Page 6 of Each Their Own Devil (Our Lady of Fire #3)

“Banking to the left,” Nicolas called, as he rose with them. “Hold tight.”

Aleja’s fists curled around the reins even before Taddeas placed pressure on her hands. “What do we do when we get there?” she breathed. The wind rushing past made her feel as if the pressure was sucking the breath from her lungs.

It was Nicolas who answered, keeping pace with the Avisai. “You survive , Lady of Wrath. And you make our soldiers join you. Do not let your guard down, understand? Get to open space as quickly as you can. Your fire works best when you have an unobstructed path.”

“Noted,” she muttered, gripping tighter as the Avisai dove. As it landed with a heavy thud in a circle cleared of foliage, Aleja’s spine compressed painfully. Nicolas dropped next to them a moment later, his sword already drawn and surrounded by flickering black flames.

Aleja had expected the sounds of battle, but all that greeted them were the crows chattering in the trees. The dragon whined as Aleja slid off of it, her hot palms accidentally grazing its skin. Taddeas dropped to the ground beside her, pulling one of his axes from the sheaths on his back. A tide of adrenaline flooded her, and she allowed fire to come to life around her hands—the flickering flames didn’t betray how they shook beneath the ever-moving streaks of red and gold.

“Can you hear anything?” she asked. The crows answered—caws that rolled from the north to the south like a slow wave. In her peripheral vision, Nicolas shook his head, but his silver eyes were narrowed, as if he’d spotted movement between the trees.

Aleja didn’t have to wonder if they would find the battle before it ended. A Throne screeched overhead, forcing her, Nicolas, and Taddeas to dive into the wood’s shadows. As the Avisai reared onto its hind legs, the wound in its wing reopened. Aleja could smell the blood—a sharp, electric tang that seemed to buzz in her sinuses.

Nicolas and Taddeas ran. She followed.

The sounds of the battle grew clearer within a few yards, but it was the sight of a young man in Otherlander armor that made Aleja’s legs feel heavy. She had seen corpses before, but after the last battle, their soldiers had been covered in sheets before she could glimpse their faces. This young man was twisted among tree branches, as if deliberately knotted through them. His face was frozen into an almost comical parody of terror—his eyes unnaturally wide, his mouth appallingly open—everything about him too horrifically real .

Aleja wished Nicolas would tell her to turn back. To run to the palace and disappear into the dungeons, where none but the Otherlanders could reach her. But the Knowing One merely glanced at the corpse, then back to her, with a subtle nod as if to say: You chose this.

Something shot through the trees, aimed directly at Taddeas’s head. In an instant, the bolt of magic was deflected by one of his axes. Aleja only caught a glimpse of the red sparks scattering from the impact before she had to dodge another barrage of Astraelis magic. As she dove behind a tree, she heard the growls of a hellhound—Garm had finally caught up to them on the ground.

The flames around her hand urged to be released, but her magic was as dangerous to her allies here as it was to her enemies. She needed to get out of the tangle of trees and onto open ground.

Nicolas had no such limitations. She felt the tremble of his shadows as they gathered around her ankles like a rising flood before shooting forward. Aleja didn’t see how they were meant to attack or who their target was. There was only a ragged scream, abruptly cut off, just as Nicolas gestured for the three of them to dart forward.

If the shadows were the vanguard, then Garm was the cavalry.

His charge tore branches from the trees, sending a flurry of leaves swirling down around them. As the woods opened into a field, all around her was a blur of black—Otherlander soldiers—and pastel shades of gold, pale blue, and coral—the Astraelis.

She barely registered the moment Nicolas brought his sword down on an Astraelis charging from the right—a towering Principality like Val, with a winged mask already caked in blood. The Knowing One’s flaming sword crashed into his shoulder, slicing through the gap in his armor that allowed the joint to move.

Taddeas disappeared from her sight immediately. Nicolas, a moment later. An order barked in her direction was swallowed by the clash of swords and the electrical hum of magic in the air.

Her flames roared to life around her hands, but as she silently begged her inner voice to return— Tell me what to do, please, come back and tell me what to do —her fire only served to draw more attention.

A Principality sliced through an Otherlander soldier with terrifying ease, his blade driving cleanly through black armor as if it were no more than a scrap of silk. Then, he turned to her.

Before Aleja could raise her hands to defend herself, a blur of darkness shot past her, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of wet dog. The Principality staggered backward, a scream escaping before it was abruptly cut off by the wet gurgle of what Aleja could only assume was the throat being torn from his neck.

She had to move. Dodging a shining bolt of magic, she darted through the fray. Somewhere in the distant part of her brain, half-remembered lessons from the first chapter of a military tactics book surfaced: Find high ground.

