Korvan leaned down to the array of microphones and looked straight at Valentine, freezing her to the spot. ‘I don’t possess the oratory skills of our esteemed Prime Councillor—’ The monster’s voice crackled through the loudspeakers. ‘—so I’ll speak with actions.’
Korvan’s hands wrapped around Thackeray’s neck. The Prime Councillor struggled, screamed. Korvan twisted his hands and wrenched Thackeray’s head from his shoulders.
Blood and gore seeped over the monster’s marble-white fingers. He examined the anguish frozen on Thackeray’s face and juggled his head once, twice, before hurling it into the crowd. ‘Let the festivities begin!’
Then in falls, came the rain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Thunder roared and civilians and Lightbearers trampled each other into the ground.
Valentine could only watch as Korvan and his two Wraiths disappeared within the Remembrance Tower’s scaffolding.
Fallon’s corpse swung in the rising wind.
Then the Wraiths on the rooftops and inside the War Memorial Museum opened fire on the fleeing civilians, snapping Valentine from her reverie. They dragged screaming bodies away and disappeared into side streets with those already dead.
Not like this.
It can’t end like this.
Valentine marched against the current of people, towards the gunfire. Bullets peppered bodies on the ground and into fleeing people, their blood spattering her.
Damien called out behind her.
It can’t end like this.
Her rage numbed the pain, the grief. She clambered over a rail and up to the podium. Fighting tears, she cut Fallon’s body down, removed the noose and closed his eye.
Her muscles filled with sand and her chest knotted with pain. I’m sorry, boss. I’ll bury you. Soon as I kill Korvan, I’ll bury you.
Damien’s shadow stretched over her. ‘Nyrita, I know you’re grieving, but—’
‘Sit this one out, Fieri.’
‘You can’t beat him.’
‘I got a Vindicator that says different.’
‘He’s a monster.’
‘I know what he is, Damien.’
‘Then you know he’ll kill you.’
Wind roared and the rain battered her. Bolts of lightning struck the top of the Remembrance Tower as the black storm cloud claimed the sky.
‘What’s atop the tower, Valentine? A weapon?’
‘The Lightning Harness. Asshole’s gonna torch the city.’
Damien looked up. ‘No, he won’t.’
Morton aimed for Terros’ Crown. Sooner he landed, the sooner he could figure out what in hells to do.
When the Wraith fighter started shooting at him, he figured he’d keep running.
It wove between the two Raincatcher ships. By the looks of it, it was winning: The hulking Talon belched smoke from a rotor and the Desert Rose had deployed its emergency envelope, bobbing over the city like a first-gen airship.
Streams of bullets chased the Wraith, but gyroguns were meant for humans, not new-fangled fighters that could disappear from RADIOM. It opened fire on the Desert Rose, severing two of its suspension cables. Someone on the deck fell overboard and disappeared.
Damn the Gods…
The Raincatchers were doing this for him. They’d saved the Wind. What kind of man would Morton Brunswick be if he didn’t do the same for them?
A smart one.
Morton plunged forward, cold air hissing through the shattered skyglass and a sinking feeling expanding in his gut. The Wind shot between the two larger vessels, forcing the Wraith off-course. It disappeared from RADIOM.
Adrenaline made a man strong and stupid—and damn, if Morton didn’t like it.
C’mon, you son of a bitch—where are you?
It burst out of the horizon and barrelled towards him. Bricode messages came from the Talon but Morton ignored it—this dance was between him and the Wraith.
Its guns blazed. The Wind descended—graceless, lumbering—but it did the job.
The Wraith shot overhead; Morton turned, sticking close to the Talon, bullets from the Raincatcher’s gyrogun forcing the Wraith to abandon its attack run.
The Desert Rose took the opportunity to depart—a risk, but its canvas envelope provided too big a target—one attack and she’d hit the ground.
Morton engaged his thrusters but didn’t stray too far from the Talon. He sought the Wraith amidst expanding black clouds. Where are you? Where are you?
A flicker of lightning illuminated the gunmetal black of the Wraith. The Talon spotted it too and gave chase.
