Page 16 of Storm of Stars (Pride of Praxis #2)

Briar took her seat first, perched on the stool like she'd been born to do this, even if it had been years since her fingers last caressed a guitar string. She adjusted the mic, and her hands trembled just slightly as she set the guitar in her lap.

I stepped in front of the second mic. My own hands gripped the stand, clammy and shaking, though I prayed it didn’t show.

I glanced at Briar. She nodded once. Then her fingers strummed the first chord.

The sound bloomed soft and aching. A dark tone, slow and haunting. And just like that, the room fell still again, just as it had for Thorne. Every sound seemed to hold its breath.

Then Briar began. Her voice came low, near the vocal fry, with a hint of gravel that made it sound worn and true. Not like a songbird, but like someone who had lived every word.

“When the run is over, and the lights grow dim,

When the songs are silent and the victors grin…”

I closed my eyes just briefly. Took a breath. And stepped into the next line. My voice was quieter than hers, but pointed. Steady. Like I was leaving behind a trail. A map.

“You’ll find me by the old gold gate, where the wild roots grow,

With a pack on my shoulder and a heart you know.”

Maybe they understood. Maybe they heard it. The truth under the lyrics. The message sewn into the melody. Then Briar and I sang together, our voices locking like pieces in a puzzle. Seamless. Like we were always meant to sing this one song, just this once.

“Raise your hands, raise your eyes, to the breakin’ dawn,

There’s a road past the border where the lost ones’ve gone.”

The harmony built. An aching, longing sound.

“And when the run is over, when the reckonin’s near,

We’ll sing the old verses only runaways hear.”

Someone in the audience gasped softly. Another clapped a hand over their mouth.

“Lay your tools by the riverside, leave your mark in stone,

Count the crows at midnight, you won’t be alone.”

My hands didn’t shake anymore. They held steady to the mic, firm. Certain.

“Watch for the lantern in the hollow’s bend,

It’ll burn like a promise where the shadows send.”

I looked back up. Straight at her. Archon Veritas sat like a phantom carved in gold, separated from the masses in her elevated box. All around her, the crowd roared with noise and light but she was stillness incarnate.

And I sang right to her.

“Raise your hands, raise your eyes, to the breakin’ dawn,

There’s a road past the border where the lost ones’ve gone.

And when the run is over, when the reckonin’s near,

We’ll sing the old verses only runaways hear.”

The words…our hidden anthem…poured from my mouth. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just held her gaze and let the truth burn its way through the melody. Briar’s voice cracked just slightly at the start of the next verse, but it made it more beautiful. More real.

“Hold fast to the names they tried to erase,

There’s a fire in the earth and it knows your face.”

Veritas tilted her head, slow and deliberate, like a predator watching a challenge rise from the dirt.

Her eyes locked with mine, burning hotter than the stage lights overhead. A furnace of curiosity, calculation. No mask of neutrality now, just something sharp and feral gleaming behind the polish of power.

“Tie a thread 'round your wrist, red as dusk, tight as kin,

When the last winner’s called, that’s when we begin.”

My voice rang out then, clear and strong as fire.

“Raise your hands, raise your hearts, to the breakin’ sky,

We’re the storm they forgot, we’re the wolves runnin’ high.”

The crowd surged. I could feel the emotion crashing through them.

“And when the run is over, when the reckonin’s near,

We’ll rise from the ashes and they’ll know we were here.”

We held the last note just a little too long. Let it echo. Let them feel it. Then silence. The silence right before the flood.

Then came the roar.

Thunderous applause erupted like a tidal wave crashing through the arena.

Some in the crowd clapped for the melody, oblivious to the coded defiance laced between each line.

Others, those who understood, rose to their feet, the undercurrent of rebellion pulsing just beneath their praise.

I had no way of knowing which was which, but I felt it.

It was determination and celebration woven together, a perfect smokescreen.

Annalese spilled onto the stage, radiant and beaming, her heels clicking against the floor as she swept into the spotlight between us.

“You two sounded beautiful together, didn’t they?” she gushed, turning to the audience with a grin that could sell sunshine. The crowd responded with a fresh wave of cheers, some whistling, some already chanting our names.

“What a charming little song,” she continued, eyes twinkling with forced innocence. “Anyone special you’re dedicating it to?”

She shoved the mic between Briar and me.

I met Archon Veritas’s eyes across the space, her box seat looming like a throne above the masses. She hadn’t moved. Not once. Still as a blade right before the strike. Her expression unreadable, but her presence burned.

“To Praxis,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “And Archon Veritas.”

The crowd roared again, some in earnest celebration, others catching the spark beneath the surface.

But Archon didn’t move. Didn’t clap. Didn’t blink.

Her fury rolled toward me like smoke on the wind, cold and crackling. I couldn’t tell if she had heard the message buried in our melody, if she’d unraveled the truth between the notes. But it didn’t matter.

Because those who needed to hear it did.

The Runaways would be ready. When the final trial ended, we would strike.

We would fight back.

We would reclaim what was ours.

And she could try to stop us, but as she told me, we outnumbered her.