.”
The smear of black sep­a­rat­ed, frac­tur­ing into count­less fig­ures. Too big
for birds. Far too big. I said, “You have to sound the alarm—”
But peo­ple were. Some were point­ing, some were shout­ing.
Cass­ian reached for me, but I jumped back. Ice danced at my fin­ger­tips,
wind howled in my blood. I’d pick them off one by one— “Get Azriel and
Amren—”
They’d reached the sea cliffs. Count­less, long-limbed fly­ing crea­tures,
some bear­ing sol­diers in their arms … An invad­ing host. “Cass­ian.”
But an Illyr­i­an blade had appeared in Cassian’s hand, twin to the one
across his back. A fight­ing knife now shone in the oth­er. He held them both
out to me. “Get back to the town house—right now.”
I most cer­tain­ly would not go. If they were fly­ing, I could use my pow­er
to my advan­tage: freeze their wings, burn them, break them. Even if there
were so many, even if—
So fast, as if they were car­ried on a fell wind, the force reached the out­er
edges of the city. And unleashed arrows upon the shriek­ing peo­ple rush­ing
for cov­er in the streets. I grabbed his out­stretched weapons, the cool met­al
hilts hiss­ing beneath my forge-hot palms.
Cass­ian lift­ed his hand into the air. Red light explod­ed from his Siphon,
blast­ing up and away—forming a hard wall in the sky above the city,
direct­ly in the path of that oncom­ing force.
He ground his teeth, grunt­ing as the winged legion slammed into his
shield. As if he felt every impact.
The translu­cent red shield shoved out far­ther, knock­ing them back—
We both watched in mute hor­ror as the crea­tures lunged for the shield,
arms out—
They were not just any man­ner of faerie. Any ris­ing mag­ic in me
sput­tered and went out at the sight of them.
They were all like the Attor.
All long-limbed, gray-skinned, with ser­pen­tine snouts and razor-sharp
teeth. And as the legion of its ilk punched through Cassian’s shield as if it
were a cob­web, I beheld on their spindly gray arms gauntlets of that bluish
stone I’d seen on Rhys, glim­mer­ing in the sun.
Stone that broke and repelled mag­ic. Straight from the unholy trove of
the King of Hybern.
One after one after one, they punched through his shield.
Cass­ian sent anoth­er wall bar­rel­ing for them. Some of the crea­tures
peeled away and launched them­selves upon the out­skirts of the city,
vul­ner­a­ble out­side of his shield. The heat that had been build­ing in my
palms fad­ed to clam­my sweat.
Peo­ple were shriek­ing, flee­ing. And I knew his shields would not hold—
“GO!” Cass­ian roared. I lurched into motion, know­ing he like­ly lin­gered
because I stayed, that he need­ed Azriel and Amren and—
High above us, three of them slammed into the dome of the red shield.
Claw­ing at it, rip­ping through lay­er after lay­er with those stone gauntlets.
That’s what had delayed the king these months: gath­er­ing his arse­nal.
Weapons to fight mag­ic, to fight High Fae who would rely on it—
A hole ripped open, and Cass­ian threw me to the ground, shov­ing me
against the mar­ble rail­ing, his wings spread­ing wide over me, his legs as
sol­id as the bands of carved rock at my back—
Screams on the bridge, hiss­ing laugh­ter, and then—
A wet, crunch­ing thud.
“Shit,” Cass­ian said. “Shit—”
He moved a step, and I lunged from under him to see what it was, who it
was—
Blood shone on the white mar­ble bridge, sparkling like rubies in the sun.
There, on one of those tow­er­ing, ele­gant lamp­posts flank­ing the bridge
…
Her body was bent, her back arched on the impact, as if she were in the
throes of pas­sion.
Her gold­en hair had been shorn to the skull. Her gold­en eyes had been
plucked out.
She was twitch­ing where she had been impaled on the post, the met­al
pole straight through her slim tor­so, gore cling­ing to the met­al above her.
Some­one on the bridge vom­it­ed, then kept run­ning.
But I could not break my stare from the gold­en queen. Or from the Attor,
who swept through the hole it had made and alight­ed atop the blood-soaked
lamp­post.
