Page 307 of Burn of the Everflame

“Brecke, I can’t wear this,” I protested.

He finished securing the buckles and grabbed the other vambrace from my hand. “Too bad. High General’s orders.”

“We don’t even have enough shields for everyone,” I argued. “It’s not fair for me to go into battle in armor while my people risk their lives in tunics.”

He caught my other wrist, wrapping the buckles around it. “This war was never gonna be fair. The Descended have their magic and their armor and their healing and their special skin and the best weapons gold can buy, and all we mortals have are knives and prayers.” He knelt to search through the pile. “Best chance we have to change that is if you survive with that Crown still on your head.”

I swallowed hard. “You don’t need me for that. You have the governing council now.”

He snorted. “That council’s only gonna last as long as there’s someone in charge that the Descended are scared of. That’s why I’m making sure you have a nice, long life.” He grabbed another piece—a series of overlapping plates attached to a leather belt. “Arms up, Sister Bellator.”

I shook my head. Brecke ignored my refusal, reaching for my waist. A shadowy whip snapped against his hand and sent him jerking back.

“The armor is much appreciated, Mister Holdern,” Luther said, walking toward us. “Diem will be wearing it”—he shot me a look—“but if you touch my mate without her consent again, you’ll be learning to make armor without hands.” He held out a palm to Brecke. “Allow me.”

Brecke glared in response, though he threw me an apologetic look as he handed over the armor.

Luther turned to me. “Arms up,” he repeated.

I shook my head. “I don’t want special treatment.”

“Diem, look at the armor.”

“I know it’s good armor. Someone should wear it. Give it to my mother, or to⁠—”

“Look at the armor.”

I held up my forearm and frowned at the vambrace, not understanding. “What am I supposed to s—” My eyes moved to the breastplate and stopped as an image flashed in my head: a circle of fallen bodies and silver flames, and Luther standing before me, palm pressed to his heart.

“The vision,” I breathed.

Luther nodded. “It’s the same armor I saw you wear. Exactly the same.”

Our stares locked in heavy silence. I’d never told anyone the details of the vision that Luther and I had shared that night in the armory, then again at the Challenging, and I knew Luther never would. The only way Brecke could have recreated the armor in it so perfectly was divine interference.

Or if the vision was a future doomed to come.

My arms lifted without thinking, my body accepting what my mind was still trying to understand. Luther looped the belt around me, and Alixe stepped forward to hold the armor in place as he buckled it at my waist. She shuddered when she let it go, shaking out her hands as if the godstone plates had been painful to touch. Luther grabbed the breastplate, and across the bond, I felt his spirit darken like a cloud passing over the sun.

As he draped it over my head and latched the fastenings at my sides, I ran a finger over the armor’s edge. Every time I’d touched godstone in the past, it brought a wave of unpleasant sensations. I should have realized much sooner that a corpse was the fuel needed to make it. Touching godstone felt like touching death itself.

But this godstone felt different. Warmer. Familiar.

I looked at Brecke. “This armor—was it made using the godstone from Mort-Feu Pass?”

“No,” Alixe answered for him. “When he told me he wanted to make this, I gave him the godstone from your family’s home.”

Agony lanced through my soul.

My father.

The armor was made from his ashes. The last physical trace of him left on earth was now enrobing me, protecting me, the only thing standing between my heart and a blade.

“I discussed it with your mother and brother first,” Alixe said gently. “They agreed it’s what Andrei would have wanted.”

“I made breastplates for them, too,” Brecke said. “He’ll be with all of you today.”

A sob caught in my throat as emotions overwhelmed me. Luther’s fingers brushed against mine to lend me his strength. I mutely swayed on my feet while he finished securing the rest of the armor to my shoulders and legs.