“Garm!” she called. “Cover me!”

Garm’s attention was not the only one that her shout attracted, but even the towering Principalities could not contend with the hellhound that barged through them. Feathers stuck to the blood on his sleek fur as he barreled toward Aleja’s side, and wordlessly, they ran.

She could no longer hear Nicolas’s orders over the soldiers’ ragged breaths as their line wavered. Instinct took over—Aleja’s hands moved before thought. A whip of flame lashed out, severing the Otherlander line from the advancing Astraelis. The stench of burnt feathers filled the air.

A booming voice barked, “Wrath is on the field! Take her out!”

“Al, go!” Garm growled, his teeth clashing as loudly as the swordplay in the valley below.

This was easier said than done when no clear path forward existed. The chaos reminded her of Renaissance battle paintings—bodies blending into a blur of boots, weapons, and smudged colors.

“Fuck,” she muttered, pausing just long enough to catch her breath. “Who is winning?”

“The Astraelis if they break the line!” Garm barked.

“What do I do?” she panted.

“You’re the Lady of Wrath!” he snapped, as if that were explanation enough.

“High ground. I need to see…” Aleja trailed off, unsure how she meant to finish.

“I’ll forge a path. Follow me and stay close!”

Garm barreled through the field, unmindful of the bodies in his way. Blood splattered across Aleja’s face, but her mind focused on only one thought: if she didn’t keep moving, she was going to die. Someone in black joined her on the right, then another figure to her left, shouting something she couldn’t understand over the roar of a Throne overhead.

“Follow me!” she called out, unsure who she was speaking to—or if anyone could hear her at all.

The battle thinned as they climbed upward. When a Principality flanked them, Aleja let out an uncontrolled burst of flame. Though the shot was off, the Astraelis was already doomed. A great black hole opened in his chest, as if an invisible fist had punched through his heart. He remained alive just long enough to glance down, mask widening in panic, before collapsing to the ground. Behind him stood a Dark Saint with coppery red hair and gold arm bracers.

“Whatever the hell you’re doing, better do it fast,” Orla snapped. “I don’t know how many more of those I have left in me.”

Aleja opened her mouth to say something along the lines of I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing , but the words died in her throat as two Thrones attacked the sole Avisai still in the air. The colossal tumble of bodies overhead sent everyone in the field—Astraelis and Otherlander alike—scrambling for cover as the beasts crashed to the ground in a thrashing tangle of claws, teeth, and shredded wings.

Garm’s massive head nudged her upward.

The hill was nearly empty at the summit, save for an enemy scout, whom Orla dispatched with another void beneath his feet. He sank underground until only a single feather from his mask floated above the hole cartoonishly.

“I hope you have something planned, because that did me in,” Orla called. Her freckles were nearly washed out against her ghostly pale complexion, her black-and-gold armor gleaming with sweat.

It was the first moment Aleja had to look around her. Two Otherlanders had accompanied them up the hill, only one of whom she recognized: Silmiya, the officer who had once guarded Val in his tent at the army camp. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back into a bun, though it had come partly undone over her shoulder. The other person was much younger, their oversized helmet almost covering their eyes. All Aleja could make out of their face was a set of plump cheeks and a mouth twisted into a pout, as if the battle below was nothing more than an irritating inconvenience.

“I-I don’t know what you want me to do,” Aleja stammered.

Orla wiped her face with her forearm, though another sheen of sweat instantly replaced the first. “Use your fire.”

“I did,” Aleja snapped, her breath labored. “It won’t be enough to push them back.”

Orla’s eyes widened briefly, and Aleja felt a sudden pang of sympathy for her. Despite Orla’s bravado, there was a reason she hadn’t stepped up to take the position of High General when Taddeas had seemed so desperate to give it away. The urgency to decide was almost paralyzing. One ill-thought-out command and dozens below would die.

Garm huffed, drawing Aleja’s attention back to the battlefield. She scanned the chaos below, unsure of what she was searching for, as though studying a painting for the first time without knowing what imagery or symbolism to expect. At the field’s center, the two Thrones had brought the Avisai to the ground. The black dragon thrashed violently, its wings and tail flailing despite the deep gouges in its flank. The struggle had forced the Astraelis soldiers back temporarily, but they were already regrouping on the northern edge of the battlefield.

Aleja searched for the Messenger’s distinct circular mask among the crowd, but either the Messenger wasn’t present, or she had been swallowed by the chaos.

“They don’t have a leader,” Aleja said.

“What are you talking about?” Orla barked.

“If someone was leading this attack, they’re already dead. The Astraelis aren’t following anyone’s orders—they’re just taking opportunities where they can,” Aleja explained.

