Wraithwood stood as still as a statue, patiently waiting. His foci charged slowly, scattering pinpricks of light across the hangar’s floor. Every flicker of aether was calm and tightly controlled. I had thought that Miss Hawkins was impressive—but I could already tell that Wraithwood outmatched her in every possible way.
Worst of all, I knew that Wraithwood was a merciless killer… and that Miss Hawkins most decidedly was not.
Hawkins was halfway to Wraithwood when he took one step back and flicked out his left arm. A silver gauntlet-focus flared on his left hand, and the aether within it uncoiled into a rope of blue-white light. Wraithwood snapped the whip towards Hawkins with a twist of his wrist. The aether cracked like thunder, bursting into a blinding, disorienting flash. Even at a distance, I blinked back spots and clutched at my ringing ears. If I’d been closer, I surely would have spent a fatal few seconds both blind and utterly deaf.
Miss Hawkins was right next to that whip—but she’d known to expect it. She rolled aside, shielding her eyes.
Even so… she had almost been too slow.
I didn’t have the luxury of waiting for a better opportunity. I sprinted from the shadows cast by the mountain of crates and crossed the last bit of open distance to the nearest longboat. I prayed that the Cinderwolves were too occupied with the duel and Barsby’s thugs to notice me.
Someone answered my prayers—but it wasn’t the Lady of Fools.
Neither Barsby, nor his crew, nor the Cinderwolves noticed my hasty approach. Instead, Barsby’s men and the Cinderwolves watching them had drawn weapons on each other. A Cinderwolf aethermancer lay unmoving on the ground. The left lens of his gas mask had been shattered by a single bullet.
Lenore, I realised, had used the sound of the whip crack to cover a shot at the Cinderwolf aethermancer.
I know I brag endlessly about my crew. But truly, I have the best crew.
“Sharpshooter!” a Cinderwolf screamed.
Barsby’s crew had the Unseelie aether at their backs, which left the Cinderwolves at a distinct disadvantage—Barsby’s people could fire at the Cinderwolves with abandon, but the mercenaries wouldn’t dare fire back for fear of hitting the aether. I expected the Cinderwolves to search for cover. Instead, the gorgon sergeant drew her sabre and charged the longboat. The Cinderwolves behind her followed her lead.
Barsby’s crew started shooting.
Some of the bullets found their mark—but not nearly as many as I would have expected. One Cinderwolf hit the floor; another staggered, caught in the leg. But Barsby’s people were used to intimidating untried, poorly outfitted targets; they weren’t at all prepared for a direct charge by battle-hardened soldiers.
Just as the Cinderwolves closed with their adversaries, Barsby ducked wildly aside. He rolled beneath the other longboat… just as I leapt on top of it and crouched into the flatbed.
I forced myself to ignore the fact that Barsby was somewhere beneath my feet. Instead, I dared a brief glance over the edge of the longboat at the two duelling aethermancers, hoping that Miss Hawkins had managed to hold Wraithwood’s attention.
Hawkins had somehow regained her footing. Harsh light flared around her as she gathered up a veritable storm of aether. The air seethed, crackling with azure power. Her foci whined to life, burning bright against the darkness of the hangar.
Wraithwood burst into a sprint. Three steps later, his boots flared with aether and launched him into the air in a superhuman leap. He crossed the distance to Hawkins in the blink of an eye, and I suddenly understood how he’d cut down so many of Pelaeia’s defenders so quickly.
Miss Hawkins raised her left gauntlet and shaped the surrounding aether into a shield of light. Wraithwood danced around it. He flicked his blade at Hawkins with serpentine speed, testing her defences. Hawkins brought the shield up to block him. Each time his silver sword scraped against the aetheric shield, the clash sent up a screech of blue and white sparks.
Wraithwood, I realised, was holding himself back. He’d waited until he was in closer quarters to use his foci; the last thing he wanted was to risk hitting the cargo with Seelie aether. He hadn’t wasted any time before engaging directly with Hawkins, either—he knew he needed to block her from attacking the cargo herself.
