Chapter 14: The Wolf's Blade
Frigidity swept through the air a moment before the gleam of polished steel followed. It wasn't a scent, not a sound—Aria just knew, a deep, primal understanding that lanced through the fuzzy hum of grief and formal wear. Some part of her, the part still screaming with the fire of a god she’d carved from the sky, came instantly, brutally awake.
She didn't look around.
Her right arm snapped out, a movement born of pure instinct, and into her waiting palm a world of agony slammed. But for her, it was just weight. Familiar and vengeful. Firegard materialized, its obsidian hilt cold, its blade a shard of contained supernova. The world held its breath for a fractured second, then came the sharp, sickening ping as the thrown dagger ricocheted off the Asteri-forged steel an inch from Daemian’s spine.
Silence.
For three heavy heartbeats, the only sound was the manicured steel rolling across marble. It landed near the foot of King Oren's dais. Not a whisper moved through the glittering assembly. It wasn't horror at the thrown dagger, or shock at the wolf-shifter's uncanny reaction. Every single stare, petrified and wide, was locked on the weapon in her hand. The weapon that should have been impossible for her to hold.
King Oren rose slowly. His gold-filigree goblet slipped from his fingers, wine splattering his boots like blood. He didn't notice. His face, usually a mask of arrogant composure, had bleached to the color of old bone. He stared at Firegard as if seeing a ghost.
"Impossible," he breathed. The word didn't carry. It was a dry, gutted scrape of sound.
Into that vacuum, Aria’s voice fell, flat and devoid of all the trembling shyness she’d cloaked herself in. It was the voice she’d used a week ago, in a room a universe away, to pronounce sentence.
"Try again."
The sneer on Kaelen’s face faltered, replaced by confusion. He took a hesitant step back, his gaze darting between the sword and the girl.
"And he," she said, lifting Firegard, the tip aimed unerringly at Kaelen’s throat. The movement made the gown’s thin strap on that shoulder finally give, snapping quietly. "Just tried to assassinate the Crown Prince of Avallen. Your own son." Her eyes, lifted from the blade to the King, now shone. It wasn't the gold of her wolf. It was a bright, electric violet, depths swimming with pinpricks of cold starlight. The exact eyes of Rigelus, the Asteri, her father. The one she’d driven this very blade through.
The effect was immediate and seismic. A ripple of palpable terror tore through the courtiers. Several stumbled back. Oren’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
Daemian was a statue at her side, but she felt the tension screaming through him, the rigid line of his shoulder brushing her bare arm. She glanced at him, just a flicker. His hazel eyes were wide, not with fear of the dagger, but with dawning, earth-shattering comprehension.
"You let this viper sit at your table," Aria continued, that flat, deadly calm unwavering. She took a single step forward, the ruined gown rustling. Kaelen matched it with a step back, tripping over his own feet. "You let him plot against your heir while you watched. So I ask you, King Oren. Was that treason just his... or did you give him the knife?"
Silence crystallized around Aria’s question, sharp and fragile. King Oren’s mouth opened, then shut, a fish gasping on a polished marble shore. The violet light from her eyes painted his blanched face in surreal hues. He looked less like a king and more like a child caught in a lie.
Then, from the sea of sequins and silk, a tall, cloaked figure sank to one knee. The velvet whisper of fabric against stone was deafening.
“Star-Born,” the female fae breathed, her forehead nearly touching the floor.
It was a fracture point. A cascade of rustling and thuds followed as a third of the court knelt, a wave of obeisance rolling outward from her. Others scrambled back, knocking over delicate silver chairs. A server dropped a tray with a clatter that echoed like gunfire.
“Get up,” Aria said, the command low. She didn’t look at them. Her focus was a laser on Oren. “Don’t kneel to me.”
Kaelen found his voice, shrill and wavering. “This is a trick! A blasphemy!”
Ithan was suddenly there, a solid wall of muscle and restrained fury at her left side. His green eyes scanned the hall, the exits, the panicked faces. “Nice party,” he muttered, his voice a low growl meant only for her and Dae. “Real classy.”
Daemian finally moved. He didn’t step in front of her. He stepped beside her, his shoulder aligning with hers, facing his father. His movement was a declaration the entire court understood.
“She asked you a question,” Dae said, his tone colder than she’d ever heard it. “Did you give Kaelen the knife?”