Silmiya stepped closer, her expression sharp with concentration. Behind her, Garm huffed again, his fur so dark that the blood he’d shed only showed on his teeth—dark red against burnished yellow. The younger soldier who had accompanied them up the hill was trembling, her sword hilt clattering softly against her armor. Silmiya gave the soldier a sharp look, then dropped a hand onto her shoulder and squeezed.

“The Messenger isn’t here,” Silmiya confirmed. “But they must have an officer, and we know they’ve brought mages. The Astraelis don’t attack in roving bands. It’s too dangerous to punch a hole in the wards big enough for this many soldiers to get through.”

Above the battlefield, Aleja watched a wave of shadows creep across the field, and not for the first time, she felt true relief at seeing the darkness overtake something. But even Nicolas had his limits. A band of golden light—eerily similar to the magic Val had once conjured—surged in response, pushing the shadows back.

The light originated from a cluster of Astraelis soldiers. Their masks glowed brighter than the others, shades of coral and pastel pink that would have once struck Aleja as beautiful. Now those colors only filled her with dread.

“Like Silmiya said—mages,” Orla muttered grimly. “The Astraelis don’t come unprepared.”

“They’re vulnerable,” Aleja said suddenly, the realization blooming unbidden in her mind. Her painting analogy hadn’t been far off. There was a gap in the mages’ formation—like a missing petal in a flower. Her gaze flicked to the edges of the battlefield.

“They’re concentrating all of their forces on breaking our line,” Aleja whispered. “Their flanks are weak. Look.”

The sight of the Avisai taking its last bloody breaths was difficult to ignore, even as she directed the others’ attention to the gaps in the Astraelis formation. “There are openings,” she insisted, pointing with a steady hand. “They don’t think we have the resources to attack them from the side.”

“We don’t have the resources,” Orla said sharply. “This was an ambush. Half our troops couldn’t get here in time and the others have been sent to protect the palace with the rest of the Avisai.”

“There’s us ,” Aleja said. Her mind shot back to every time that she and Nicolas and used their magic together—fire and shadow—as a distraction. “We don’t need to take their entire army down. We just need to pull away enough of their soldiers to give Nicolas and the others a chance to overtake them.”

“We are not going to make it through that flank, even if the Astraelis are concentrating their forces elsewhere,” Orla said, but Silmiya was silent.

Silmiya’s thick lashes lowered, briefly obscuring her eyes. “We did it once before, Orla. At the battle for Vespera.”

“We had seven Avisai in the air at Vespera. The Astraelis were essentially fighting us on two fronts. I have maybe one more void left in me and?—”

“I’ll go back down to the center,” Aleja interrupted. “They might assume that we’re desperate, making one last push to hold them back. They’ll concentrate their forces on me. Garm, go with the others.”

“No. I swore to the Knowing One that I would protect you,” Garm growled.

“ Go with them . It’s an order,” Aleja said.

“Listen,” Orla told her in the soft voice she reserved for moments when she thought Aleja wasn’t completely incompetent. “The mages know even we Dark Saints have our limits. Once you appear on the field, their first priority will be to drain you as much as possible. And when that happens, all you’ll have left is your blade—a blade they’ve been training against for decades, if not centuries. And you can barely hold the hilt correctly.”

“Then you’re going to have to work fast,” Aleja said.

Orla bit her lower lip. “Don’t get killed. I’ll never hear the end of it from the Knowing One. If it comes down to hand-to-hand combat, the Astraelis are most vulnerable at their throats.” She pressed her index finger into the soft tissue just below her jawline, where the edge of the Astraelis’s masks would fall. Orla, mercifully, didn’t mention that Aleja might not be tall enough to reach it.

Garm whined as she separated from the group, but, true to her command, he did not follow. Sprinting down the hill, the sounds of the battle below echoed off the land behind her. For a brief moment, Aleja was propelled forward by the slant of the ground beneath her boots; every survival instinct screamed for her to turn back. But she pushed forward, even as her legs trembled and her breath came in shallow bursts.

From overhead, it might have been easy to distinguish between the Otherlanders in black and the myriad pastel shades of the Astraelis masks and armors, but when the colors surrounded her, they blurred. This did nothing to hide Aleja when she called flames to her hands.

A Principality shouted something in the language of the Astraelis. She rained fire on the one closest to her before he had a chance to raise his sword, but it was only seconds before Aleja realized the truth of Orla’s words. One of those golden bolts of magic she had seen aimed at Taddeas swerved toward her.

There was nowhere to fall back. Another Principality charged her from the rear. Aleja was too panicked to aim properly; her fire hit his armored legs with a hiss, producing smoke that raced painfully to her lungs.