Miss Hawkins was a good distraction, I realised. She was just dangerous enough to merit Wraithwood’s full attention, though not quite dangerous enough to push her way past him. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to Wraithwood that she might have brought assistance with her.
By the grace of the Lady of Fools, neither Captain Altera nor the Legionnaire had yet noticed the single stowaway goblin clinging to their precious cargo. Barsby’s crew had scattered at the Cinderwolves’ charge, diving for cover behind the empty crates. The Cinderwolves, too, had pulled back with military precision, returning fire from the other side of the longboats. And me? I was finally alone with the cargo—at the centre of a terrifying firefight.
I flinched as bullets whizzed past my longboat, keenly aware that a single stray shot could pierce one of the canisters and give me a face full of Unseelie aether. It was time to hurry up the plan.
I slipped my hand axe from my belt and wedged it beneath the lid of one of the crates, leaning on it like a crowbar. The crate resisted me more strongly than I’d expected; no matter how fit I kept myself, I had far less body mass than most of my crew. I struggled with the crate in a growing panic, desperate to finish the job before something exploded.
As I leaned heavily on my hand axe, someone else rolled into the flatbed next to me. I glanced sharply towards the sound and met Barsby’s startled gaze.
“Blair!” Barsby sputtered. His voice rang out across the hangar… and suddenly, several sets of eyes turned our way.
“Blair?” Captain Altera asked, confused. It took me a moment to realise that he and a handful of his Cinderwolves had taken cover behind the exact same stack of crates that I had previously used for cover, only ten feet away from the longboat.
Hawkins cursed. Wraithwood whirled to assess the situation. He fixed his terrifying gaze upon me, and my heart skipped wildly in my chest.
“Blair,” Wraithwood growled.
I laughed hysterically, still gripping my hand axe. “Me,” I agreed helplessly. I greeted the deadly gathering with an instinctive wave of my hand. Then, much more clearly, I shouted: “Lenore!”
Several heads cocked in confusion. They didn’t understand that I’d just cried havoc and let loose the most dangerous school teacher in all of Avalon.
Barsby didn’t need to know exactly what I’d done; he was familiar enough with my wild, last-ditch plans to know that it wasn’t anything good. He threw himself down on the flatbed and tossed an arm over his head for good measure.
Another shot rang out, more clearly than before. A bullet connected with the other Cinderwolf pyroclast’s aether tank. The tank gave a sharp hiss—followed by a hollow thump. It exploded in a riotous howl, engulfing the nearest mercenaries in a cerulean inferno. They didn’t even have the chance to scream.
Wraithwood crouched, angling himself to take an inhuman leap towards me. His boots flared with aether—but just as he leapt into the air, Hawkins fired her palm-blaster at him. The flash of force slammed into Wraithwood, flinging him like a cannonball into a wall of empty wooden crates. The boxes burst at the impact and scattered around him, as he fell to the ground. His mask cracked against the floor, and his terrible sword winked out of existence.
“Hurry!” Hawkins shouted at me. She advanced on Wraithwood—but the infamous Legionnaire was already pushing himself to his feet.
Now that I’d lost the element of surprise, I didn’t have long before one of the interested parties overran my longboat. I needed to buy time to crack open a crate, grab a canister, and set up the device.
I might not manage to destroy both longboats, I realised… but if I adjusted the plan, then I could destroy at least one. I’d just have to trust that Miss Hawkins could handle the rest.
I leapt on top of the cargo crates in the longboat, hopping my way across them to jump into the driver’s seat. The position gave me a perfect view of the grand melee taking place between the longboat and the docked ships. Before me were the Cinderwolves and Barsby’s crew. Behind me were Wraithwood and Miss Hawkins. Forward, I thought, was a slightly less suicidal direction than backward—but only slightly less.
Thankfully, I wasn’t alone; I had help waiting nearby.
