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Chapter fifty-five

C andlelight illuminated the room Astrid shared with Dimitri. She sat in the middle of their bed, bundled in silk and furs. Her Death Spirit kept his word, departing the morning after he’d been assigned his latest target.

Astrid ventured to the library in those early hours and requested Ledivion’s most recent war archive. Dobromil reluctantly complied with her demand, and she’d returned with her prize.

She curled up in bed as she had in Clorea, dragging Dimitri’s pillow across her lap to cushion the heavy tome. Hours passed as she immersed herself in the pages. Consuming knowledge calmed her nerves and Astrid leaned into her self-soothing habit.

The windows darkened as night’s shadow fell over the palace.

Her mother was to be freed before dawn. Sterling was capable and had proven himself time and again, but she couldn’t help but worry.

The passing hours set her teeth on edge.

She wasn’t involved with this plan—didn’t know how many soldiers made up their team.

It was common to only know your part in the event of capture, but Astrid didn’t even know where her mother was being held.

The pop and crackle of the fire did nothing to soothe her. She continued to read, absently scratching Graymalkin’s chin. The fluffy beast sprawled next to her, purring as he flexed one paw then the other on either side of her wrist.

Astrid turned to the final entry and her hand trembled.

The Acquisition of Clorea.

A single paragraph chronicled how King Ambrose and Sorin Noctis conspired to assassinate her father’s court and divide her kingdom between themselves.

She’d written dozens of letters to her cousin, and they’d all gone unanswered. He’d abandoned her mother—his queen—to this frozen wasteland for half a kingdom.

Astrid seethed, closing the leather-bound book. When Dimitri returned, they would depart for Clorea. Once she reclaimed her birthright, she would ask Keres to craft elegant bird cages large enough for a head.

Sorin and all her male cousins would decorate the pillars of her throne room. They would bear witness to her reign for all eternity.

An explosion ripped through the night.

This is wrong . Astrid vaulted from the bed and unsheathed Dimitri’s sword. She dashed down the hall, ignoring the chill biting through her nightgown and the stones numbing the balls of her feet.

Serpents devour her, she should have demanded Dimitri tell her where her mother was being held.

Astrid’s frantic pace slowed as the hall widened into a large room. Ledivites in various stages of undress shrieked and panicked, pouring from the stairways. Astrid chose the busier stairway, shoving her way upstream through limbs and wings.

On the next floor, cracks fissured the ceiling and a multitiered chandelier hung precariously. Her mother wasn’t a soul weaver.

If they damaged the integrity of the wall…

Astrid spied chainmail-draped wings moving against the crowd. She followed, guided by the rattle of armor. They ran through another hall, and it opened into a small library. Bookcases were crushed beneath huge chunks of rubble and the story above was visible through the creaking beams.

Earth weavers stood at the walls. Their palms open as they reenforced the structure.

Astrid didn’t have time to fight the crowd. Her mother could be injured. Dying. Her magic snapped to her and a sea of soul stars blinded her. There were so many of them. All blocking her path.

She laid her hands on the winged male directly in front of her. His body dropped and screams erupted.

Three more fell before the crowd parted for Astrid and she ran. She stitched her soul and focused her magic on regenerating her heart, lungs, and eyes.

The hall narrowed before her, but it was the unobstructed snow-covered pines that gave her hope. Fire erupted over the wall, shaking the foundation as more stones crumbled and fell.

Astrid charged for the room. Two guards met her and engaged. Astrid deflected the first’s blow and pressed her hand over his chest. The male fell into a lifeless heap. When she turned to the other, the male dropped his weapon and fled.

Wreckage covered the room. Fallen stone. Splintered furniture.

A shadowed figure on horseback shouted orders as flames destroyed more of the exterior wall. The distinctive blend of leather and metal making up his armor was unmistakable.

Sterling himself had come for her mother.

A dozen black-winged Ledivites moved as one, badged with the serpents of Clorea. They stormed the room, and Astrid heard her mother scream.

One of the males hoisted Astrid’s mother over his shoulder. She screamed, “Asti,” reaching for her as she had across the table in Clorea all those months ago when Dimitri attacked.

Astrid lurched forward, catching her hand. Golden strands looped from her, arching back and pulling tight.

Astrid dropped her mother’s hand and shoved at the male’s back. “Take her! Go!”

He flew to Sterling and her steadfast ally secured her mother in front of him. His movements hesitated as his gaze lifted past her.

“Go!” Astrid screamed.

Sterling and his team raced their horses beyond the tree line. Their hoofbeats and her mother’s frantic cries faded into the night.

A slow clap sounded behind her and Astrid turned to see King Ambrose stepping over a guard’s body to enter the room. A pair of spearmen flanked him, but it was crossbow in Ambrose’s grip that concerned her most.

“You think anything happens in my palace without my knowledge?” he asked, taking aim.

She heard the thrum of the bowstring before pain exploded through her chest. Astrid’s breaths drew short, and she focused her magic on the wound before ripping the bolt out of her heart.

It continued to beat. Mended.

The head of a spear cut through her ribs and tore from her back in the next instant. The momentum knocked her to the ground and Astrid’s vision blurred and blackened. She tried to breathe, but coughed liquid. Tasted blood.

Astrid viciously clung to consciousness. She blinked and turned her head. Ambrose was barefoot, dressed only in a pair of pants slung low on his hips.

She reached for him, but her movements were uncoordinated and sluggish.

Ambrose shoved her a few feet, using the spear impaling her as though she were a mop. He turned his head and asked, “Is she stitching her soul?”

Dobromil stepped out of the shadows, looking stricken. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Astrid’s fists closed over the handle. She would pull herself up, through this spear, and rip his soul out of his fucking face.

“Good,” Ambrose said, ripping the spear from her chest with a twisting motion.

Astrid’s vision flickered to darkness. The last thing she heard was the wet sound of bones and flesh against metal.