“You side with this… this abomination?” Oren spat, finding his regal anger again. It was brittle. “Against your own blood?”
“My brother was my blood,” Dae shot back, and the raw pain in those words cut through the room’s tension. “And you let his murderer sit at your right hand for a year.”
The king flinched. That was the truth, laid bare. The kneeling courtiers began to look up, uncertainty dawning on their faces.
Aria adjusted her grip on Firegard. The strap of her gown dangled, exposing her shoulder, but she felt no shame. Only a chilling, focused power. “You don’t get to call me an abomination,” she said, her voice still that terrible, calm flatline. “Not when you’ve been scheming to replace one prince with a puppet. Was Dae next? Or was he always the intended target tonight?”
Oren’s eyes flicked to Kaelen, a microscopic tell. It was all the confirmation she needed.
“Guards!” the king bellowed, his composure shattering.
But the royal guards hesitated, their eyes darting from the kneeling nobles to the sword that glowed with the heart of a dead star, to the princess with the Asteri’s own eyes.
“Take her! Seize that weapon!”
Only two guards at the far doors moved, hands going to their hilts. Ithan shifted his weight, a predatory roll onto the balls of his feet, a silent promise of violence.
Aria didn’t wait for them. She raised Firegard, not to strike, but to shine. The blade’s inner light intensified, casting long, stark shadows and illuminating the terror on every face. She spoke, and her voice carried, amplified by the weapon’s ancient magic.
“I am Arianna Holstrom,” she announced, and the name she’d hidden behind for eighteen years now felt like armor. “Daughter of Rigelus. Heir to nothing you covet.” She pointed the sword’s tip directly at King Oren’s heart. “And the only person in this room who knows exactly how to kill an immortal king.”
The momentum shifted, palpably, like the groaning of tectonic plates. The guards who had stepped forward froze. The kneeling fae stared, hope and terror warring in their expressions. Dae let out a slow, controlled breath beside her.
King Oren had no retort. He just stared, finally, into the void of his own ruin.
Then, from the shadows behind the dais, a new voice, smooth as poisoned wine, slithered into the silence.
“What a fascinating turn of events.”
Everyone turned. A tall, elegant figure emerged, one who had watched the entire spectacle from the darkness. It was the Queen.
It was the Queen. She descended the dais steps with a predator’s grace, her midnight-blue gown swallowing the faelight. Her eyes, the same cold hazel as her son’s, held none of his conflict. Only a calculating, amused cruelty. She stopped just beyond the reach of Firegard’s glow.
“Asteri spawn or not,” she said, her voice carrying a melodic sharpness, “you are a guest who has drawn a weapon in my hall. That carries a consequence.”
“Mom,” Dae said, the word a warning and a plea tangled together.
“Quiet, Daemian.” She didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed on Aria, dissecting her. “You hold a sword you have no right to. You flaunt eyes that are not your own. You accuse a king.” A faint, cold smile touched her lips. “You have spirit. I’ll grant you that. Wasted, of course, on such… mundane genetics.”
Ithan growled, the sound purely lupine. “Say another word about my sister.”
The Queen’s smile widened. She finally looked at Ithan, dismissively. “The Prime of mutts. How novel.” Her attention snapped back to Aria. “Put the blasphemous thing down, child. Before you hurt yourself.”
Aria didn’t move. The violet light in her eyes pulsed. “It’s mine.”
“Is it?” The Queen’s hand lifted, not in attack, but in a casual, twisting gesture.
Firegard shuddered in Aria’s grip.
It wasn’t a pull. It was a command. The sword’s own magic vibrated, resonating with the Queen’s unseen power. Aria’s knuckles turned white as she fought to hold it. The blade felt suddenly hot, then freezing, antagonistic. A shock of pure, discordant energy lanced up her arm.
“See?” the Queen murmured. “Old magic recognizes old magic. It doesn’t belong to you.”
With a final, sharp twist of the Queen’s wrist, Firegard wrenched itself from Aria’s grasp.
It didn’t clatter to the floor. It hung in the air between them, point downward, spinning slowly like a macabre pendulum. The Queen hadn’t touched it. She was conducting it.
A gasp rippled through the hall. King Oren watched, a dawning, vicious satisfaction replacing his fear.
“That’s better,” the Queen said.
Aria stood empty-handed, her arm aching. Humiliation burned hotter than the sword’s strange energy. She saw Dae take a step forward, saw Ithan tense to spring. She shook her head, a tiny movement. This was hers.