“Strahl!” I shouted over the din. “Now!”
Strahl leapt from his hiding spot and descended upon the unsuspecting Cinderwolves. His heavy revolver barked three times; with each shot, a man hit the floor. Strahl holstered the revolver, grabbed the hilt of his sword, and activated its aetheric properties. The super-heated edge of glowing metal slammed into a Cinderwolf facing away from me; it connected where the mercenary’s neck met his shoulder and cut through his armour and coat, lodging itself somewhere in the middle of his chest. Strahl kicked the man off his blade and turned to face Captain Altera.
Part of me wanted to watch Strahl properly thrash the architect of Pelaeia’s massacre—but more pressing matters called for my attention.
“Hang on, Barsby!” I shouted.
I slammed my foot onto the accelerator, aiming for a stretch of open hangar on our starboard side. The cargo-laden longboat ploughed through the fighting before us. Barsby’s crew leapt for cover—but the Cinderwolves charged my vehicle. I drove directly over one of the mercenaries, even as another one leapt onto the boat’s snub-nosed front.
“William!” Barsby rasped out a warning from the flatbed. I glanced over my shoulder and saw three other Cinderwolves clinging tenaciously to the sides of the longboat, climbing fast. Two of them tumbled into the flatbed with Barsby, while the last one landed closer to my seat.
“I knew you’d get me killed someday, William!” Barsby snarled. He surged upright, drawing his rapier with his remaining hand, just as the Cinderwolf next to him rose and brandished their sabre.
I caught one brief glimpse of Little just above us, as he leapt from a row of ungainly crates. Little landed heavily on one of the Cinderwolves on the flatbed, plunging his trench knife into the mercenary’s neck. The Cinderwolf choked on a strangled sound, as Little heaved them over the side. Little turned on another of the mercenaries, parrying their sabre with his heavy boarding gauntlet. He followed through with a vicious jab of his off-hand, and I heard the trench knife’s brass knuckles crack something in the Cinderwolf’s gas mask.
Barsby shifted back-to-back with Little, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. And once upon a time, it would have been that—but I couldn’t help noticing the way that Little subtly gritted his teeth against the movement. Still, Little covered Barsby as the other man lunged past a Cinderwolf’s heavier sabre, burying the tip of his rapier in their throat.
Metal scraped on the front of the longboat, and I snapped my gaze forward: the mercenary on the hood was pulling himself up. Behind me, Barsby and Little were still otherwise occupied, and I knew I couldn’t wait for them to reach me.
“Hold on!” I shouted.
“To what?” Barsby snarled. He yanked his rapier from the Cinderwolf’s throat and kicked them off the side of the longboat. At the same instant, I slammed on the brakes.
The Cinderwolf on the hood rocketed away like a shooting star, skidding across the floor to crash into an old stack of crates against the hangar wall. The bottom crates smashed into kindling, and the stack atop them crumpled like a house of cards. Behind me, the last Cinderwolf flew over my head in an impressive arc. They flailed wildly through the air, then hit the ground with a hard, rolling thud.
Little stood his ground like an ancient, rooted tree—but Barsby tumbled tail over teakettle, rolling between the driver’s and passenger’s seats with a raspy scream. I glanced down at him and met his one-eyed glare. It wasn’t a very intimidating glare, given the way that he’d splayed between the seats, with one of his legs jutting into the air like a half-crushed bug.
“I… hate you,” Barsby growled.
I reached down and patted his cheek. “I hate you too, Barsby,” I assured him. I shoved to my feet before he could respond, hurrying back to the flatbed in search of my hand axe.
Barsby tried to right himself—but this was a difficult proposition, with his right arm in a sling and his left hand still clutching his rapier. Little reached down towards Barsby, grabbing a fistful of his lapel and yanking him back onto his feet.
“Ah, Samuel,” Barsby crooned nervously. “Thank you for that. Always reliable—”
Little punched him between the eyes with his boarding gauntlet.
