Page 41 of Storm of Stars (Pride of Praxis #2)

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

Ezra

“Wake up,” Zaffir’s voice broke through the haze of sleep, urgent but steady. “It’s starting.”

My eyes fluttered open, vision blurry and unfocused. I turned my head and found Bex beside me, her lashes fluttering as her gaze met mine. There was a moment where the world outside didn’t exist. Just her. Just this.

I wrapped my arms tighter around her, pulling her close in an instinctive embrace, like I could shield her from what was coming. She tucked her face into the crook of my neck, warm and drowsy, but the tension was already building in the space between us.

Near Bex’s feet, Thorne let out a groan, clearly not ready to surrender the comfort of sleep. “Ugh, five more minutes,” he muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes like a petulant child.

Briar was up in an instant. She rolled smoothly to her feet with a catlike stretch, eyes sharp and clear.

“It’s starting?” I asked Zaffir, still trying to piece reality together. The dreamlike fog in my brain made everything feel distant, like we had all the time in the world, when in truth, we had almost none.

“Wave two’s explosives just went off,” he confirmed, kneeling beside the bedroll to set down a plate piled with dried meat, fruit, and hard bread. “Wave three’s moving in to take the guard towers now. If they can secure them and hold the line, we’ll be up next.”

Briar wasted no time, already plucking fruit from the plate like she was picking weapons off a rack. She tossed a red piece of fruit to Bex with a wink. Bex caught it easily, offering a half-asleep smile in return.

I sat up, rubbing my hands over my face before grabbing a piece of jerky and taking a bite. The salt and chewiness grounded me slightly, helping to sweep the remnants of sleep from my system.

“So… if they take the towers,” I said around a mouthful, “that means it’s our turn?”

“When,” Bex corrected gently, her voice still husky with sleep but her resolve already shining through. She offered me a soft smile.

I reached out and let my hand trace slowly down her bare back, savoring the feel of her skin under my fingers. Goosebumps followed in the wake of my touch. I liked that I could still do that to her.

“Yeah,” I murmured, “when.”

“I’d say we’ve got a few hours,” Briar interjected, crouching to lace up her boots with military precision. “Long enough to eat, clean up, gear up, and breathe. Maybe.”

She was fully awake now. Sharp. Focused. Like a general. Honestly, it was impressive. Maybe even a little intimidating.

I looked around at the group, Zaffir sitting beside us now, Thorne muttering something incoherent into the mound of blankets and Bex, still pressed against my side, taking slow careful bites of her fruit. My chest tightened.

We took turns washing up, and then suited up in borrowed clothes and light armor from the armory tent.

Briar took charge, naturally. She moved through the weapons racks with a soldier’s ease, hands brushing over the familiar contours of guns and blades. She holstered a sleek pistol at her hip and filled her bag with extra rounds, every motion precise, practiced.

Thorne gravitated toward a bow and a quiver of arrows, his fingers testing the string’s resistance with a quiet reverence. “I used to hunt with one of these back home,” he said, a rare seriousness in his voice. “It’s quiet. I like quiet.”

Zaffir, sweet and slightly out of his element, eyed the racks like they might bite. In the end, he chose a pair of small daggers that he strapped to his belt with a shaky but determined hand. But his camera, his real weapon, remained slung over one shoulder, ready.

I stared at the firearms like they were some alien relics. I didn’t know the first thing about shooting one, and I sure as hell didn’t want to risk hurting someone on accident. But a pickaxe, blunt, heavy, straightforward, I could handle that. It had weight. It made sense.

Bex was just as uncertain. Her hand hovered over a pistol before pulling back like it had burned her. She eventually grabbed a couple of daggers and tucked them into the loops of her belt. Then she picked up a large rifle, her fingers fumbling slightly as she tried to understand it.

“I don’t know how to use it,” she said, eyes wide with something between nerves and resolve.

“Me either,” I admitted, grabbing a rifle of my own.

I quickly emptied the magazine and cleared the chamber, then slung it across my back. She did the same, watching me carefully.

“They don’t have to know it’s not loaded,” I whispered, brushing a kiss across her lips. “Might be enough to make someone hesitate. Buy you a few seconds.”

Bex stood on her toes and kissed me back, harder, like it might be the last time. Like she didn’t want to forget the feel of it.

A few hours later, we gathered at the base of the hill that overlooked the perimeter of Praxis. The sounds of fighting that had echoed through the morning—shouts, the sharp crack of gunfire, and the distant boom of explosions—had quieted into an eerie lull.

We hadn’t seen any retreating forces, no signs of panic, which meant the second wave had likely succeeded. The guard towers were down. The gates were exposed. We were next.

Briar scanned the hilltop and the golden glint of the city beyond it, then turned to face us. Her eyes were sharp, her voice low but commanding.

“Stay close. Stay quiet. Be ready.”

And with that, she led us forward.

The climb toward Praxis felt a lot different than the last time we made this trek.