“You want a consequence?” Aria asked, her voice low. The shy girl was gone, incinerated. What remained was anger, honed and sharp. “Try and take it.”
The Queen’s elegant eyebrows lifted. “Brave little pup.”
The suspended sword tipped. Its point aimed at Aria’s heart.
Then it shot forward.
Aria wasn’t there. She moved with the speed her human form rarely allowed, fueled by adrenaline and rage. She ducked under the lethal thrust, rolled across the cold marble, and came up where a guardsman had dropped a ceremonial pike. She snatched it up. It was heavy, unbalanced, but it was steel.
The Queen flicked her fingers. Firegard streaked after Aria like a silver comet.
Aria parried. The sound was a deafening crack of metal on wood. The pike’s head sheared off, clattering away. She was left holding a splintered staff.
“Running is so undignified,” the Queen sighed, as if bored.
Firegard whistled through the air again. Aria blocked with the staff, but the magic-driven sword sliced through it like butter. A line of fire opened across Aria’s ribs. She hissed, stumbling back. The cut was shallow but stung fiercely.
“Aria!” Dae’s shout was raw.
“Stay out of it, prince,” Ithan barked, though every muscle in his body was coiled to intervene. He watched his sister, trusting her, waiting for his moment.
The Queen advanced, a leisurely stroll, her hand weaving intricate patterns in the air. Firegard became a blur, a relentless predator harrying its prey. Aria dodged, spun, and leaped over a overturned table. Crystal shattered. She was fast, but the sword was faster, and it never tired.
A feint left, a real thrust right. Aria predicted it. She grabbed a heavy silver platter from the table and used it as a shield. Firegard pierced straight through the metal with a shriek, stopping an inch from her eye.
She let go, leaving the sword embedded in the platter. For a second, it was stuck.
Aria charged. Not for the sword. For the Queen.
The Queen’s composure flickered. She brought her hands up, a shimmering, transparent shield of hard air manifesting before her. Aria hit it like hitting a wall. The impact jarred her bones.
But Aria had fought gods. She dropped, sweeping a leg at the Queen’s ankles.
The shield didn’t cover the floor. The Queen stumbled, her concentration breaking. The shield wavered. Firegard, still stuck in the platter, clattered to the ground.
Aria was on her feet first. She drove her shoulder into the Queen’s midsection, sending them both crashing into the base of the dais. They were a tangle of silk and snarling fury. No magic now. Just hands.
The Queen was stronger than she looked. Her nails, sharp as talons, raked down Aria’s cheek. Aria responded with a headbutt that snapped the Queen’s head back. She grabbed a fistful of that perfect silver-blond hair.
“You,” Aria panted, her face bleeding, “are a terrible host.”
The Queen snarled, a feral, ugly sound. Her knee came up, aiming for Aria’s stomach. Aria twisted, taking the blow on her hip. She used the momentum to roll, pinning the Queen beneath her. She drew her own fist back.
“Enough!” King Oren roared.
Aria didn’t get to throw the punch.
The Queen’s eyes locked on hers. Not with anger. With cold, triumphant focus. Her hand, pinned at her side, didn’t move. But her finger twitched.
Across the floor, Firegard tore itself free from the silver platter.
It flew, not in a wild arc, but with precise, silent speed. Like an arrow released from a bow. Aria, atop the Queen, was the perfect, stationary target.
“No!” Dae screamed.
The blade took her high in the back, just below the shoulder. It punched through with a wet, terrible thud, the obsidian tip erupting from her chest in a spray of crimson.
Aria froze. Her eyes went wide. A strange, cold numbness flooded her, followed instantly by a fire that spread from the wound to every nerve ending. She looked down at the glistening point of the sword protruding from her breastbone. Her own sword.
The Queen smiled beneath her. “Consequence.”
Time stuttered.
Ithan’s roar of anguish filled the world. He lunged, but guards finally moved to intercept him.
Dae didn’t roar. The sound that ripped from his throat was something else entirely—a silent, breathless crack of pure reality breaking.
He had been moving towards her, but now he stopped. His whole body locked. His hazel eyes, fixed on Aria’s face as she stared at the blade in her chest, began to change. The brown and green dissolved, replaced by a swirling, molten gold. Not the gold of a wolf’s eyes. The gold of a furnace, of a star’s core.
Heat blossomed from him. A visible wave, distorting the air.