Barsby blinked—and promptly fell backwards off the longboat like a felled log.
I glanced at Little. “Really?” I asked him with a sigh.
Little offered me a helpless shrug.
I turned my attention back to the crate in front of me, snatching up my hand axe from the flatbed. I slammed the weapon beneath the lid of the crate once more, searching for an angle that might crack it open. The horrible stench of rotted leaves grew stronger every time the lid budged, and I had to fight down a rising nausea.
“A little help please, Sam,” I choked out.
On the floor of the hangar, next to the longboat, Barsby righted himself with a groan. His rapier had fallen from his grip; out of the corner of my eye, I saw him reach for the holstered pistol at his side. My mind sparked with alarm, and I jolted back from the crate, ready to dive for cover.
But Barsby wasn’t aiming for either me or Little. Instead, he pointed his pistol directly underneath the longboat’s chassis and pulled the trigger.
One of the Cinderwolves I’d thrown off the longboat took the shot directly in the face—and I saw then that they’d been raising their gun in the general direction of the very volatile crates on the longboat.
The Cinderwolf dropped back to the ground with an ugly jerk of limbs. I knew they weren’t likely to get up again.
Barsby whirled on the two of us, still dazed from his tumble. “Tell your sharpshooter to kill Wraithwood,” he hissed, as he struggled back to his feet. “As long as he’s still breathing, he’ll hunt us all down like dogs!” He wiped his coat sleeve across his bleeding nose, smearing scarlet across his face.
“So will Captain Altera!” I snapped back. “Or did you forget that you were dealing with murderous war criminals, Barsby?”
Barsby ignored the question; instead, his one good eye flickered to the crate behind me, where I’d left my hand axe wedged beneath the lid. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “You’re going to put us all in an early grave!”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m setting an aether charge,” I informed him. “And then we’re all running… very fast.”
Barsby widened his eye.
Little jammed his trench knife under the lid, leaning upon it with his prodigious strength. The crate squealed, and a fresh gush of horrendous air wafted out.
I glanced towards Barsby. “You could always lend a—”
Barsby had already started running.
“…hand,” I finished flatly, watching him run. Little fixed me with a knowing look. “I guess he wouldn’t have appreciated that suggestion anyway,” I muttered.
Barsby sprinted for the side door with such instant, unerring accuracy that I knew he’d long since mapped out all of the possible escape routes. On some level, I had to admire that sort of calculated cowardice.
I—fool that I was—turned back to the open crate with a grimace, thrusting my hands past rotting bricks of tea to grasp at a slimy metal canister.
Little glanced sharply past my shoulder, and I hazarded a look. The gorgon sergeant had secured the other longboat of Unseelie aether. There was something wrong with the vehicle’s float—its right half dragged uncomfortably against the floor, and I suspected that it had been damaged in the firefight. A handful of Cinderwolves now surrounded the vehicle, hauling it towards the Conflagration through sheer brute strength.
Nearby, Strahl and Captain Altera stood several feet apart, watching each other warily. They’d thoroughly torn into one another while I was distracted—both of them were battered, breathing hard. Strahl’s leg was drenched in blood; Altera had pulled his left arm against his body like a broken wing, and there was a dribble of crimson from his forehead. I wondered at first that the Cinderwolf was still standing, given that Strahl’s sword could shear through most metal—but a faintly opalescent light flickered off of Altera’s curving sabre, and I realised that it was probably infused with aether as well.
Strahl moved again, with a brutal swing of his heavy sword. Altera knocked the blade aside—and though their weapons were vastly different, I couldn’t help but notice in that moment just how similar the two men were in fighting style. They were both brutal, quick, and utterly efficient. The obvious comparison triggered an old discomfort, somewhere inside of me—a reminder that my bosun had once held a very high rank in the Imperial Army.
Altera’s eyes caught upon our longboat as he deflected Strahl’s blow. He shouted out an order to the other Cinderwolves, even as Strahl forced him backwards with another heavy swing.
