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The old idiom says that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

I would say William Congreve had never seen a mate robbed of his wife.

Wedged between Cali and Orion, we kept our heads low as the storm wielder decimated the perimeter of House Balaskas, great shards of earth splintering off into the sea as the wind roared. In front of us, Freya stood beside the Bellaton queen so she could keep her looped into both Grayshell and Paladin intel if the comms went down.

My eyes were trained on Reyna Gwyne’s blonde braid. If you’d told me a year ago I’d be following the mirror image of my mother into a siege on Bellpost itself, I would’ve thought you’d lost your goddamn mind, but anticipation was building in my chest as I drilled holes in the back of her head.

We were waiting in that liminal space between shadow and tangible realms. All but August.

August, whose hood was up, his hands loose at his sides where they trembled with adrenaline. Rage. A bit of both.

Moros had blinded his mate. I’d wager no soul was leaving this place alive.

On the opposite side of the palace, Grayshell punched through the estate’s defenses with a full-frontal assault, Westerlund and the Seaboarders with them.

Viktor at their center beside Alec. Alec, dressed in August’s armor, wielded flame beside the best illusionist in our arsenal; Marcus had been all too happy to oblige when August explained why he needed him anywhere but at his side. To his other side stood Lana in full armor. Because there’d never been a Grayshellian siege where Lana wasn’t on the front line.

And we waited.

Jaws clenched.

Eyes on the wards.

As the sky showed the entire island exactly who they’d pissed the fuck off.

He’s close, Freya relayed down the mental line, signing it for Blaz beside her. The kid dipped his chin. Just once. Curt and calm as he stared through the gray.

But the familiars didn’t need to wait—weren’t at the mercy of Viktor’s mastery of the ropes and wards—already slipping through the shadows and between windows. One by one, the rooms of House Balaskas began screaming.

Heart steady. Mind clear. No fear in the goddamn well.

We watched as their men poured onto the rolling green, where they were met with beasts and blades.

We watched as the sky glimmered like sunlight across flakes of gold. Iridescent fractals of light stretched between cracks, gilded like Japanese kintsugi—as if Viktor were fixing the shattered pieces of something precious rather than tearing a wall apart.

Ready, Freya relayed, her eyes on Reyna’s hands.

I sucked down a steadying breath, glancing to Cali, whose dark eyes met mine. She dipped her chin, just like our cousin, and then turned her attention forward.

Steady, Freya warned as that glimmering gold spread like a net cast.

More of them were coming—elements flying, the march of boots preceding explosions of shadow.

Steady, she repeated as those metallic sparks spiderwebbed down the wards. Viktor, the fate weaver with a past he wouldn’t fucking talk about, had his magic in deep.

Good.

I prayed to a god I was starting to fucking believe in that he’d make them pay. Make them suffer. That if August didn’t get to Moros first, Viktor would tear him apart with Solskari fucking blades.

The hair on my arms stood up, climbing up my neck as static charged the air. I watched as August’s hands rose, stiff, as if he squeezed the life out of a goddamn throat as he twisted, sparks popping along the length of his fingers.

A male roar of fury sounded from the front as blue lightning punched right through those shattering wards.

Alec. Playing his goddamn part.

Meanwhile, August hadn’t even broken a sweat. His eyes were determined where they drilled into his sister’s back. Jaw set. Fingers sparking as lightning danced through his veins. His eyes.

An earth-deep groan consumed the space, and I broke the first rule of being on the breach team: I glanced away.