The silk flowers on the nearest tables browned, curled, and disintegrated to ash.
“Daemian,” his father whispered, taking a step back.
Dae didn’t hear him. He only saw Aria. He saw the life leaching from her eyes, the shock softening into a distant, accepting fog. He felt it. A searing, screaming pain in his own chest, right where the blade had pierced her. A phantom wound that was infinitely more real than any physical injury.
The mate bond, silent and dormant until this very second, exploded into blinding, agonizing awareness.
His mother saw his face. Saw the golden fire in his eyes. Her smug victory vanished, replaced by dawning, horrified understanding. “You… and her? It can’t be.”
Daemian spoke. His voice was not his own. It was the sound of a mountain splitting, deep and final and full of fire.
“You hurt my mate.”
Then he unleashed it.
Fire did not stream from his hands. It exploded from him. From his skin, his eyes, his being. A concussive ring of pure, incandescent flame erupted outward, vaporizing the marble floor in a perfect circle around him. It hit the guards holding Ithan, and they screamed, rolling away from the sudden blistering heat.
It rolled towards the dais.
King Oren stumbled backward, his robes smoking.
The Queen, still pinned beneath a dying Aria, had time for her eyes to widen in true fear. The wave of fire enveloped them both.
But it did not burn Aria. The flames kissed her skin, warm and gentle, cradling her, sealing the horrific wound around the blade in a cauterizing flash. They were an extension of him, and they would never harm her.
His mother was not so protected.
The Queen’s scream was short, choked, and utterly silenced as the Avallen Crown Prince’s fire, the legacy of his bloodline, the power he had never fully commanded, consumed her. There was no time for more. There was only light, and heat, and a final, terrible sigh of ash.
The fire vanished as suddenly as it came.
Silence, heavier than before, choked the hall. The air smelled of ozone, scorched stone, and burnt flesh.
In the center of the smoldering ring, Daemian stood, his eyes still blazing suns. Aria lay motionless on the ground before him, Firegard still transfixing her body, the flames having sealed the wound but not undone the damage.
The Queen was gone. Only a dark smear on the marble and a scorched crown, melted into a puddle of silver and jewels, remained where she had been.
King Oren stared at the spot where his wife had been, then at his son. His face was a mask of utter, incomprehensible horror.
Daemian looked at his father, his golden eyes holding no remorse, only a vast and terrifying emptiness. Then his gaze fell back to Aria.
“Ithan,” he said, his voice hoarse and cracked. “Get the blade out. Now.”
He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands hovering over her, trembling with a power that had just rewritten the rules of everything.
He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands hovering over her, trembling with a power that had just rewritten the rules of everything.
Ithan was already there, his own hands—steady where Dae’s shook—wrapped around the black hilt of Firegard. His face was a stark mask of furious grief. “Don’t you dare,” he growled, though whether to Aria or the Fates, Dae didn’t know. Ithan looked at him, his green eyes wild. “If I pull this, she bleeds out here on this fucking floor.”
“So don’t let her bleed.” Dae’s voice was sand and cinder. He pressed his palms against the heated marble on either side of her torso. “Just pull it.”
The air still wavered with heat. The sweet-scented nightflowers were ashes. Shock held the remaining courtiers and guards in a frozen tableau, staring at the scorch mark that was all that remained of their queen. King Oren hadn’t moved from his stumble, his crown askew, his mouth slack.
“You’ll need to cauterize it again,” Ithan said, his knuckles white on the grip. “The second it comes free.”
Dae nodded, a quick, jerky motion. He couldn’t look away from Aria’s face. Her skin was parchment pale, her lips losing their color. Her eyes were closed. He felt her, a faint, flickering pulse through the raw, screaming tether that had just been forged. It felt like a thin golden thread stretched to breaking, humming with her fading heartbeat.
He focused on that thread. On the warmth he’d just commanded.
It answered.
Heat blossomed again in his palms, not an explosion this time, but a concentrated, searing pinpoint. The gold in his eyes flared, casting a sickly light over her blood-soaked gown. “Now.”
Ithan pulled.
The sound was wet, horrific. Firegard slid free with a reluctant suck. Aria’s back arched off the ground, a soundless gasp tearing from her throat. Blood, dark and immediate, welled from the wound.
Dae slammed his palms down, not on her skin, but just above it.
