“They’re fleeing through the tunnels in the back of the city,” Adena says as we stop at the inner gates, where other Strikers have spaced themselves out into a long line of orderly rows. “We’re going to try to hold the Federation off as long as possible while the citizens escape.”
There are hundreds of thousands of people in the Outer City with nowhere to go, no tunnels to use to get to the forests safely, no walls to hold back the enemy that will soon be on them. And they will be left to fend for themselves.
I draw my blades. As I do, another flame streaks through the sky. It’s so bright that I pause to stare at it. This one soars high—high enough to clear the walls. A deep dread lodges in my throat.
And right as I think it, the streak lands in a cluster of metalwork stalls along the edge of the Inner City, behind the protection of the double walls. Everything explodes in a shower of light. We’re all thrown to our knees by the impact.
High in the sky, through the smoke, I see the first silhouette of a winged creature.
The fear burning in my chest turns into terror. Red? But it isn’t him. It’s someone else, clad head to toe in black armor, his face shielded behind a mask, steel wings expanded to their full size.
It’s a Skyhunter. Then, flying behind him, another.
The memory of others in Cardinia’s lab complex with wings grafted to their backs overwhelms me now in a sickening wave. The Federation has been busy creating more like Red—but unlike him, these are fully under the Federation’s control. Red’s feverish words to me in the infirmary, right after the warfront invasion, come flooding back.
I tremble at the sight of them and remember the carnage Red had left on the battlefield in just a few minutes. How many of them are there?
The ground beneath us rumbles. I feel a shock jolt through my link with Red. Suddenly, the images in his head—murky and undefined until now—turn sharper for an instant, and I see him break out of his cell amid a scene of fleeing guards, then walk to the center of the prison’s cylindrical pit. He looks up. His eyes are glowing, and I can no longer see his pupils. His lips curl. I can sense his rage welling up and spilling over, forcing him into blinding fury. His steel wings unfurl behind him in a rush of sliding metal. He bends his knees.
Red, I say again through our link.
And then there’s a blur of motion. I shudder once, violently, as a blast comes from the prison below the National Plaza. I look behind me to see a winged soldier burst into the sky, all black steel and metallic hair, his figure silhouetted against the sky.
I let out a breath at the sight of him. Maybe we can have a chance. With Red, I dare to believe it.
Our bond pulls tight. Then he vanishes over the wall.
Out by the front gates, another fireball comes hurtling over the edge of the gates to crash into the Inner City.
“Steady, Strikers!” the Firstblade calls out, holding his gun aloft. His eyes are fixed on the shuddering gates. Beyond them come the shrieks of Ghosts driven into a feeding frenzy from the sounds of hundreds of thousands of human voices.
In unison, every Striker fans out until we form an arc facing the steel walls. Our conversations die as we each pull on our masks.
I find myself lingering for a moment on Aramin’s image. Around us, some other Strikers are pale with terror, a few of them pausing to retch before hoisting their weapons and preparing themselves for our last stand.
Aramin must know that none of us will return from this night. But even now, I see no hint of fear on his face, no sign of doubt oruncertainty, no wavering in his stance. His head stays held high; his eyes flash in a fiery, almost insane defiance. A smile even plays at the edges of his mouth.
This is why he is our Firstblade, why he was chosen so young. Here, with his hair up in its fierce knot, he looks every inch the leader I’ve seen cutting through Ghosts on the field. He seems to relish the coming battle and the chance for us all to strike back, one last time, against our impossible enemy. On my other side, Jeran has his head turned in Aramin’s direction, his jaw clenched tightly shut.
Then he, Adena, and I exchange a final look. In the sky, I feel Red’s pull, the rage in him pouring ceaseless and unending.
“Weapons!” the Firstblade shouts.
I pull out my swords in unison with the others. The sliding of metal against hilt rings out across the night.
There’s a moment of calm.
“It’s been an honor, Strikers,” the Firstblade calls out.
We lift our fists to our chests and pound out a final Striker sign.
Then Aramin lowers his blade at the wall. “Attack at will!” he shouts.
On instinct, I step forward in sync with everyone else. My attention focuses on nothing but the steel walls and the shrieks coming from beyond them. In my periphery, I see Adena and Jeran on my left.
We march outward in a ring to our deaths.
As we glide through the city streets, I see crowds of people teeming along the roads in a panic, heading in our direction and away from the walls. Marans. They’re fleeing by the thousands, their faces pale with terror, cringing every time they hear the scream of a Ghost come from beyond the walls. Some of them clutch children in their arms. Others carry prized possessions—everything from clothing to gold to family heirlooms.
