“Torbin, no.” I whisper, but I should be screaming it.
“I told you, Celeste.” He smirks, the hand on my waist cinching me closer. “You are still my betrothed.”
Fuck!No. I can’t let this happen.
The seer continues. The tsar stares with fascination. The guests are rapt with attention.
Something sparks inside me. A coil pulled taut—energy thrumming beneath my skin, rising from the pit of my stomach, through my chest, coalescing in the center of my ribs. My muscles tense, my hearthammering faster, like it knows what’s coming.
The seer pauses, her eyes settling on me. She knows I’m trying to use my powers, and it’s apparent she’s not happy about it. A soft hum escapes her lips, a low melody that weaves its way to my ears.
But that’s as far as it gets.
Somehow, her siren power hasn’t snuffed out the buzzing in my blood. Instead, the sound only sharpens me, a taunt rather than a leash. My veins feel molten, like lightning is crawling just beneath my skin, begging for release. Every inhale makes the pressure swell higher in my chest, every exhale shakes with the effort of containing it. The air around me hums, prickling against my arms, strands of hair lifting as though the storm inside me is pulling the world closer. Nadya’s spell holds—the siren can’t reach me—and the realization feeds my fury. I stop resisting. I let the energy climb, let it coil tighter, denser, until my bones ache with it, until the windows themselves seem to shiver in anticipation.
I don’t hold back any more; I let it loose. Every single window shatters as one. A violent, ear-splitting symphony of glass bursting inward, jagged shards raining down like knives from the sky. The entire hall ducks, cries erupting, masks flying askew as the courtiers throw up their arms to shield themselves.
Torbin shouts, but I don’t stay to hear what.
I throw my hand out, pushing an energy force to knock back Torbin, Osrem, the tsar, and the seer.
I whip my head toward Nadya. She’s already moving, her hand outstretched. I grab it without hesitation, the heat of her fingers grounding me, and together, we sprint toward the nearest corridor, boots slipping on the glass-littered floor.
The music is gone. The revelry shattered with the glass.
I risk a glance over my shoulder.
Torbin stands amid the chaos, his mask half-cracked, his pale hair gleaming in the torchlight. His jaw is set, his gaze locked on me—not with shock, but promise. A vow made without words.
He will come for me.
I tear my eyes away, breath burning in my lungs, and run harder.
ChApter
Fifty-Six
Dante
The valley lies before us like a graveyard of twisted hemlock, gnarled and blackened by the relentless cold. Mist hovers low to the ground, swirling in ghostly tendrils around the horses’ hooves. Every breath clouds the air in front of my face, the chill sinking past my cloak and numbing my skin beneath the layers.
We’ve been on the move for days, the world narrowing to a rhythm of hooves, creaking saddles, and the rasp of weary lungs. Sleep comes in fragments, stolen in shifts against hard earth and colder stone, and even then, it never holds. When we move, we move with precision, and every mile closer knots the tension tighter between my shoulders.
At dawn, we made the choice to split our forces—an old gamble but a necessary one. A column of soldiers peeled north, tasked with circling wide and cutting off any retreat. Another squad veered east, skirting the ridges to find higher ground. And now the rest ride with me: Celeste’s squad keeping close, Sir Holden and Sir Donovan grim-faced andwatchful, and General Kormak out ahead, clearing the way with the efficiency of a man who’s lived half his life in the wild.
The silence among us is telling. No one dares waste words when the wrong sound might carry. The soldiers glance at the trees as though eyes hide within the twisted bark, as though the forest itself resents our intrusion. I catch the same unease in my companions—the stiffness of their posture, the way hands linger near sword hilts. We’re enveloping a predator’s den, and every instinct screams that it already knows we’re here.
We move slowly, each step a struggle. The thick carpet of hemlock grabs at our boots and the horses’ legs, making the beasts snort and toss their heads in protest. Mylo rides ahead, his hatchet flashing now and then as he hacks a path through the thickest snarls. The sound of it—thwack, thwack—echoes eerily through the valley, swallowed almost instantly by the heavy fog.
I tighten my grip on the reins, my knuckles white against the leather. I can feel my horse’s unease—hear it in the restless stamping of his hooves. As if even the animals know we are deep in enemy territory.
Giorgi rides to my left, their sharp eyes scanning the broken terrain ahead, even as the mist thickens around us. Their presence is a steady reassurance. If anyone can guide us through this cursed valley without getting us killed, it’s Giorgi.
But even their skill doesn’t ease the knot in my gut.
I lean forward slightly in the saddle, my heart hammering in my ears, as if somehow, I can will myself to hear her voice across this cursed wasteland.
“Celeste. I hear you.”I know she can’t hear me, but I send the thought anyway, fierce and desperate.“Hold on. I’m coming.”