The gorgon brandished her sabre in our direction, and several Cinderwolves turned, preparing a coordinated charge.
I heaved the rusting canister of Unseelie aether hurriedly from the crate, shoving it towards Little. “Haul that back and throw it as far as you can,” I gasped at him, jerking my chin towards the Cinderwolves.
Little took the canister from me, gripping it with both hands. He lobbed it a surprisingly good distance. It landed with a thunderous clang, halfway between us and the Cinderwolves. I’d expected the rough handling to set it off, but it somehow maintained its integrity, rolling sluggishly along the floor of the hangar.
I grabbed Little’s heavy bore revolver, rooted myself as best I could, and fired the gun directly at the canister.
An oily plume tore from the rusted iron with an unearthly shriek. Bruised light bloomed around the canister—and then it erupted, with a sickening howl and a nightmarish rush of abyssal aether. A shuddering cloud of deadly ink flooded the area, expanding in all directions.
There wasn’t enough Unseelie aether in the canister to reach the Cinderwolves—but that was hardly the point. The cloud of Unseelie aether halted their charge before it even began, stymying their path to the longboat. If they wanted to make a run at us, they’d have to take the long way around.
I hoped that extra bit of time would be enough.
I handed back Little’s revolver, before unbuckling the belt that Mr Finch had given me and starting to set it up on the flatbed. Little rummaged through the rotted tea for another canister and set it down next to us. My hands shook as I worked. Silently, I prayed that Mr Finch’s device had held up through the fighting; I wasn’t at all certain how delicate the gadget was. Either way, I didn’t have the time for second guesses.
I grasped the canister’s valve.
“When I give the word,” I told Little, “I’ll open the canister. You flip the switch. We run like there’s no tomorrow.”
Little nodded grimly.
I twisted the valve—slowly and very carefully. Inky aether barely snaked out of the canister, filling the air with a sharp hiss. This close, the rotten stench was overwhelming—and for just an instant, I thought I saw a blood-red tinge to the obsidian ribbon that resulted.
I recoiled instinctively, but kept my hand on the valve. My body tensed, ready to leap off the longboat the moment I twisted it completely open. “Now!” I gasped.
Little hit the makeshift switch on Mr Finch’s device. I twisted the lever, and Unseelie aether howled out of the canister in a nauseating rush. As I hauled myself out of the longboat, Little vaulted over the side, bolting for the crates nearest to the exit. I followed as quickly as I could, but my first mate had longer legs than I did, and I couldn’t help but lag behind him.
Someone shouted an alarm from the row of crates just beside us. Now that the Cinderwolves had secured the second longboat, they were free to open fire on us. Gunfire blasted in our direction as Little and I raced down the narrow corridor. Crates chipped and burst from the small-arms fire—but the hangar was dark, and our cover served its function for the moment. Cinderwolves shouted, and their heavy jackboots grew ever louder.
I needed to gather my crew and get out of here. Fast.
Little hung back, firing down the corridor of boxes in order to pause the Cinderwolves’ advance.
Ahead of me, bright flashes of aetheric light flared in violent bursts. Wraithwood and Miss Hawkins had resumed their fight; their silver swords sent harsh shadows skittering across the scenery, interspersed with the dancing lights of their foci.
Wraithwood had Hawkins hard-pressed. He attacked her with his flickering blade in a blur of deadly thrusts, forcing her into a constant backpedal. Each time, his whip followed suit, limiting her possible movement.
I dived behind a corner of nearby crates, lifting my blunderbuster in both hands. I had no illusions that I might bring down Wraithwood, of all people—but perhaps if I distracted him with a shot, I could lend Miss Hawkins the opportunity she needed in order to destroy the other longboat and make her escape.
Even as I watched, Hawkins staggered back from one of those thrusts, falling abruptly to her knees. Her silver sword flickered once—then winked out of existence. She snapped up her aetheric shield in a frantic motion, barely quick enough to protect against the follow-up whip crack.
