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CHAPTER EIGHT

T he blown-out crater before Tristan smoldered, the smoke stinging eyes already prickling with furious tears.

“There’s an office building a few blocks away, right at the edge of the damage, that remained intact,” said General Seraavi Pfania, the fuchsia-eyed Deathstalker who headed the Cernodas arm of the Teles Chrysos. “We’ve set up operations there, and any of our members with healer’s training have been put on duty to assist the staff. All the surviving patients have been successfully transported, along with anyone wounded in the attack.”

“I want to see them,” Tristan said, peeling his gaze away from the Teles symbols crudely painted on the jagged shards of concrete that used to be a hospital in downtown Lodesvale. “They need to know we didn’t do this.”

Ione placed a hand on Tristan’s forearm, and for the first time during this continental tour, his grief was too vast for him to immediately shrug her off. She pressed her advantage, sidling close enough to stroke his feathers with her own. “It’s not the best idea, Prince. If word gets back to your brother?—”

“Take me there,” Tristan said, ignoring Ione and turning to General Pfania.

“It would be our honor, Highness.” Ruby curls cascaded past Seraavi’s shoulder as she bowed her half-shaved head. She picked her way out of what Tristan assumed had been the hospital courtyard, then called over her shoulder, “It’s just a short walk this way.”

Tristan followed, Ione on his heels.

Lodesvale was the third city they’d visited since leaving Lebaedia four days ago. The third city where he’d spent days conversing with the hopeful Fae who’d joined the movement. And the third city where Tristan had encountered a level of destruction that made him question how he and his brother could possibly be related.

“How long has he been doing this?” Tristan asked through gritted teeth.

“Months,” Ione answered. “The more sympathy we gain among the population, the more aggressive his attacks.”

Tristan nodded. “It’s the same tactic he used in the colonies. Strikes that he orchestrated, then blamed on the Teles Chrysos.”

Though in the colonies it had been empty banks and trade organization buildings. Not hospitals , for fuck’s sake.

“Many Fae have fallen for it,” Seraavi said, “but not all. Especially those on the ground who see our forces pour in to help rebuild. We wonder if he realizes how much he’s helping our recruiting efforts.”

“He’s never attacked a hospital before,” Ione piped up, echoing Tristan’s thoughts as they picked their way through the rubble.

It was the identifiable detritus within the piles of smashed brick, broken glass, and twisted metal that hit Tristan the hardest. A crumpled bed sheet dotted with tiny pink flowers. A guitar with popped strings and a broken neck. A stuffed rabbit sporting a puff of white where its ear should have been.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, his sinuses stinging.

“He’s getting desperate,” Ione said, tripping over a concrete block and grabbing Tristan’s arm for support. “We fear this specific attack was in retaliation for you joining us.”

“Does he know I’ve joined?”

“You disappeared from that cell beneath the Vicereine’s palace. I doubt he thinks you just vanished into thin air.”

Seraavi turned a corner. “It’s just up here, Your Highness.”

The scene in the co-opted office building stoked Tristan’s already red-hot fury to volcanic levels.

Stretched across the floor in defiance of the cubicle pattern etched into the carpet were rows and rows of cots. Fae of all three sub-species filled them, tended to by hospital staff and rebels. The severity of their wounds shouldn’t have been possible, not with their supernatural healing abilities.

Tristan fought a wave of nausea, then turned to Seraavi. “Why haven’t they healed yet?”

“Snakebites,” Seraavi said with a shame-filled grimace. “The Deathstalker venom slows the process. It can take weeks, even months, to heal an injury that would typically be gone in less than a day.”

Ione’s wings drooped while Tristan fought an urge to punch his fist through the wall.

There were fucking children on those cots.

“How could he do this?” Tristan asked pointlessly.

“All he cares about is holding the Crystal Throne,” Ione said. “And he’s threatened by us. By you . He’s trying to win public sentiment by dragging our movement’s name through the mud.”

Tristan was only half-listening, his gaze catching on a young male Beastrunner who looked to be the same age Tristan had been at his exile. The young male—some kind of hare bi-form based on the two furry ears flopping atop his tawny hair—fidgeted with his woven blue blanket as a healer checked his bandages. The look of cold, helpless fury on the young male’s face no doubt matched Tristan’s own.

“Do you have any idea where he plans to attack next?” Tristan asked.

“Our spies in Delos are keeping their eyes and ears open,” Seraavi answered. “Most of the attacks have occurred here in Cernodas or down in Akti, the territories most sympathetic to our cause. We’ll avert as many as we can before we’re called upon to march with you, Highness.”

“And when will that be?” Tristan turned to Ione.

“Soon,” Ione said, grasping Tristan’s hand. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you first.” She nodded to Seraavi. “Thank you for your time today, General.”

The Deathstalker bowed before loping through the maze of cots to assist with the healing.

Tristan’s rage was still surging through his veins as Ione tapped her cuff and portaled them back to Lebaedia.