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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T ristan stretched out his wings as he stared at the twisted piles of metal that used to be a cargo train, now scattered throughout the Staurien Pass. Despite his sore muscles—and despite the loss—he couldn’t deny how much he’d missed the focused fury of battle. Wielding steel and wind against a clear-cut enemy. Slicing limbs and stealing breath.

The Imperial soldiers who’d ambushed Tristan’s forces had lingered for four fierce, bloody, brutal days. Days during which the Teles Chrysos had been winning . They fought with a fervor the Imperial infantry couldn’t match. And the Anointed had been a sight to behold. Jets of fire had blazed through the pines. Imperial soldiers had spasmed on the ground, their bodies ringed with lightning. Others had drowned on dry land, choked by water magic.

In fact, up until the train cars had gone up in a flash of white followed by a cloud of black smoke, Tristan was sure his rebels would end the week victorious.

Instead, nearly a hundred had met True Death in the explosion and any hopes they’d had of acquiring those missiles had been destroyed.

A crushing blow, one that Eamon hadn’t even been here to witness. Tristan might have thought his brother’s absence odd if he didn’t know what a spineless coward Eamon was.

A familiar voice rang out from the tent behind Tristan.

“What thinking about, little baby man?”

Hella clapped Tristan on the shoulder and he turned, attempting a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.

“They call me Prince now, or hadn’t you heard?” He tried to muster his playful energy; it was more difficult than normal. But a good leader maintained good spirits. Even if those spirits were sometimes false. “I could have your head for such insolence.”

“Will always be baby man to me.” Hella’s amber eyes crinkled with affection. “Come. They ready for you.”

Tristan followed Hella into the tent, angling his shoulders to fit his wings through the flap.

On the second day of battle, Tristan had nearly wept with joy when Hella had appeared. She’d crashed down among a ring of Imperial soldiers then taken ten out at once in a blur of crimson feathers and swirling golden braids.

They hadn’t yet had a chance to properly re-unite, and he had a million questions for her. Why had she left the Vestians? How had she fallen in with the Teles Chrysos? Had she left Aneka in Meridon with the Shrouded Sisters, like they’d planned? They’d shared nothing more than a fierce hug and a few teasing quips before they’d both lurched back into the chaos.

Tristan took the seat at the head of the oval table, scanning the papers scattered atop it—transcriptions of the windwhisper, commstone, and cuff messages that had been flowing in from Lebaedia.

Ione sat beside him looking mostly unharmed, save a bandage peeking through her collar. She must have been nicked by Typhon steel.

She’d been a glorious commander down by those tracks. Firm and compassionate with her soldiers, but never giving into their panic. She pulled back at all the right moments and pressed forward when she could tell the enemy was flagging. And throughout, she’d remained on the front line, not holding the rear while she asked others to take the brunt of the violence. It was no wonder the rebels respected her so much.

As if she felt the weight of his gaze, she lifted her head, gifting him a soft smile despite the worry crawling through her indigo eyes. She raised her hand toward his, then flattened it on her armrest when he didn’t reach for her.

Hella flopped down across the table as Seraavi Pfania entered the tent. Tristan wouldn’t soon forget the violent, inspiring sight of the pink-eyed Deathstalker ripping apart Imperial soldiers with her venomous fangs.

Layla Fetar, her black-and-white braids a frizzy mess, and Felix Tanius, persimmon wings tight against his back, were already seated.

“Gang’s all here, Prince,” Layla said. “Your show.”

Tristan kicked off the meeting. “Do you have a full inventory of the weapons we’d hoped to gain from that shipment?”

Layla nodded. “Besides the five missiles, we lost two-hundred crates of snakebites, thousands of Typhon swords, daggers, and axes. Plus two pallets of stun pistols.”

Hella emitted a low whistle as Felix muttered a drawn-out curse. Ione’s face paled.

Layla plastered on a weary smile. “Bright side? The Empire won’t be getting them either.”

“How did the Empire know we were coming?” Ione snarled, turning to Seraavi. “Has someone in your group been compromised?”

“Never,” Seraavi gritted out. “Our people are fiercely loyal to the cause. We would personally vouch for every single one.”

“Why Emperor not show up himself?” Hella asked.

Felix ruffled his wings. “Our spies in Delos claim he hasn’t left the palace since he returned from the colonies. Not since the Delphine stole his prize.” A slow grin spread onto the male’s face as he eyed up Tristan.

Tristan’s hackles raised. Is that all Felix thought of him? That he was just a prize to be bandied about between sides? Had he not proven himself, fighting alongside them these past few days?

Tristan opened his mouth to protest before shame stilled his tongue. All the Fae in this room, with the exception of Hella, had been here on the continent laying the groundwork for this cause while he’d been down in the colonies doing what, exactly? A whole lot of fucking nothing.