The air hissed. The smell of seared flesh, sharp and coppery, cut through the ozone. Aria jerked once, then went terrifyingly still. The open wound was sealed under a layer of blackened, crystalline skin, but the damage inside remained. Her chest did not rise.
“Aria,” Ithan whispered, shaking her shoulder. “Come on, little wolf. Breathe.”
Dae felt it. The fragile thread fraying, stretching, snapping. His own breath locked in his chest. A crushing vacuum opened beneath his ribs.
No.
He refused. He funneled that foreign, terrifying power—not just fire, but something older, a frantic, vital energy—down the bond. He pushed it into that darkening silence. He was a conduit, raw and untrained, shoving pure life into the void where she was slipping away.
He tasted salt. He realized he was crying.
Her breath hitched. A ragged, shallow inhalation. Then another.
“That’s it,” Ithan choked out, his head bowing for a second. He stripped off his jacket, balling it up to press gently beneath her to elevate her torso. “You stay. You hear me? You stay right here.”
The thread strengthened, a weak, thready pull, but it was there. Dae slumped, the gold fading from his eyes, leaving them burning and dry. Exhaustion hit him like a physical blow. He’d never felt anything so hollow, so spent.
A clatter of armor broke the spell. The guards were shuffling, uncertain, their weapons half-drawn as they looked from their scorched king to the prince kneeling in the ashes of their queen.
King Oren found his voice. It was a shattered thing. “Daemian.” He pointed a trembling finger. “You… you killed her.”
Dae looked up at his father. He felt nothing. Not anger, not grief, not triumph. A vast, cold emptiness. “She was going to let Kaelen kill me,” he said, his tone flat, factual. “She stabbed my mate. You watched.”
He turned his attention back to Aria. Her eyelashes fluttered.
Ithan was checking her pulse at her throat, his fingers gentle. “It’s weak, but it’s there.” He shot a glance at Dae, then at the surrounding guards. “We need to get her out of here. Now. Before someone decides this is a great time for a coup.”
Dae nodded. He moved to slide his arms under Aria, but Ithan stopped him with a hard look.
“Can you even stand?” Ithan asked, his gaze dropping to Dae’s shaking hands.
Before Dae could answer, a new voice cut through the hall, sharp and familiar. “Looks like I missed the main event.”
Ruhn Danaan stood at the shattered grand entrance, surveyed the scene with wide eyes—the ashen circle, the melted crown, the impaled girl, the weeping king. He let out a low whistle. “Dae. Buddy. What did you do?”
“Help us,” Dae said, the words scraping his throat raw.
Ruhn’s casual demeanor vanished. He took in Aria’s prone form, Ithan’s protective crouch, and the gathering hostility of the Avallen guards. He didn’t ask questions. He drew a long, gleaming sword from the air at his back, the Starsword gleaming with its own pale light. “Right,” he said, stepping into the hall, putting himself between them and the advancing guards. “Your Cutter’s in the courtyard. How’s she getting there?”
“I’ve got her,” Ithan said, gathering Aria into his arms with surprising tenderness, cradling her against his broad chest. She whimpered, a small, broken sound that lanced through Dae.
“Lead the way, prince,” Ruhn said to Dae, his eyes on the guards. “And try not to set the whole citadel on fire this time. One family barbecue is enough.”
Dae forced himself to his feet. His legs threatened to buckle. The world tilted. He locked his knees, focusing on the weight of Ithan’s steps behind him, on the faint, steadying pulse of Aria’s life through the bond. He looked at his father one last time.
King Oren’s face was a monument to ruin. Betrayal, loss, and a dawning, helpless rage warred in his expression.
“If you follow us,” Dae said, his voice quiet but carrying in the dead space, “I will burn everything you love to the ground.” He didn’t wait for a response. He turned his back on the king, on the throne, on the life he’d known, and walked toward the exit Ruhn was clearing with sharp, threatening glances.
The guards parted. Fear, more potent than loyalty, moved them aside.
They moved through the corridors, a grim procession. The Citadel was waking to chaos, shouts echoing in distant halls. Their progress was a blur of gilded panic. Dae’s mind was a single, repeating loop: Keep moving. Get to the ship. Keep the thread alive.
The cool night air hit them as they burst into the courtyard. The Cutter ship gleamed under the moons, its runes a silent promise of escape.
“Go, go, go!” Ruhn urged, ushering them up the gangplank, his sword still held at the ready, watching their backs.
