Tomas leered at Xenia. “He’s always spoiling my fun. Cael, have you met… What’s your name then, little maid?”
Xenia didn’t answer and once again, Cael saved her. “Let’sgo, Tomas. Leave the humans alone.”
Cael shoved at Tomas’s back and the two males took to the path, Cael’s sole wing bobbing next to Tomas’s pair. Tomas turned over his shoulder and mouthedsee you soonto Xenia.
She waited several minutes before returning to the lodge to ensure Tomas couldn’t follow her to her room.
That night, the monster in her nightmare had oily blond hair, blood-drenched fangs, and a rasping voice that whisperedlittle maidover and over and over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Tristan stretched out his wings as he stared at the twisted piles of metal that used to be a cargo train, now scattered throughout the Staurien Pass. Despite his sore muscles—and despite the loss—he couldn’t deny how much he’d missed the focused fury of battle. Wielding steel and wind against a clear-cut enemy. Slicing limbs and stealing breath.
The Imperial soldiers who’d ambushed Tristan’s forces had lingered for four fierce, bloody, brutal days. Days during which the Teles Chrysos had beenwinning. They fought with a fervor the Imperial infantry couldn’t match. And the Anointed had been a sight to behold. Jets of fire had blazed through the pines. Imperial soldiers had spasmed on the ground, their bodies ringed with lightning. Others had drowned on dry land, choked by water magic.
In fact, up until the train cars had gone up in a flash of white followed by a cloud of black smoke, Tristan was sure his rebels would end the week victorious.
Instead, nearly a hundred had met True Death in the explosion and any hopes they’d had of acquiring those missiles had been destroyed.
A crushing blow, one that Eamon hadn’t even been here to witness. Tristan might have thought his brother’s absence odd if he didn’t know what a spineless coward Eamon was.
A familiar voice rang out from the tent behind Tristan.
“What thinking about, little baby man?”
Hella clapped Tristan on the shoulder and he turned, attempting a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.
“They call me Prince now, or hadn’t you heard?” He tried to muster his playful energy; it was more difficult than normal. But a good leader maintained good spirits. Even if those spirits were sometimes false. “I could have your head for such insolence.”
“Will always be baby man to me.” Hella’s amber eyes crinkled with affection. “Come. They ready for you.”
Tristan followed Hella into the tent, angling his shoulders to fit his wings through the flap.
On the second day of battle, Tristan had nearly wept with joy when Hella had appeared. She’d crashed down among a ring of Imperial soldiers then taken ten out at once in a blur of crimson feathers and swirling golden braids.
They hadn’t yet had a chance to properly re-unite, and he had a million questions for her. Why had she left the Vestians? How had she fallen in with the Teles Chrysos? Had she left Aneka in Meridon with the Shrouded Sisters, like they’d planned? They’d shared nothing more than a fierce hug and a few teasing quips before they’d both lurched back into the chaos.
Tristan took the seat at the head of the oval table, scanning the papers scattered atop it—transcriptions of the windwhisper, commstone, and cuff messages that had been flowing in from Lebaedia.
Ione sat beside him looking mostly unharmed, save a bandage peeking through her collar. She must have been nicked by Typhon steel.
She’d been a glorious commander down by those tracks. Firm and compassionate with her soldiers, but never giving into their panic. She pulled back at all the right moments and pressed forward when she could tell the enemy was flagging. And throughout, she’d remained on the front line, not holding the rear while she asked others to take the brunt of the violence. It was no wonder the rebels respected her so much.
As if she felt the weight of his gaze, she lifted her head, gifting him a soft smile despite the worry crawling through her indigo eyes. She raised her hand toward his, then flattened it on her armrest when he didn’t reach for her.
Hella flopped down across the table as Seraavi Pfania entered the tent. Tristan wouldn’t soon forget the violent, inspiring sight of the pink-eyed Deathstalker ripping apart Imperial soldiers with her venomous fangs.
Layla Fetar, her black-and-white braids a frizzy mess, and Felix Tanius, persimmon wings tight against his back, were already seated.
“Gang’s all here, Prince,” Layla said. “Your show.”
Tristan kicked off the meeting. “Do you have a full inventory of the weapons we’d hoped to gain from that shipment?”
Layla nodded. “Besides the five missiles, we lost two-hundred crates of snakebites, thousands of Typhon swords, daggers, and axes. Plus two pallets of stun pistols.”
Hella emitted a low whistle as Felix muttered a drawn-out curse. Ione’s face paled.
Layla plastered on a weary smile. “Bright side? The Empire won’t be getting them either.”