“Regards,” it hissed, “of the mor­tal queens. And Juri­an.” Then the Attor
leaped into flight, fast and sleek—heading right for the the­ater dis­trict we’d
left.
Cass­ian had pressed me back down against the bridge—and he surged
toward the Attor. He halt­ed, remem­ber­ing me, but I rasped, “Go.”
“Run home. Now.”
That was the final order—and his good-bye as he shot into the sky after
the Attor, who had already dis­ap­peared into the scream­ing streets.
Around me, hole after hole was punched through that red shield, those
winged crea­tures pour­ing in, dump­ing the Hybern sol­diers they had car­ried
across the sea.
Sol­diers of every shape and size—lesser faeries.
The gold­en queen’s gap­ing mouth was open­ing and clos­ing like a fish on
land. Save her, help her—
My blood. I could—
I took a step. Her body slumped.
And from wher­ev­er in me that pow­er orig­i­nat­ed, I felt her death whis­per
past.
The screams, the beat­ing wings, the whoosh and thud of arrows erupt­ed
in the sud­den silence.
I ran. I ran for my side of the Sidra, for the town house. I didn’t trust
myself to winnow—could bare­ly think around the pan­ic bark­ing through
my head. I had min­utes, per­haps, before they hit my street. Min­utes to get
there and bring as many inside with me as I could. The house was ward­ed.
No one would get in, not even these things.
Faeries were rush­ing past, rac­ing for shel­ter, for friends and fam­i­ly. I hit
the end of the bridge, the steep hills ris­ing up—
Hybern sol­diers were already atop the hill, at the two Palaces, laugh­ing at
the screams, the plead­ing as they broke into build­ings, drag­ging peo­ple out.
Blood drib­bled down the cob­ble­stones in lit­tle rivers.
They had done this. Those queens had … had giv­en this city of art and
music and food over to these … mon­sters. The king must have used the
Caul­dron to break its wards.
A thun­der­ous boom rocked the oth­er side of the city, and I went down at
the impact, blades fly­ing, hands rip­ping open on the cob­ble­stones. I whirled
toward the riv­er, scram­bling up, lung­ing for my weapons.
Cass­ian and Azriel were both in the skies now. And where they flew,
those winged crea­tures died. Arrows of red and blue light shot from them,
and those shields—
Twin shields of red and blue merged, siz­zling, and slammed into the rest
of the aer­i­al forces. Flesh and wings tore, bone melt­ed—
Until hands encased in stone tum­bled from the sky. Only hands.
Clat­ter­ing on rooftops, splash­ing into the riv­er. All that was left of them—
what two Illyr­i­an war­riors had worked their way around.
But there were count­less more who had already land­ed. Too many. Roofs
were wrenched apart, doors shat­tered, scream­ing ris­ing and then silenced—
This was not an attack to sack the city. It was an exter­mi­na­tion.
And ris­ing up before me, mere­ly a few blocks down, the Rain­bow of
Velaris was bathed in blood.
The Attor and his ilk had con­verged there.
As if the queens had told him where to strike; where in Velaris would be
the most defense­less. The beat­ing heart of the city.
Fire was rip­pling, black smoke stain­ing the sky—
Where was Rhys, where was my mate—
Across the riv­er, thun­der boomed again.
And it was not Cass­ian, or Azriel, who held the oth­er side of the riv­er.
But Amren.
Her slim hands had only to point, and sol­diers would fall—fall as if their
own wings failed them. They slammed into the streets, thrash­ing, chok­ing,
claw­ing, shriek­ing, just as the peo­ple of Velaris had shrieked.
I whipped my head to the Rain­bow a few blocks away—left unpro­tect­ed.
Defense­less.
The street before me was clear, the lone safe pas­sage through hell.
A female screamed inside the artists’ quar­ter. And I knew my path.
I flipped my Illyr­i­an blade in my hand and win­nowed into the burn­ing
and bloody Rain­bow.
This was my home. These were my peo­ple.
If I died defend­ing them, defend­ing that small place in the world where
art thrived …
Then so be it.