Wraithwood advanced relentlessly upon her, sensing sudden weakness. But from my perspective, I saw Hawkins reach furtively for her belt, snatching a silvery device from it. I heard the metallic ping, as she popped a pin free and let it clatter to the floor.
Wraithwood recognised the charade just a moment too late.
Hawkins tossed the small metallic bomb at his feet; it detonated with a muted whoomph before it even touched the ground.
A bubble of prismatic aether surged around Wraithwood, lifting him from the ground. Gravity gently reversed itself, pulling him into the air. His whip cracked again, every bit as deadly as before—but it was difficult for Wraithwood to aim it properly, as he floated sideways in a strangely drunken manner.
“Hawkins!” I yelled, stepping out from cover to catch her attention. “We need to go!”
But Miss Hawkins had levelled her gaze beyond Wraithwood, in the direction of the longboat that the Cinderwolves had just pulled into the Conflagration’s cargo bay.
They’ve reached the ship, I realised in sudden horror.
Hawkins raised her aether-powered gauntlet, aiming it directly at the crates on that longboat. Her palm burned with a sudden keening light as multiple vials of aether infused it, one by one.
She was going to shoot the Unseelie aether before the Conflagration could take off. As far as Miss Hawkins knew, she was following the plan. Either she hadn’t realised the disastrous chain reaction she might cause with the ship’s aetheric core… or else she didn’t care.
I cared. I knew it instantly. In that moment, all of my previous moral grappling gave way to crystal clarity—I couldn’t stand by and watch while my plan destroyed half the Aviary.
“Don’t!” I yelled. I charged at Hawkins.
We collided—hard. Her gauntlet-focus erupted in a shrieking blast, even as we slammed into the ground. My ears popped, and every one of my hairs stood on end. Stars danced before my eyes… but through those dancing stars, I traced the path that Hawkins’ aetheric blast had taken.
The shot had gone wide.
The Unseelie aether in the Conflagration’s cargo bay remained untouched. Off to the side, I saw that there was a Cinderwolf on the ground; the lance of light had punched a fist-sized hole through their shoulder, leaving the edges of their breastplate slagged and glowing white hot. Their arm still sizzled at the severed joint where it had been sheared clean off.
Every other person in the hangar had dived for cover… except for two. Strahl had taken the opportunity of the blast to leap upon Captain Altera; he now stood over the Cinderwolf captain with his sword lifted, intent on a killing blow.
Wraithwood, of course, had been trapped in that bubble of prismatic aether, unable to leap for cover. But the edges of the aetheric bubble had already begun to squirm uncomfortably around him—and I realised that Wraithwood was taking control of the aetheric construct.
The bubble twisted violently one more time—and then, all at once, it popped. Wraithwood fell to the ground with a slight stumble, fighting to regain his equilibrium.
“What have you done, Blair?” Hawkins demanded furiously. She shoved me off of her, rolling back to her feet in a panic. But whatever tirade she had in store for me died on her lips as she realised that Wraithwood was free.
I pushed to my knees and gripped my blunderbuster with both hands, aiming it frantically at Wraithwood.
The flick of Wraithwood’s wrist was quicker than my trigger finger. His pale, glowing whip lashed out to strike me in the chest. The impact picked me up and sent me careening backwards.
I felt as though I’d been kicked in the chest by a horse. My ears rang; every nerve was electrified. Dark spots blinked before my eyes. I became dimly aware that I was bouncing across the open floor, slowly skidding to a halt. I stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, unable to move, as fire spread through my chest.
A few agonising seconds later, I managed to suck in a shuddering breath. Air exploded into my lungs—even more excruciating, somehow, than the crack of the whip against my chest had been. I forced myself to move through it, horrifyingly aware of the aetheric bomb that continued to tick its way down, elsewhere in the hangar.