As if she could sense the direction of his thoughts, Ione shot Felix a sharp look. “You will speak of your future Emperor with more respect than that, General Tanius.”

Tristan shifted on his feet. “It’s fine.”

Her wings rustled at his voice, even as she stared down Felix, who bowed his head in a silent apology.

Tristan turned back to Layla. “What’s the damage, do you think? How well stocked are the armories at our other bases? Can our plans to march on Delos withstand this blow?”

Layla grimaced. “Unlikely. Even with the weapons we have left, we don’t have anything powerful enough to maintain a siege or force Eamon to surrender. We’re going to have to come up with another way to take the city.”

Tristan dropped his head, shoulders flagging as he blew out a long breath. The tent was silent as he pondered their options.

“Anyone have any ideas?” he asked.

Seraavi raised a brow at Layla. “Do you still have the relic?”

Layla jolted, sitting up higher in her seat and running a hand along the corset of knives at her waist. “Yes, but… It’s never worked. We’ve blown it hundreds of times with no results. No one knows how Arran Zephyrus was able to?—”

“You said you have a connection with his son, right?” Seraavi asked Tristan, cutting off Layla’s protests.

“I do.”

“How close are you?”

“He’s my closest friend in the world.”

His closest friend that he hadn’t seen nor spoken with in weeks. Guilt squeezed his chest.

“Close enough that he’d be willing to perform a covert mission for you?”

Tristan furrowed his brow. “What kind of mission?”

“The dragon of Typhon Mountain. It’s under Arran Zephyrus’s control.” Seraavi gestured to Layla. “Thanks to General Fetar, we are in possession of a relic of Adelphinae—a flute—that may summon the creature away from him. But we need more information about how he’s been able to keep it under his command all these centuries. Do you think your friend would be willing to help us ferret out that information?”

Tristan scrubbed a hand down his face, about to open his mouth to ask another question when Felix cut in.

“What use would the dragon be to our plans?”

Seraavi scoffed. “The creature decimated an entire territory with its fire. Enough fire to strike more fear into Eamon Erabis than five untested missiles, we’d say. He’ll shit his Imperial pants if he sees us marching upon his city with the creature.”

Everyone around the table laughed. Everyone except Felix, who grunted, color stealing across his cheeks as he folded his arms across his chest.

“It’s risky,” Felix ground out. “What happens if we can’t figure out how to acquire the dragon? What’s our back-up plan?”

Ione silenced him with a sharp glare. “There is no back-up plan.”

Felix wouldn’t let it go. And there was something petulant and personal in his tone. “What if we tried to contact Arran? Maybe he’d be willing to?—”

“Even if we had enough drachas left to buy his cooperation, why would he risk his cash cow for us?” Ione spat. “He’s playing both sides of this conflict, Felix. He’s not going to risk the exposure. And I’m not entirely convinced he wasn’t the one who ratted us out.”

The tips of Felix’s ears were growing red. “That’s all well and good, but?—”

“Enough!” Tristan commanded, mashing his palm onto the table and making the entire group jump. “This is the plan.” He stared down Felix. “You will escort me to Brachos tomorrow to meet with Cael Zephyrus.” He turned to Layla. “You will give me the flute which I will give to Cael if he agrees to help us. And we should all pray to the Creator that he does. Afterward,” he turned to Ione, “you and I will head to Delos as previously planned to retrieve the Compendium.”

The finality in his tone brooked no room for argument, though Felix looked inclined.

“Any other objections?” Tristan swept his commanding gaze across the room. His stomach clenched when it landed on Ione, who was regarding him with enough heated awe to make him uncomfortable. “Dismissed.”

He bolted out of the tent faster than she could follow, then tensed when a warm hand fell upon his shoulder.

“Take walk with me?” Hella asked.

Tristan relaxed, then nodded, following her out into the camp.

Bright stars twinkled across the black velvet sky, no ambient light from any surrounding cities to dull their shine.

“I hear what happen to Cassandra,” Hella said, her golden eyes glued to the ground as she plodded along beside him. “So very sorry, Tristan.”

He shuddered out a watery breath, eyes stinging. He’d barely had a moment to sit with his grief, and though working out his anger during that battle had helped, he was fresh out of distractions. The prospect of several uninterrupted hours with nothing but his thoughts was daunting.

“My first act as Emperor will be to get her out of there,” Tristan vowed.

Hella paused before a small tent, regarding him carefully.

Tristan cocked a questioning eyebrow. “Why’d you join, Hella? The last we talked, you were heading down to Meridon to?—”

The tent flap opened, and a familiar head of flaxen hair poked through.