The Wraith twisted away, its hateful, shrill howl filling Morton’s ears. He accelerated forward to nudge it back into the Talon’s line of fire, but the Wraith corrected course and barrelled towards the Liberty Wind.
‘Shit.’
It came at him like the swoop of a bat, guns roaring.
Then the bullets stopped.
‘Ha!’ Morton slapped the dashboard and relayed a message via bricode: Enemy out of ammo.
He thrust forward and the Wraith pulled up to avoid a collision—straight into the Talon’s line of fire.
The bullets tore through the Wraith’s port-side rotor. Smoke trailed from the wound and—its wings clipped—it lolled to the side, circling Terros’ Crown.
The Talon banked hard and lined up for another volley, but the Wraith was slick; it twisted away.
So Morton did the only thing he could: He pulled away and blocked the Wraith’s ascent, harassing it and forcing it to change trajectory.
Like a cornered wasp, the Wraith spun high and low, unable to fight back.
Tugarin’s Talon loomed overhead. If the big bastard on the deck was Tugarin himself, then he could give Belios the shits. He cranked the gyrogun and rained bullets on the Wraith, destroying its remaining rotor and skyglass.
The Wraith burst forward, but with no rotors for lift, it shot straight into Terros’ Crown, erupting into a million shards.
Morton punched the dashboard and laughed so hard his belly ached. He didn’t know if Tugarin could see him, but he saluted anyway. The bricode machine stuttered a message of thanks.
His joy didn’t last: Thunder exploded close by and rain swept through the Wind’s bridge.
When was the last time it rained in Dalthea?
Storm clouds galloped across the sky, concealing the stars. Lightning flared. A thunderbolt cut through the tenement below—in an instant, fire engulfed it and swept through a street.
Gods above and below…
Morton sailed low—the safest place to be during a thunderstorm was on the ground. He’d done his bit—he’d fought when he should’ve run—not again. There was such a thing as pushing your luck.
Another Bride’s Code message came through: This is the Talon—we’re sailing low and assisting with evacuation. Recommend Desert Rose and Liberty Wind seek shelter.
‘Damn right.’
Then a response: This is Captain Li of the Desert Rose—one thousand aerons says we save more than you.
‘Raincatchers’ Guild must be full of halfwits.’
Lightning flashed across the Wind’s bow, bolts coming more and more frequently, wreaking havoc on the streets. Fires swept through buildings below.
Morton tapped the bricode needle. Make it two thousand.
Tugarin’s response came at once: You’re my kind of idiot.
‘Might as well do the hero thing. On a roll, now.’
Lightning scorched the sky, thunder exploded, and panic cleared the streets. Valentine retreated into the hollowed-out Kingsway Plaza, a once-luxury hotel across from the War Memorial Museum.
Screams and gunfire cut through the fury of wind and thunder, but the worst of it was over—the Wraiths had plenty of troops for their army.
Valentine pulled the Wraith mask over her face. A crack spread through its black lenses.
Dazed, and thinking of Fallon’s blood- and rain-soaked corpse lying by the podium, she climbed the
hotel’s stairway towards the roof.
The two Wraiths standing guard on the roof were too busy shooting to hear her—Valentine raised her rifle and killed them without a thought.
She refused to let grief cloud her mind. She tucked the rifle stock tighter into her shoulder, tracking Damien as he weaved through the tower. He flitted like a ghost, disappearing and reappearing.
Looking through an iron sight made things simple—it separated the mind from doubt, turned everything black and white. Them or me. She didn’t know how Thackeray had seized power so easily. She didn’t know how the kingdom could fall into chaos.
But here, now, with an objective and her weapon tucked close, everything made sense.
Damien leapt over metal beams and through tight gaps. He elbowed a Wraith’s jaw, swept his legs away and slashed another’s throat before they had a chance to open fire.
He kept climbing, pain creeping into his muscles.
Weak.
No—human.
Brass tubes and conduits ran through the skeletal frame of the tower and up to its peak. They thrummed with energy, alive—it made tracking the Wraiths more difficult.