Ithan carried Aria straight to the nearest bunk in the ship’s narrow belly, laying her down with a care that contradicted his fierce expression. Her breathing was too shallow, her skin cold and clammy. The blackened seal over her wound was holding, but her face was etched with pain even in unconsciousness.
The ship’s engines whined to life with a thrum that vibrated through the deck plates.
Ruhn sealed the hatch, then leaned against the wall, breathing hard. He looked at Dae. “Okay. Start talking. What in the nine hells was that?”
Dae slumped into a seat beside Aria’s bunk, his head in his hands. The adrenaline was draining, leaving a sick, trembling hollow in its wake. “It was Firegard. The Queen… she…”
“She used the girl’s own sword,” Ithan finished, his voice thick. He was wiping blood from his hands with a rough cloth, his movements agitated. “Dae here… he burned her. To ash.”
Ruhn stared. “You manifested your full power. In front of the entire Avallen court.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And you killed the Queen. Your mom. Stars, Dae.”
“She stabbed Aria,” Dae said, as if that explained everything. In his bones, it did.
Ithan watched the flicker of Aria’s eyelids. “The bond,” he said suddenly, looking at Dae. “That’s what that was, wasn’t it? When your eyes… and the fire.”
Dae just nodded, unable to give voice to the cataclysm inside him.
Ruhn blew out a long breath. “Right. Okay. So not only are you now a regicidal prince with uncontrollable magic on the run from your own kingdom, you’re also mated to the part-Asteri wolf shifter who’s currently dying in my ship.” He managed a grim, sideways smile. “Never a dull moment with you, cousin.”
The ship lifted, the ground falling away. Through a small porthole, Dae saw the lights of the Avallen Citadel shrinking, watched as several smaller pursuit ships began to detach from its spires, their lights winking like angry stars.
He reached for Aria’s hand. It was cold. He wrapped his own around it, trying to will some warmth into her skin.
“She’s not safe,” Ithan said, his eyes on the pursuing lights. “Even if we lose them. Your father…”
“He’ll come for her,” Dae finished. He knew it with absolute certainty. “He saw her eyes. He saw Firegard obey her. He knows what she is.” He looked at Ithan, then at Ruhn. “I have nothing. No throne, no army, no home.”
Ruhn sheathed his sword. It disappeared into nowhere. “You’ve got one pissed-off Prime,” he said, nodding at Ithan. “And one ridiculously meddling Fae prince with a fast ship and a questionable moral compass.” He shrugged. “It’s a start.”
Aria’s fingers twitched in Dae’s grasp. Her lips parted. A faint, pained sound escaped.
Dae leaned closer, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. “Aria?”
Her green eyes opened, glassy with pain and shock. They found his, focused with immense effort. Her voice was a threadbare whisper.
“Did we… win?” she breathed.
A cracked, hysterical sound escaped Dae—half sob, half laugh. He squeezed her hand. “Yeah,” he whispered back, his forehead touching hers. “We won.”
The ship lurched suddenly, throwing them all sideways. An alarm blared through the cabin—a sharp, repeating chirp.
Ruhn was at the console in a flash, his face grim in the instrument glow. “They’re on us. And they’ve got pulse cannons charged.”
Outside the viewport, the night lit up with a searing blue flash. The Cutter shuddered violently as a near-miss rocked its hull.
Ithan braced himself over Aria, shielding her. “Where do we go?”
Dae looked from Aria’s pained face to the streaking lights of the pursuers outside. The thread between them pulled taut, a guidewire in the chaos. He felt a single, desperate certainty crystallize in the void.
“There’s only one place he won’t follow,” Dae said, meeting Ruhn’s eyes. “One place he’s afraid of.”
Ruhn understood instantly. His brow furrowed. “That’s a suicide run, Dae. The wards…”
“Plot the course,” Dae said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He looked down at Aria. “We’re going to the heart of the conflict.”
He gave the destination.
Ruhn’s hands flew over the controls. “Lunathion,” he confirmed, his voice tight. “We’re going to Crescent City.”
Another blast hit, closer this time. The ship groaned in protest. Warning lights painted the cabin in frantic red.
The Cutter angled sharply, its engines screaming as it tore through a bank of clouds, leaving the familiar constellations of Avallen behind, hurtling towards a city of exiles and ancient enemies, carrying a dying girl, a disgraced prince, and a secret that could set their world on fire.