Miss Hawkins had drawn her silver sword again, I saw—but she was too slow. Perhaps she’d expended too much aether at once… or perhaps yours truly had ruined her concentration. But the end result was the same: Wraithwood flicked his blade of light against Hawkins’ sword in a contemptuous gesture, and her fabled weapon shattered into motes of poorly controlled aether.
Wraithwood reversed the blow, striking upwards. Hawkins screamed.
Blood splashed across the floor of the hangar, bright and wet. Hawkins fell onto her back, clutching her face with a keening cry. Garish scarlet seeped from between her fingers, staining her pale skin and bleached hair.
I expected Wraithwood to say something, perhaps. I don’t know why I should have expected as much, but I did. Instead, he planted his boot on Hawkins’ chest to pin her down, lifting that pale spike of light for one final thrust—
“Gideon! Stop!”
Strahl’s voice boomed across the hangar… and Wraithwood halted abruptly.
Somewhere beneath my confusion, I wondered if Wraithwood had hesitated to strike before the demand or else because of it. It had all happened so close together that I couldn’t seem to pick apart the order of events. Some part of me wanted to believe that I had seen him pause sooner, rather than later.
But either way, his attention was now fully occupied by my bosun in a way that I couldn’t explain. That masked face turned slowly, searching out the origin of the voice that Wraithwood had heard.
Strahl approached Wraithwood carefully. As I watched, my bosun sheathed his bloodied sword and stretched his arms visibly to either side, in a calculated show of peace.
Wraithwood’s aetheric whip winked out of existence like a snuffed candle. I saw Captain Altera still on the ground behind Strahl. The deathblow I’d seen about to fall upon the mercenary captain hadn’t landed. Altera struggled to his knees, raising his aether pistol to aim at my bosun’s back. But Wraithwood snapped out his hand in a violent gesture, and the captain held his fire.
A flicker of aether gathered weakly in Hawkins’ hand. Wraithwood must have sensed it, however; he kicked her across her wounded face, only briefly distracted from the scene before him.
Hawkins gave a sharp yelp of pain, curling up onto the grimy floor in obvious agony. The aether died in her hand.
Strahl removed his helmet. His pale face and the washed-out stubble of hair on his head made him look like a ghost.
“Let the woman go,” Strahl commanded Wraithwood. His voice was… changed. His rough and tumble accent had smoothed into crisp Imperial tones, filled with unshakeable authority. Perhaps it was simple bravado—but he had the air of a man who expected to be obeyed.
“By the Winds of Fortune,” Wraithwood whispered. His voice sounded from behind his mask, utterly stunned. “It looks like Death wasn’t victorious after all.”
Strahl’s expression was cold and flinty. “I won’t repeat myself,” he said.
Hawkins shifted on the ground to look towards me. Her face was a bloody mess—a wicked gash raced across it, still bleeding profusely. Her eyes were glassy with pain. But I saw her mouth form a single word:
Run.
The clock was still ticking down.
“And why would I let her go on your account… boy?” Wraithwood asked Strahl silkily. I heard the testing in his voice—but I wasn’t certain just what it was he was looking to test.
Strahl’s cold, confident demeanour wavered. Wraithwood had called his bluff; whatever authority Strahl had tried to enforce, it was now long gone—buried with the Avalon Imperium, I thought.
Strahl swallowed. His face flickered with something dark and bitter. “Let her go,” he said. “Let all of them go. And I’ll… come with you.”
Wraithwood scoffed. “Counteroffer,” he said. “I kill the woman and the goblin, and you come with me, regardless. It’s your duty, after all.”
Wraithwood could have killed Hawkins; he had her at his feet, utterly helpless. But instead, he turned his awful mask my way, and his boots flared with aether, launching him towards me in one inhuman leap. Hawkins rolled weakly onto her side, bracing her left elbow against her gut, and I saw her gather aether into her overheated gauntlet in a last-ditch effort of willpower.
As for me?
I had the perfect seat to watch it all unfold—just as the Unseelie aether exploded.