“You’re back,” Aneka said through a relieved grin. Hella stepped over to cup her cheeks, and Aneka’s sea-foam eyes scanned Hella’s muscular frame for injuries. “I was worried that you?—”

Hella dipped her head, stealing her lover’s lips. Aneka whimpered. And though it was rude, Tristan couldn’t help staring, envy searing his chest.

The kiss was fierce and deep, as if Hella were drinking her salvation from Aneka’s mouth. It was a kiss of relief. A kiss that said I will always return to you.

Hella broke away and whispered, “Be right in.”

Aneka glanced to Tristan, then back to Hella, a flush warming her cheeks. “Don’t keep me waiting much longer.”

Hella’s crimson feathers rattled as she ran her thumb across Aneka’s rosebud lips. “Never, my golden beauty.”

But instead of stepping back into the tent, Aneka rushed to Tristan and threw her arms around him.

It had been weeks since he’d held anyone. Since anyone had held him. So he took a quiet moment to savor the contact as Aneka whispered against his shoulder, “I never thanked you. For what you and Cassandra did for me.” At her name, that deep ache within him sharpened, so intense he nearly fell to his knees. He squeezed Aneka tighter before she pulled back. “Thank you. For saving me. You’re going to be a wonderful Emperor.”

He dipped his head in gratitude, though he wasn’t sure he agreed with her. The thought of being responsible for an entire world, the very long and daunting path that lay ahead of him… It was all so vast he couldn’t even grasp its edges. One step at a time , he told himself. Just get through tonight.

“That why,” Hella whispered as Aneka entered the tent, then pulled the flap shut. “ She is reason why.” Hella turned toward him, golden eyes shining with resolve. “You understand?”

“Yes,” Tristan said softly. “I do.”

Hella’s eyebrows knit together. “You okay?”

“No.”

He may be faking it for everyone else in that war committee tent, but he was grateful he didn’t have to fake anything for Hella.

She tipped her head back. “Maybe she looking at same sky right now. Maybe thinking same thoughts.” Tristan glanced upward, but only the winking stars and glowing moon looked back. “Goodnight, Prince of Rebels.”

The title echoed in his ears as Hella brushed into her tent. Likely to lose herself in Aneka’s embrace, let their casual intimacies chase away all this death and destruction.

Jealousy blinded him as he tore away, not wanting to overhear their reunion.

Low laughter and murmured conversations chased him through the camp. He came upon a group of rebels gathered around a bonfire—four males and two females of varying sub- species. And despite everything they’d been through, the battle they’d just barely survived not to mention the loss of their friends and those missiles, they were laughing. Teasing each other. Clinking bottles of beer and wine.

Their camaraderie paralyzed him. How many would fall on the treacherous path ahead?

One rebel, a Beastrunner with two familiar pointed ears poking through his tawny hair—the young male from the hospital in Lodesvale—noticed Tristan watching. His laughter trailed off as his friends turned to see what had caught his attention.

They stood as one, angling their bottles toward Tristan. “To the new Emperor!” the long-eared Beastrunner proclaimed. The others echoed him, and Tristan bowed in acceptance of their toast, nausea roiling his gut.

He stomped away as fast as dignity allowed, then crashed through the tree line on the edge of the camp. He steadied himself against a cool pine, swallowing down breaths.

He was on the precipice of achieving everything he’d ever wanted.

And he was terrified.

What if he failed?

He sank down the trunk, his feathers catching on the rough bark, and looked toward the stars. Was Hella right? Could Cass see these same stars at this very moment through the wards of Tartarus?

Would they send her a message?

“I miss you,” he whispered.

He leaned his head against the tree, picturing her in his mind. Her intelligent blue-gray eyes, her soft smile, the beauty and kindness and bravery that radiated from her every pore. It comforted him.

“They’re calling me Prince and Your Highness and I…I’ve done nothing to earn those titles. The only sacrifice I’ve ever made is you.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m not foolish enough to believe this path would be any easier if you were walking beside me. But I’d feel so much stronger if you were.

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

He breathed deeply, bringing his awareness to the cool bark against his back, the damp grass below his hands. Grounding himself. Trying to purge his turbulent emotions. He knew it wouldn’t work. He’d borne this type of grief once before, and it had ruined him. And though he was a little older, maybe even a little wiser, the burden of Cassandra’s absence was infinitely heavier.

But blubbering about his lost love wouldn’t get him anywhere. And if Cass could see him right now, she’d tell him to quit worrying about her and pull himself together. Focus on the goal. Focus on their people .

It was that thought which finally gave him the strength to rise and return to the camp. He paused in front of his tent, whispered into his palm and sent a message to Cael.

If he couldn’t have Cassandra at his side, maybe the next best thing was a dragon.