The last time we’d taken these steps, during the transportation trial, it had been about proving our strength and endurance to a government who’d had us under their thumb. But this… this was something else entirely.

Now, when we crested that hill and saw the golden gates ahead, the smoke and destruction of Nexum weren’t locked out, they were trapped inside. This time, Praxis wasn’t the only place untouched by chaos.

It was the chaos.

The moment we crossed the barrier, the air turned thick with death. The smoke from the explosions hung heavy. Ash floated through the sky like dirty snow. The scent of gunpowder stung my nose, mingling with the coppery tang of blood that coated the streets.

I kept my arm around Bex’s shoulders, grounding both of us.

Her hand curled into the hem of my shirt, fingers gripping tight.

We didn’t say anything. We didn’t need to.

Just kept walking, stepping around bodies of Praxis guards and Runaways alike, wreckage, the aftermath of the fight that had already torn through this place.

They’d stood on opposite sides of the line—one draped in gold, the other in ash—but now they lay the same.

Silent. Still. Because in the end, no matter the uniform, no matter the cause, we all bleed red.

The silence was eerie. The initial battle was clearly settled. But that didn’t mean it was safe. Didn’t mean we could breathe easy.

The tension hadn’t gone anywhere. It just shifted. Burrowed deeper.

It was too quiet now. And I knew better than to let my guard down. Not yet.

“The Show Center is this way,” Zaffir whispered, pointing Briar down a relatively deserted road.

The windows on the buildings were shut tight, silence permeated the air.

It was a vicious juxtaposition from the lively effervescence that we’d witnessed only a few short weeks ago when we first arrived in this town.

The Runaways had taken the Guard Towers. We could still hear them, faintly. Rebel voices echoing through the empty streets.

Footsteps snapped our attention forward. I stepped in front of Bex, the others fell into place beside me, ready for a fight. But it was Edgar who came out of the shadows, and our relief was instant, but short-lived.

“Edgar,” Briar called. She moved toward him, but stopped short, when she took in the sight of him.

He looked… wrecked. Ash smeared across his face, blood dried and cracked along the side of his neck.

He kept one hand pressed to his stomach, where more blood had bloomed and soaked through the fabric.

“You’re hurt,” Briar said.

He waved her off. “Still breathing, and that’s more than I can say for a lot of us.”

“The towers?” Thorne asked.

Edgar gave a slow nod. “We’ve got them. Guards that are cooperating are locked in the lower levels. Anyone else, incapacitated.”

Bex flinched at the word.

“But we’ve got another problem,” Edgar said.

“What now?” Briar asked.

“Citizens. From the west side. They’re pushing back. Trying to take back the tower.”

“Citizens?” Bex echoed.

“Armed?” Zaffir added, his voice softer than usual.

Edgar nodded. “Not like us. But enough to make it a fight. And our people are already stretched thin. We took hits getting in.”

Briar swore under her breath and raked a hand through her hair. “What’s the play?” she asked.

“We hold them back as long as we can,” Edgar answered.

“How?” Bex pressed.

Briar and Thorne exchanged a look, silent and steady. “However we have to,” Edgar said.

Zaffir looked like he might be sick. “What if they surrender?” His voice barely carried, but it cut straight through the tension.

“If they surrender,” Briar said, her eyes locking with his, “they won’t be harmed.”

Edgar shook his head, jaw clenched. “But that’s a big if. And we don’t have long. If they keep pushing, we’ll lose the west tower by morning. And everyone guarding it.”

The silence that followed said what no one else could. If we lost the tower, we’d lose the advantage we’d only barely garnered… and then the war itself.

“That’s where you come in,” Edgar said, his gaze moving from Bex to Zaffir. “You need to get through to them. Show them the truth. Make them see who they’re really protecting, and what it’s costing.”

He took a step closer. His voice dropped, steadier, heavier. “Make them see it,” he said again.

Briar placed a hand on his shoulder, firm. “Good luck.”

“You too,” Edgar said, meeting each of our eyes before turning, limping his way back toward the towers.

We stood in silence for a breath. Then I spoke.

“We need to move.”

Zaffir gave a small nod. “The Show Center is just ahead,” he said, calm on the surface, but his voice had a distant edge to it, like he wasn’t entirely here anymore.

And I couldn’t blame him.

His mind was probably with the people at that western tower right now.

People he’d grown up with. Neighbors. Classmates.

Maybe even someone he used to love. People who’d lived under the same stories he once believed in.

People who weren’t soldiers, but were still picking up weapons to defend a lie they didn’t even know was a lie.

This war wasn’t easy on any of us. But for Zaffir, it had to cut deeper. He wasn’t just fighting Praxis. He was fighting pieces of his past.

And if those citizens died out there, if they lost their lives defending the version of truth Praxis had spoon-fed them since birth, was it even really their fault?

I didn’t know anymore.

All I knew was that if we didn’t get this right—if Bex and Zaffir couldn’t reach them in time—there’d be more blood on the streets by morning.