The machinery belched steam, silhouetting his enemies—but without heartbeats or the need to breathe, Damien was forced to rely on sight.
That works both ways.
He faded into shadows and slipped past a two-Wraith team, racing higher and higher up the Remembrance Tower. Rain turned horizontal then vertical in the storm. The tower creaked and groaned.
Do you hope to die in this place, ‘Damien’?
Damien didn’t belong in Dalthea—he didn’t belong anywhere; not Rhis, not with the Nyr-az-Telun. Dalthea wasn’t Arros tal Ryn-Ståljern’s birthplace, nor even Damien Fieri’s—it wasn’t until he’d met Tyson Gallows in a prison cell that he’d realised there was something else inside him besides bloodlust—a greater force: Mercy.
I will save my adopted home, then I’ll scour every inch of Unit One Three Seven for Zofia’s cure.
‘You were born a monster, boy.’
I’ll prove you wrong, Father. I will choose life over death.
Beneath snarling wind, Korvan’s laughter beckoned Damien.
He flew up the treacherous scaffolding, leaping, swinging, concealed in shadows. Wooden planks broke away and spun to the ground. Where he could, Damien slipped inside the shell of the Remembrance Tower, but its broken walls and fire-damaged flooring were even more treacherous than its external scaffolding.
Muscles burning, Damien scaled a wall and prowled across wooden crossbeams. A Wraith patrolled what remained of an upper floor; Damien shoved him over the edge without a sound before crossing to the opposite side of the tower and resuming his climb.
Controlling the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Damien picked off enemy targets one by one—swift, silent. Like a finely tuned machine, Damien’s body obeyed every command without fault.
To wreak such death and carnage after denying yourself… Exquisite.
Rain battered him and lightning scorched the air.
Except these things are already dead, ‘Damien’. You want to feel that power, see the life squeezed from the eyes of a living thing.
Damien climbed to the next level, halfway up the tower—he didn’t sense the Wraith standing there.
It opened fire.
Damien rolled to the side, plates from the rusting platform peeling away as he touched them. He whipped the concealed blade out and slashed the Wraith’s ankles, severing its tendons. It collapsed in a heap, and Damien opened its throat.
More came. Bullets chewed through the steel and Damien dived and rolled to avoid them.
Sparse cover, poor footing.
He darted towards a gap and slid out towards the city below, turning at the last second to clasp onto the edge of the platform.
He shimmied to the side, Dalthea sprawled beneath him, wind whipping his legs. He closed his eyes and heightened his senses.
The creak of the steel, the whine of metal on metal—
Is it your enemies, or is it the wind, ‘Damien’?
—the slam of magazines, the hiss of ignium from a ruptured Vindicator tube…
You can’t tell.
Footsteps circling…
You need blood to sharpen your skills.
Damien vaulted onto the platform. He plunged his blade through a Wraith’s eye and used it as a shield when its comrades opened fire.
And the bloodlust rose.
Buzz’s sodden clothes clung to him as he ran, his bare feet slapping against the rain-slick cobbles of Old Town Square.
Wind fanned flames over the courthouse, the rain doing nothing to quell the fire.
A stitch pierced Buzz’s side, and he fought the urge to vomit. Damn, the withdrawal never got any easier.
Lightbearers scattered across the Square or huddled under shelter. A screaming infant wriggled in its father’s arms. Never seen the rain before.
Buzz forced himself to move, even as lightning struck nearby. He had a job to do—a purpose. He stepped over a dead body and—
A flash of lightning illuminated the corpse’s swollen and mangled face, stopping Buzz dead.
Arch Vigil Waltham.
Poor bastard.
Buzz had too many enemies to have a single nemesis, but sometimes it was Wally.
It wasn’t the man he hated; it was the uniform. The Watch. They never respected Buzz, so he lashed out at them, stole from them to impress his friends. Some of the Watch even deserved it. But not all of them.
Other times, Waltham was the closest Buzz had to a friend.
