Asmo defers to me. If he were to respond, I think the answer would be an unequivocalyesto killing everyone who wronged us. But that’s not who I want to be.
“You said there was a witch who helped you escape? That she was working with Koa, right?” Etta asks. I nod. “What if there are more like her?”
This is something I’ve been considering. To slaughter everyone who’s sided with Marik and Cora is foolish and cruel. It makes us worse than them. At least they gave everyone a chance to agree with them before they started executing anyone who disagreed.
“As much as I’d like to see every single one of them dead,” Asmo says, “I think a well-planned rescue mission is the better option. We should still have Lower House hybrids in the crowd to protect citizens should things get out of hand, but attacking shouldn’t be the priority. At least not right now.”
I nod in agreement. “Elle is the priority.”
“Getting to her is going to be challenging,” Asmo admits. Ivan glares at him from across the room. Asmo throws a hand up. “I’m just being realistic. She’s going to be heavily secured. It’s likely going to result in people getting hurt. Are we okay with that risk?”
My heart beats in my chest, once, twice. “No, but without her, we can’t defeat Cora, and more people will die. This is just one of the costs of war.”
My words reverberate through my chest, through the air, lighting every inch of bone and skin and fiber of magic that courses through me.
This is war.
Amaris’s voice is quiet, but it slices through the air like a dagger. “Let us not forget, she is also a Fae princess. We must bring her home.”
Asmo clears his throat and turns to Torben and Conall. “Are your people prepared to fight?”
Conall lifts his chin, ice-blue eyes meeting Asmo’s pools of night. “They are, Your Highness.” Torben echoes Conall’s words with a singular, firm nod. His jaw is locked, affect somber. Artis reaches for her husband, gripping his hand in solidarity.
People are going to die. I am sending people to their deaths.
Asmo’s voice interrupts my thoughts, derailing them before they have a chance to take hold. “I know our intent is not to attack, but we need to be prepared for every scenario. Although the witches are beatable, we need to begin training everyone on how to beat them. It’s one thing to fight, but it’s another to fight efficiently,” Asmo says. “And we can’t forget that Cora will be there.”
We spend the next several hours carefully discussing every consideration for how to pull off this rescue mission while minimizing the risk of harm to civilians. Although I could slit Minerva’s and Vasuki’s throats for what they did to Asmo and the way they raised him, I can’t help but admit that his background was invaluable today.
He is a warrior, through and through.
Which means Marik is, too.
“Why are swords soheavy?” I grunt as I swing the blade toward August. He deflects it with a singular flick of his wrist, as if his own sword weighs nothing.
“These are pure iron, princess,” Asmo calls from the other side of the training center. “What made you think they’d be light?”
I ignore the question and swing the blade again, only to be deflected. Again.
“Why don’t you use wind to help?” Barrett turns from the collection of weaponry affixed to the dirt wall.
During our war-planning meeting, we decided the High Princes should train everyone how to fight together. There will be groups of Lower House hybrids, Ursine hybrids, Canis hybrids, and Fae strategically placed in every training group to learn how to fight as a singular unit. August will be spending the afternoon teaching groups how to attack witches and their creatures, while Barrett and Amaris will be spending their time teaching groups how to fight together.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Use your wind to help move the sword,” Barrett says with a shrug.
August scratches his head. “I thought the whole point of this was to teach her how to fight without magic?”
Asmo walks to the wall of weapons and snags a crossbow, a dagger, and a smaller sword from the wall. The image of him with all manner of pointy things makes my mouth dry.
“Then that’s not the right weapon for her,” he says. “She doesn’t have the muscle for that.” I want to object, but I know he’s right. “We’re fighting in a matter of days. Teach her with other tools.” He floats the three weapons in front of me.
The crossbow looks too difficult to learn and the dagger involves getting closer than I’d like. I pluck the sword from the air.
Asmo smiles at the choice. “The shortsword.”
I grip it in one hand, its weight a nonissue after handling the last sword. I swing my arm and it cuts through the air with awhoosh.
