I don’t think. Just react.
Around me, everything blurs. But my arms are steady.
My hands rise into the air. Raindrops converge into a glistening spear, then freeze into lethal ice. With a wave of my hand, it plunges into his heart. A sickening squelch. He falls to the ground.
We keep going.
Lightning flashes across the sky. Tumaas’s gaze flicks to me, but for once I’m not afraid—I’m desperate.
Every boom of thunder, every bolt of lightning, gives me hope that maybe Zev is alive. Maybe that it’shiswrath raining down around us.
That, maybe, he’s searching for me, too.
Mayhem reigns at the armory.
Rebels scramble to grab weapons, shields, anything that might give them an advantage in battle. But the attackers seem to have deduced the armory is a prime spot to find converged rebels.
Through the sluicing rain, my eyes narrow on the glinting chestplate of one of the attackers—a tree with a lightning bolt cut through it.
Tides. The attackers are Arbinji soldiers.
They form a line, launching a concerted attack. Earthwielders tear mounds of dirt from the ground, catapulting it toward our heads. There’s one stormwielder among them. He raises both hands. A flash of lightning shoots down, incinerating two rebels toward the front of the throng.
I cage my yelp inside my chest and join the fighters while Tumaas and Mona rush into the armory. Another boom of thunder rumbles through the night air. My eyes alight on the stormwielder. I focus on the rainwater clinging to his body, coaxing it into his nostrils.
Into his lungs.
Hacking coughs erupt from his chest as he tries to expel the water, but it’s useless. I hold it inside him, pooling it until his airways are submerged.
His knees buckle.
The light dies from his eyes.
Around him, his companions drop dead, roots piercing abdomens, arrows lodged into chests.
But there are still too many.
I block their attacks again and again, sweat and rain running down my forehead. One of the soldiers raises a hand—roots erupt from the earth, coiling around my legs. He hauls his hand back, face drawn tight with focus, and—
—an arrow lodges into his throat.
I whirl as best I can with the thick roots entrapping my legs, shoving away the memory of the last time an earthwielder held me captive.
Tumaas stands behind me, three swords in his grasp. It’s Mona that holds the crossbow. I dip my chin in thanks, accepting a sword from Tumaas, quickly slicing through the roots.
Together, we fight.
Men and women fall to the ground.
Screams grow louder.
My shoulder brushes against the earthwielder beside me.
Rain and blood soak the ground.
And then, in the distance, I see him bolting toward me.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