The sky rumbled and the wind wailed. Sorry, mate.
Breathing speared Valentine’s lungs—the injuries inflicted by Tristan needed dressing.
The storm crashed around her. Lightning streaked out from the Harness in wide, horizontal arcs, lighting the world in split-second bursts. Static ran through Valentine’s arms and an artificial stench filled her nose, like a chemical burn.
Wraiths peeled out of the darkness, creeping through the Remembrance Tower like stoneroaches. Valentine pulled the trigger, firing in short bursts—inaccurate at this range but enough to give Damien warning.
Fieri moved like liquid around the enemy, like he knew their movements before they did. Watching him butcher the Wraiths, Valentine reckoned he might stand a chance against Korvan.
Beneath the storm, even this high up from the ground, a solitary scream whined on the empty street. A Lightbearer lay on the ground, a woman, her face bloodied and one of her legs mangled. She crawled across the ground, wailing.
‘You’re the first person who told Dalthea the truth.’
Buzz was right. After all the lies and betrayal, that had to mean something. What was the point of revealing the truth about the Gravehold if she didn’t see the fight through?
Valentine didn’t toe the line—she wasn’t some toy soldier who followed orders without question, like one of the Wraiths. That’s why Fallon liked her so much—and it’s what made her father proud.
Shit.
Valentine slung the weapon over her shoulder and barrelled towards the streets.
Damien’s sword lopped a Wraith’s hand off and opened up its torso. They were inhuman, didn’t feel pain—but that meant their reactions didn’t change. They couldn’t adapt or evolve—soulless husks not even alive.
And Damien delighted in putting them down.
Steel clashed. Damien swept the Wraith’s blade away and plunged a throwing knife through its eye.
The one behind opened fire—Damien cartwheeled but a bullet grazed his calf.
You’re slow. Weak.
Damien flew up the scaffolding, hung from a beam behind it and kicked out, sending the Wraith over the edge of the tower.
More came.
Damien danced between gunfire; a bullet ricocheted and caught him in the shoulder, the same place Tyson Gallows had once shot him for nearly losing control.
And look where that got y
ou. Lose control, ‘Damien’. Let yourself go.
Damien spun through the air, avoiding a hail of bullets. More Wraiths converged on his location; Valentine’s fire had been a welcome distraction, but the distance and the wind meant she was more likely to hit him than the enemy. He kept his distance, struck from the shadows, neutralising each threat before ascending further.
A Wraith sprang from a shadow and thrust its blade—Damien deflected it, pierced the Wraith’s heart and watched as it plummeted over the edge in silence.
Then a sound prickled his senses.
Heartbeats, muffled voices, whines like lambs brought to the slaughter.
Humans.
Damien’s heart raced.
Be what you were meant to be, ‘Damien’.
Another volley of thunder resounded, so close it shook the Liberty Wind.
Forks of lightning split the sky. Morton had flown during thunderstorms before, been struck by lightning before—third-gen airships and even some fighter craft had safeguards in place in the event of a lightning strike, like making sure the hull conducted and dispersed the electricity—but not in concentrated storms like this.
The Talon landed in a street, its hatches open. Tugarin himself guided people inside.
Morton and the Desert Rose flew to the skyport. Lightning struck the structure’s spiked walls and plumes of smoke rose around it. Cracks lined its walls and more than one of its landing pads were little more than smoking ruins.
Mounds of bodies littered the streets surrounding the skyport. Thunder growled like the wrath of Aerulus himself, doing nothing to dissuade the die-hards still fighting on the street.
His fingers danced on the bricode needle: Anyone still alive—evacuate—seek shelter. Board the Liberty Wind, Tugarin’s Talon or the Desert Rose. We evacuate west to the desert.
The Rose landed, and straight away, lines of people slithered into it.
A bricode message stuttered: This is Commander Lockwood—reveal your identity, Liberty Wind, or we will shoot you down.
A lightning bolt seared past the Wind’s bow. ‘Gods damn it.’ Morton tapped a message: On no-one’s side—storm growing—get out or perish.
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