He pushes himself shakily back to his feet. His hair is disheveled, eyes bulging. I hoped he was finished. I hoped the man’s back was broken, and his spirit, too. It was a fool’s hope, of course, but I’ve always been a hopeful fool. Aren reminds me often.
“Nephew,” Namreth says without evincing too much surprise. “Still alive,” he sneers. “Still foolish.” Namreth throws back his hair, wiping dirt and a dash of blood from his brow.
I close my eyes as the storm in my chest shudders and jolts, thrashing against my thoughts. Another wave of energy rolls out from me, but it’s unfocused, and I fear I’ll lose control like I have in the past. I fear I’m not strong enough, that I’ll devour my very breath at my own hand. I fear that my father was right all those years ago. I had no business touching those rings when I was ten, and I have no business with them now.
Yet here I am.
“This is your doing?” Namreth asks, taking a step toward me and holding his hands wide, to encompass the broken bodies strewn around his enormous golden hall. “This ridiculous uprising? This pathetic rebellion?”
I don’t speak. Sweat blooms on my forehead as I try to control my power, but it’s whipped away in the gale. Aren covers her eyes as shards of glass and porcelain swirl around her. The tempest around me is growing, its power unchecked.
Stop, I order the Rings. Stop, stop—
I’ve let the storm run wild, and I still don’t know how to bend it to my will. I try to breathe as I was taught, counting my heartbeats, straining to take control of the winds.
“Alas, you don’t know how to wield it, do you?” says Namreth. “You hold so much power within you, and you don’t even know where to start. But I do.”
Around him, a second tempest rises. It expands, encircling him in an eddying vortex that picks up the debris from the battle tossed on the floor. Every fractured shard of wood and stone is swept up in the gyre.
Namreth advances, and the whirlwind carves deep grooves in the marble tile. It cuts through chairs and tables, sending splinters hurtling in every direction. He cleaves a path through the bodies in his throne room, moving slowly, one deliberate step at a time, so that all who still live might know his power and choose a side.
Once, in an age long past, the Whisting carved mountains and valleys. Now, Namreth cuts through the storm I raised. The air thrums like the inside of a war drum as the cyclones batter each other.
“Think you can match me, nephew?” Namreth shouts over the howling wind. His guards step forward, locking shields, spears held ready in my direction.
There are dozens of them forming into crisp lines, one row in front of the next. More approach in the distance, marching through the halls, ready to take the place of any man or woman who falls.
I stand in the heart of the enemy’s castle. The rebels are outnumbered a hundred to one, maybe more. I don’t know if I can stand up to Namreth. I can’t even control my own power. The man is smiling, grinning like a cat lapping cream as he watches me struggle.
A moment later, Namreth’s storm strikes. Splinters tear at my skin, and on the floor, those same slivers tear at Aren’s dress and skin. The vortex of wind around him expands to fill the whole hall, devastating everything in its path. He does not distinguish between friend and foe. Guards and rebels alike fall to their knees. A shard of wood spears a portly man in the temple; a knife lodges in one boy’s chest, another in an eye. His guards bear the brunt of it, but soon the full fury of Namreth’s tempest will descend on me.
For a brief moment, the wall of soldiers sent to threaten me shields me instead. In this moment of calm, my thoughts clear.
I glance down at Aren, and in her eyes, I see faith. I see someone who believes in me even when my own faith is gone. She looks so small, so frail in the face of the power overtaking me, but she’s neither of those things. There’s fire in her eyes, and it reaches into my soul. Her unwavering strength gives me confidence. I cannot let Namreth take her.
For Aren, I can do this. For her, I will defeat him.
I call the Rings, and they answer. Fire blooms under my skin, flashing like bolts of lightning. It feels like euphoria, ecstasy. It feels magnificent.
The tempest around me expands, cutting into the torrents raised by Namreth. Unlike my uncle, I have no precision or finesse. Just raw power that makes a mess out of everything, sending tables and chairs careening into one another, plates slicing through pots, forcing the guards to retreat, to hide behind their tall shields and wait out the storm.
I focus on beating back Namreth’s power. I clench my fists, my power feeling too big for my body. The air in the throne room darkens, storm clouds gathering at my command.
Then reality shifts. And realigns. And I’m transported into a dream.
The battlefield.
And the bodies.
A kingdom in shadow.
Dark winds churn around me—a gathering storm.
Then a voice. Her voice.
“Dietan!”
My chest heaves. Grief hits me like a hammer. Again, I hear Aren’s voice cutting through the roar of the winds.
