They wound around, the drums not pausing between strikes now. Fevered, frenzied. The last warning before the lighting ceremony began.
Ahead, the blue-and-gold promise of the Warlord’s tent. A fire burned from within, smoke exiting the vent at the top. And beside it… Amarande.
She was pressed against the bars on the pit side, her face catching the last strains of the sun’s descent. In that moment, time stopped and Luca did, too. His feet no longer moved; he could not turn away. His heart lurched as if it would plow through Ula’s stitches and sprint straight for Amarande, its owner.
She was beautiful of course—anyone could see that.
But he ran for the girl of his heart. Fierce and loving, and so determined. Her bravery etched in every inch of her body. Hard edges and lemon cake and kisses as soft as rain. Wind-whipped cheeks, and whispered secrets, and the breath knocked from him on the meadow floor, her body pinning him there, her dagger pressed to his throat.
Ula yanked his arm nearly out of its socket in an effort to get his attention. “Even the pretty ones burn all the same. Stop looking at her like that, Miguel; it’sembarrassing.”
He laughed, and flashed his dimples, and did everything else onlookers would expect from a boy caught looking at a beautiful girl. But he couldn’t tear himself away from stealing glances as they moved into position, his body feeling as if it were blowing to ashes, littering the sandy russet earth with each step.
Always, Princess. I love you always. I will come for you always.
I am here for you.
Ula yanked his arm again, this time enough to bend his body to her whispering lips. “You are still looking.”
“I’ve never seen a real-life princess before.” His voice was appropriately strangled, no acting needed.
Ula pointedly rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”
They settled in right where Ula had marked on the hand-drawn map distributed among the resistance members in camp. It put them in close proximity to Amarande’s cart, the Warlord’s tent—should she pull the princess away—and was on slightly higher ground. Plus, they were equidistant between both the lip of the pit and the cart set up outside the Warlord’s aegis as a huge, rolling dais.
Guards lined the dais, all women with swords not unlike Ula’s. They were young, too, probably no older than the Warlord herself. Fierce girls, grown into the role, goaded by equal parts honor andfear, most likely. Luca swallowed—not much unlike the conscripts in Ardenia’s great army.
Then, with a chiming bell, the drums came to an abrupt halt.
The hum and crackle of the crowd, too. A breeze swept through, dormant ash swooping and settling from the sides of the pit, as if the gaping maw were blinking itself out of slumber.
At just the prescribed moment, the Warlord emerged from her tent. She was in yet another shade of electric blue, the crisp waters of the Divide poured into human form in the middle of the desert.
It was striking. And it was meant to be.
The sunset had faded, the stars still shy. The silken fabric pooled and shimmered with the last light before the camp made its own.
The Warlord absorbed that waning light and the silence with her shoulders back and chin jutted out to her people. “Tonight, we—”
“Burn the princess!” a few men shouted.
Laughter erupted. Luca turned away, as if coughing, head over his shoulder. Ula, meanwhile, froze. The joyous noise spread through the crowd, at Amarande’s expense. Until, finally, the Warlord laughed, too—likely a sign she’d spared their lives despite the interruption.
“No, no! Tonight weshowPrincess Amarande of Ardenia the awesome power of our flames.” The Warlord waved her hands over her head, from her place on the dais, tamping down the tittering wave rolling through the crowd. “Tomorrow, we dangle her life on the doorstep of the Itspi! And if Ardenia cannot comply with our demands?”
“We burn the princess!”
Again, laughter. “No, we burn itall.The Itspi will be the same ash as the Otxazulo. The mountain winds will spread what we’ve done far and wide, and Ardenia will be another piece of the people’s vast empire.”
Laughter gave way to applause. And then chanting. Thousands of voices, clapping and cheering, all within the Warlord’s palm.
“Burn it down! Burn it down! Burn it down!”
Luca’s stomach roiled.
“We have this. Dark. All we need is dark.” Ula’s voice was barely anything at all. But he held on to it, finding Amarande again in her confines. She gripped the bars with both hands, staring daggers at the dais. All her energy and fury targeted at this girl in exactly theway that gave her the power she siphoned. Taillefer sat with his back to the flames. Perhaps he’d hoped he’d been forgotten or was of disinterest.
The Warlord swung her arms above her head again, all her gestures grand for those craning to see. “Tonight, we honor the stars with the lighting of this pit. Our kindling, members of the Serene Caravan, who arrivedlateto our gathering. When the Warlord issues a decree, I expect full compliance. It endangers all of us when we do not follow the laws of freedom.”
