It’s because of that part that she gets to her feet.
He grabs her wrist to stop her. She hates, too, the prickle of anticipation that runs along her forearm—her body responding to his touch, despite everything.
“I don’t know what I can say.”
She pulls her wrist from his grip. “Then don’t say anything.”
“You’re going to win tomorrow, Skylar.” His voice is a low murmur, said to her back. “You know that, right?”
She closes her eyes. She hopes Astrid can’t hear him, that she’s distracted, talking to Zryan. She turns back to Axel, finds his eyes waiting for her—those eyes that see too much, that always know just what she is feeling. And she hardens her heart. “I know.”
She moves away from the table, not sure where exactly she’sheading. She grabs a drink from a passing server, feeling the nobles at the nearest table watching her as she does. Then she sees the king standing at the end of the high table, his mate by his side.
The cellist stops playing. Around the gardens, under the twinkling lights, feet start to stomp. Bitterness, stronger than akavit, coats Skylar’s tongue. First, he sold off seats, and now he wants to make a speech?
“Dragons and witches,” the king begins, silencing the stomping feet, “we come together to celebrate this night of mourning. For as much as we all understand why tomorrow must come, it is a tragedy. One life must end in order for all of us, both sides of the border, to prosper in this time of peace. Which means that tomorrow we say goodbye to one heir. We will, of course, honor the Nachstern princess, but first I would like to invite you all to celebrate my daughter, the Chosen Heir, destined to bring forth the last fire dragon, and unite—”
But Skylar has had enough. She takes a step forward—and all eyes turn to her. The king’s cruel eyes narrow in warning. He wants her to sit down and listen. To let him stand there and lay claim to her, after he killed her mother, tried to kill her. After he sent Cam to be slaughtered and kidnapped so many more Blooded.
Fuck. That.
The glass in her hand shatters—and she isn’t sure if it’s her strength or her magic that causes it.
Everyone is quiet.
“Do you know what?” she says, her eyes still on the king. “I don’t think I want to be honored, if it’s all the same to you.” She sweeps her eyes around the watching nobles, noting the hunger in many of their gazes, the desperation for drama. “You should all be disgusted at yourselves.”
With that, she turns and storms into the night. She catches sight of a pair of yellow eyes in the dark, Simone giving her a nod of approval. Just as the king shouts, commanding her to stop. She doesn’t even look behind her as she sends a blast of power back toward him. She’s getting better at targeting it, and she feels the force of it collide with the king. Then there is darkness, as her power explodes the stupid twinkling lights, sending glass showering down on everyone there.
Silence, more telling than the loudest of roars, follows. And no one else tries to stop her.
She moves away from the feast, trying to stay calm, even as the nearest tree, a small, barely flourishing pear, shrivels and dies as she sucks in its life. She didn’t even mean to do it. She can see why they call this power an abomination. And for the first time in a very long time, she wishes for the impossible—she wishes her mother were alive, to ask. Things didn’t wilt in her mother’s presence. Apart from that one memory, her mother staring sadly at the dried, shriveled flowers, there was always life, always color, in whichever house they lived in. If her mother was an Exhauster, she wasn’t destructive. Not like Skylar is.
She’s only partway through the orchard when she smells it. A floral scent on the air, merging with the ripening fruit around her.
She turns to see Astrid coming after her.
“You didn’t fancy staying for the speech, either, huh?” Skylar asks, trying to conjure up the cockiness she used to wear like armor.
“Well, I didn’t want to look like a meek little heir after that show. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
Skylar can’t quite manage the appreciative snort, but the sentiment is there. There is the distant hum of chatter, the clinking of china—maybe the nobles are carrying on without them.
“Those trackers work in the end?” Skylar asks.
Astrid bites her lip. “Mostly, they ended up in either the east or south.”
“Eastern and southern camps,” Skylar murmurs.
“Right. But two of them lost signal near Sarkan’s Pass.”
“Lost signal? Why?”
“Probably because there’s so much magic there, like interference.”
Skylar lets out a low breath. “Like the Heart is there, you mean?”
A firm nod. “Yes, exactly.”