“What are you doing down here?” someone growled.

Taddeas appeared beside her, knocking away an enemy that had snuck up on Aleja’s flank. She had never really seen Taddeas fight. His eyes were filled with the same red light that surrounded his axes. “Distraction,” she gasped, sending out another spit of flame that narrowly missed one of their own soldiers.

“You shouldn’t be— dammit —” Whatever Taddeas had wanted to say was lost as he turned to block another golden missile with his axe. Aleja lost sight of him in the chaos once again.

She was caught off guard from the left. A massive broadsword drove into the ground beside her, so close that it clipped the laces of her boots. Val may have towered over her, but this enemy soldier had a mask so large it seemed to blot out the reddish sun like a tower. Her only saving grace was the weight of his sword; even with his immense size, she had one last opportunity to engulf him in flames before he could swing again.

This time, her fire caught his mask. He roared in pain as the feathers ignited.

The fire did not stop him from swinging at her torso once more. The world seemed to slow as she watched the blade arc toward her. Her body refused to move quickly enough to avoid it. She nearly closed her eyes, bracing for the blow—but silently, the sword was pushed back.

The thrum against her skin was unmistakable as Nicolas’s shadows surged forward. The Principality gurgled behind his winged mask, his mouth forced open as shadows poured inside. By the time blood spilled from his lips, Aleja was moving again. This time, the Knowing One was beside her.

“I can’t explain now,” she gasped, still unsure if she was truly alive. “But we need to keep the enemy focused on us.”

A gash ran across Nicolas’s cheek, and another sliced diagonally through his wings, bleeding freely onto the trampled ground. “Then light them up, Lady of Wrath,” he barked. “I’ll cover you!”

Under different circumstances, Aleja might have asked for more detailed instructions.

Without the curse of an unfulfilled bargain in his heart, Nicolas’s shadows were quicker, sharper, carving a line in the fighting. Through the gap, Aleja spotted the cluster of Astraelis mages she had seen from the hill. Attacking them would undoubtedly draw their full attention to her—a terrifying prospect if she hadn’t been caught in a dreamlike haze, still reeling from the moment she had teetered on the edge of death, saved by a sliver of darkness. Her fear barely registered when the mages turned toward her as one, their hands rising in unison.

“Show them that you’re back, dove,” Nicolas whispered.

She did.

Aleja didn’t need a little voice in her head to tell her that she would only have this one chance, and she might as well use every bit of magic left inside of her. Even Nicolas had to fall back from the heat.

After that, Aleja saw nothing but red.

She heard nothing but screaming.

She poured anger from the well of her heart until it felt like there was nothing left.

When the red faded, it was replaced with black—singed grass, burnt feathers, and the bodies of Otherlander soldiers who had fallen before she’d arrived. Two of the Principality mages lay motionless on the smoldering earth, but the two who remained had been partially shielded by the corpses of their comrades. Golden light shimmered to life around their hands, only to be met by Nicolas’s shadows rushing forward to smother it.

“Wrath, move!” Orla’s voice bellowed across the battlefield, loud as a war horn.

Aleja again wished the Otherlanders would be more specific with their commands. But when she ran, the soldiers around her followed. She lost sight of Nicolas, only for him to reappear overhead moments later, shouting orders above the clamor of armor and battle cries.

The Principalities had been forced to spread out to counter a new threat approaching from the east. She spotted Garm bounding over the sea of helmets. Feathers clung to his bloodied muzzle as both Otherlanders and Astraelis alike scrambled to avoid the hellhound in the throes of bloodlust.

“Garm!” she shouted. “This way!”

It was like watching a battle unravel in real time. With their line broken, the Astraelis couldn’t hold against the wave of Otherlanders surging forward. A cry tore from Aleja’s throat—ragged and scorched by smoke. She couldn’t stop her arm from raising to the sky, releasing a burst of flame. The light ignited a wave of roars from the crowd as they pushed ahead, tearing through the remaining Principalities.

She had lost sight of both Nicolas and Garm, but the fear that had gripped her earlier was gone. They were winning. The Astraelis would be forced back behind their wards, made to think twice before striking at the Hiding Place like this again.

Yet, even in the relief of this victory, two faces filled Aleja’s thoughts. One she knew well—Violet, with her freckles and toothy smile. The other, she had never truly seen—the Messenger, always hidden behind her circular, winged mask.

Aleja had felt anger before. She had felt rage. But now, she understood why the Second had chosen her twice as the Lady of Wrath . If the Second thought his bargain would be difficult for her to fulfill, he was mistaken. Aleja wouldn’t just bring him the Messenger’s heart on a silver platter—she would bring Violet’s as well.