And I became dark­ness, and shad­ow, and wind.
I win­nowed into the edge of the Rain­bow as the first of the Hybern
sol­diers round­ed its far­thest cor­ner, spilling onto the riv­er avenue, shred­ding
the cafés where I had lounged and laughed. They did not see me until I was
upon them.
Until my Illyr­i­an blade cleaved through their heads, one after anoth­er.
Six went down in my wake, and as I halt­ed at the foot of the Rain­bow,
star­ing up into the fire and blood and death … Too many. Too many
sol­diers.
I’d nev­er make it, nev­er kill them all—
But there was a young female, green-skinned and lithe, an ancient, rust­ed
bit of pipe raised above her shoul­der. Stand­ing her ground in front of her
storefront—a gallery. Peo­ple crouched inside the shop were sob­bing.
Before them, laugh­ing at the faerie, at her raised scrap of met­al, cir­cled
five winged sol­diers. Play­ing with her, taunt­ing her.
Still she held the line. Still her face did not crum­ple. Paint­ings and
pot­tery were shat­tered around her. And more sol­diers were land­ing, spilling
down, butcher­ing—
Across the riv­er, thun­der boomed—Amren or Cass­ian or Azriel, I didn’t
know.
The riv­er.
Three sol­diers spot­ted me from up the hill. Raced for me.
But I ran faster, back for the riv­er at the foot of the hill, for the singing
Sidra.
I hit the edge of the quay, the water already stained with blood, and
slammed my foot down in a mighty stomp.
And as if in answer, the Sidra rose.
I yield­ed to that thrum­ming pow­er inside my bones and blood and breath.
I became the Sidra, ancient and deep. And I bent it to my will.
I lift­ed my blades, will­ing the riv­er high­er, shap­ing it, forg­ing it.
Those Hybern sol­diers stopped dead in their tracks as I turned toward
them.
And wolves of water broke from behind me.
The sol­diers whirled, flee­ing.
But my wolves were faster. I was faster as I ran with them, in the heart of
the pack.
Wolf after wolf roared out of the Sidra, as colos­sal as the one I had once
killed, pour­ing into the streets, rac­ing upward.
I made it five steps before the pack was upon the sol­diers taunt­ing the
shop own­er.
I made it sev­en steps before the wolves brought them down, water
shov­ing down their throats, drown­ing them—
I reached the sol­diers, and my blade sang as I sev­ered their chok­ing
heads from their bod­ies.
The shop­keep­er was sob­bing as she rec­og­nized me, her rust­ed bar still
raised. But she nodded—only once.
I ran again, los­ing myself amongst my water-wolves. Some of the
sol­diers were tak­ing to the sky, flap­ping upward, back­track­ing.
So my wolves grew wings, and talons, and became fal­cons and hawks
and eagles.
They slammed into their bod­ies, their armor, drench­ing them. The
air­borne sol­diers, real­iz­ing they hadn’t been drowned, halt­ed their flight and
laughed—sneering.
I lift­ed a hand sky­ward, and clenched my fin­gers into a fist.
The water soak­ing them, their wings, their armor, their faces … It turned
to ice.
Ice that was so cold it had exist­ed before light, before the sun had
warmed the earth. Ice of a land cloaked in win­ter, ice from the parts of me
that felt no mer­cy, no sym­pa­thy for what these crea­tures had done and were
doing to my peo­ple.
Frozen sol­id, dozens of the winged sol­diers fell to the earth as one. And
shat­tered upon the cob­ble­stones.
My wolves raged around me, tear­ing and drown­ing and hunt­ing. And
those that fled them, those that took to the skies—they froze and shat­tered;
froze and shat­tered. Until the streets were laden with ice and gore and
bro­ken bits of wing and stone.
Until the scream­ing of my peo­ple stopped, and the screams of the
sol­diers became a song in my blood. One of the sol­diers rose up above the
bright­ly paint­ed build­ings … I knew him.
The Attor was flap­ping, fran­tic, blood of the inno­cent coat­ing his gray
skin, his stone gauntlets. I sent an eagle of water shoot­ing for him, but he
was quick­er, nim­ble.