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CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

T he wind off Lake Phaeban ruffled through Tristan’s feathers as he shook the hand of a gray-winged, brown-eyed male atop a hill overlooking Delos.

“I can’t thank you enough for the support, Erik. Or should I call you High Councilor Zephyrus now?”

Erik cringed. “High Gods, please don’t.” Cael had abdicated the position to his younger brother, though nothing would be official until a seated Emperor decreed it. “Father would be rolling over in his grave. If he had one.” Erik dipped his chin and snickered, but Tristan detected a layer of pain beneath the mirth. Surely not for Arran. Probably for all those who’d lost their lives during the Stoneridge wedding massacre. “Anyway—” Erik perked up and gestured toward a tight formation of lethal warriors with membranous wings in shades of black, brown, and gray “—a horde of Brachian soldiers. As requested, Your Highness.”

“High Gods, please don’t.”

The two males shared a laugh.

Layla Fetar strode up, her black-and-white hair braided away from her face and her leathers polished to a gleam as sharp as her knives. She bowed to Tristan. “The last winged rebel unit has just arrived via cuff, Highness. We go on your command.”

Tristan nodded. “Thanks, Layla.”

The curvy, deadly honey badger bi-form strutted down the hill, and Erik’s head nearly swiveled off his neck. “Who was that ?”

Tristan smirked. “Nothing you can handle, lordling.”

Erik pulled at the lapel of his uniform. “Hey, I’m a High Councilor now. Or will be as soon as you swear me in.”

“You just balked at the title.”

Erik clapped a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, his gaze still devouring Layla’s ass. “I’m not opposed to throwing it around for a good cause.”

“She won’t be impressed by it.”

Erik ambled toward his warriors, throwing a two-fingered salute over his shoulder. “Never say never.”

Tristan watched him go, then swept his gaze across the rebellion’s aerial army. In addition to the Teles Chrysos themselves, official units from both Cernodas and Akti had joined.

Tristan clomped through the wet grass, seeking out his Council.

Ronin, decked out in a midnight-blue battle uniform with the sleeves rolled up to expose his ice-blue tattoos, was frowning beneath his eye patch as he assessed the assembled forces. Judging the lines, or missing Mireille already?

Seraavi, Hella, Trophonios, and Layla were rallying the troops, giving last minute pep-talks.

Cael and Signys were up in the sky, scouting.

Cassandra stood alone at the edge of the field, pensive. And looking so fucking gorgeous and powerful in her opalescent leather armor that Tristan wanted to bellow she’s mine across the field. Her warhammer rested at her feet.

They weren’t planning to use it. Not unless things got really dire. But he hoped the weapon would scare off anyone stupid enough to tangle with her. Especially since she couldn’t fly yet.

He stepped up behind her, tugging on the end of her tousled braid. “What are you thinking about?”

She turned, worry pinching her features. “I don’t know, Birdman, I just… I have this unsettled feeling. Like today is going to go horribly, horribly wrong.”

“I feel that way before every battle. We’ll be okay. We’ve prepared. We have thousands of fighters from three different territories on our side.” He rubbed the back of her neck, and she relaxed slightly. “Do you want to try mind-jumping into Eamon’s present again? Maybe it’ll work this time.” An attempt to soothe her anxiety and nothing more. He doubted it would work any better today than it had the past few times they’d tried.

Cassandra shook her head. “I can’t stop thinking about what Reena said after she sent my soul back. That we’d see each other again sooner than I could imagine.” The fear dampening her bright, blue-gray eyes wrecked him. “What if…what if I die again today?”

He pulled her into him, running his wings along hers and relishing the little shiver that coursed through her body. “You are not going to die today. Or ever again. I won’t allow it.”

She released a breathy little laugh, then parted her lips—probably to continue arguing with him. But before she could say a word, a boom echoed across the hill.

Signys landed in a clearing, then laid down a wing.

Cael climbed down and even from this vantage point, Tristan could see the shock and confusion on his Captain’s face.

Tristan’s stomach dipped as he rushed for Cael, meeting him halfway across the field. “What?—”

“It’s empty,” Cael said. “The palace is empty.

“Your brother is no longer in Delos.”

The Crystal Throne room of the Imperial Palace in Delos was the most beautiful place Cassandra had ever seen.

Crafted entirely of gold-veined white marble, the circular room was ringed by arches on the first floor and topped by a mezzanine of sculpted columns. Far, far above, a massive domed ceiling was decorated in gold filigree and sported ornate frescoes honoring the Erabis family’s conquests. Scaffolding branched out beneath one stark white section bearing a spiderweb of sketched lines.

Eamon’s unfinished addition.

But despite the room’s undeniable beauty, the scene that awaited the rebels was gruesome.

A golden-haired Beastrunner male wearing an Imperial soldier’s uniform sat atop the throne in a growing pool of blood. Rivulets of red trailed down the translucent crystal, and the Typhon steel spear pierced through his chest had a folded letter tacked to the end.

The male himself was motionless. Long-dead, Cassandra supposed.

And as terrible a sight as that was, the scene leading up to the throne was worse.

Piles of human bodies lined the aisle. Men and women of all ages, sizes, and races.

No children, praise Anaemos.

The bodies were intact. Preserved, even. Cassandra didn’t scent a hint of rot.

Even so, someone retched behind her.

Tristan and Cassandra and their Council had entered the palace easily. Too easily. Not a single door nor gate had been locked, and there wasn’t a soldier in sight.

“What the fuck happened here?” Cael breathed out, a step behind Cassandra.

A vein jumped in Tristan’s jaw as he answered. “These are the obliviates that Eamon had shipped from the colonies. Darius—” Tristan’s sad eyes flicked to the male pinned to the throne “—told me he’d seen them. But he didn’t know what Eamon was doing with them.”

“What was he doing with them?” Cassandra asked, her voice barely a croak. The level of devastation spread out before her was…numbing. A cold emptiness that frosted out every other emotion.

Tristan stepped onto the dais and leaned down to examine Darius.

The male awoke with a shuddering wet cough, his bloodshot eyes darting madly as the group jolted back.

“He’s gone,” Darius garbled out. “They’re all gone.” He grasped for the spear in his chest, attempting to remove it, but was too weak to manage it.

Tristan knelt down before him as Cassandra, Cael, and Ronin crowded in behind.

“Shh, Darius, it’s alright,” Tristan said, placing a hand on the male’s leg. Darius was seconds from death. Cassandra couldn’t believe he’d held out this long. But perhaps he’d been preserving himself for this very moment? “What happened to these humans?”

Darius coughed, blood bubbling down his chin. “He was using their bodies. Hijacking their obliviated souls to spy on her. To spy on us . He enslaved a chronomancer to help him.”

“Who?” Tristan asked.

Darius’s chin flopped against his chest, and with his final bit of strength, he ripped the letter off the spear and thrust it toward Ronin with a shaky hand.

Ronin furrowed his onyx brows, then plucked the letter from Darius’s limp fingers as the male slumped back against the throne.

Ronin’s golden-blue eye roved over the three simple sentences, and black claws burst from his knuckles as a savage growl rumbled in his throat.

“What?” Cassandra asked, feathers prickling, that terrible sense of dread returning as Ronin tossed her the letter.

She read the final sentence above the scrawled E of Eamon’s signature.

Why rule just one world when I could rule them all?

“He’s got Selene,” Ronin ground out to Tristan. “He’s marching his army through the Halfway. Toward Palathea.

“Eamon Erabis has declared war upon the Creator herself.”