“Undoubtedly.” A beat of silence. “But wouldn’t it be worth it to try?”

Rielle breathed slowly through her nose, fighting for calm as nerves bubbled hot in her chest, rising higher and higher. Was it worth it to attempt leaving? She imagined being back in Celdaria, in the familiar halls of Baingarde. She could confront Audric, know for certain that he was alive and well. Demand an apology for what he’d said to her on their wedding night.

Punish him, if she decided to. Reject him forever.

She could plant her feet on Celdarian soil once more, ride Atheria up to Mount Cibelline’s highest slopes and gulp down the crisp mountain air until her lungs burned.

But what would she find beyond that? What life could she find there after everything that had happened?

She turned to the nearby wall, pressing her palms against it, her head pounding in time with the rocking of the ship. “I cannot.”

Obritsa’s voice tightened with impatience. “You claim to want freedom, and yet you allow him his chains.” Then, in an urgent whisper: “Lady Rielle, if you’d seen what I’ve seen at his base in the north, the things he does in the mountain beneath his fortress—”

Then, abruptly, Obritsa stopped speaking.

Rielle whirled just in time to see the girl stiffen. Her eyes glazed over, and she slumped back against the wall.

The door flew open, and Rielle hurried toward it, met Corien at the threshold with a kiss.

“I want to get rid of them,” she said breathlessly, her mouth against his, “as soon as we have the casting and take it to…what do you call it? Your base?”

“The Northern Reach,” he said, voice flat, not responding to her touch.

“Yes. As soon as we get there, get home, can we rid ourselves of her?” She gestured at Obritsa. “We can find another marque. I don’t like this one. The sight of her repulses me. Such a scrawny little thing.”

It was a pitiful lie. Obritsa was quite obviously beautiful, and Corien knew Rielle thought so.

His fingers curled at her waist. His lips hovered over hers. “Your dress is getting tighter. We’ll have to find you a new one.”

“Several new ones, please? Lacy ones, and velvet. Gowns that feel nice against my skin.” Rielle ran her hands down his torso, paused at his belt, then moved lower. He drew in a sharp breath. This was new, a place she had touched in the dreamscape of their minds but never in reality. Her body fluttering with nerves, she leaned closer and whispered against the skin above his collar, “Things that feel nice as you take them off of me.”

He caught her wrist, kissed her racing pulse.

“Stay at my side, Rielle,” he said, “and you’ll get everything you want.”

A thrill of fear touched her skin. He knew she had been speaking to Obritsa; she had sensed that the moment he entered the room.

She grinned up at him, pretending they didn’t both know she had been offered the chance to escape him and had come close to taking it.

Pretending that she knew exactly what she wanted and that it was as simple as the kiss with which she now claimed him.

• • •

After a week on the sea, they reached the enormous island of Patria, a country of lush rain forests, high plains, and towering volcanic mountains.

Once, it had teemed with angels.

Now, it was a land beautiful in its desolation, echoes of luxury dusting every abandoned street. Broad plazas of cracked marble, spiraling towers capped with copper gone green and black, neighborhoods of slate-roofed manor houses and crumbled apartment buildings bordered with stately columned terraces, all laid out in impeccably designed grids. Wings of bronze and ivory capped peaked roofs, street markers, overgrown gardens.

But in the centuries since the angels’ defeat, the land had devoured every construction. Bright green vines with ravenous-looking white flowers spilled out of courtyards. Twisting black trees climbed through shattered glass ceilings. In the heart of a sunlit neighborhood stood a cavernous library, its shelves bare and its floor strewn with rotting books.

“The City of the Skies,” Corien announced as they stepped across the library’s threshold. Overhead, the ceiling was a broken tapestry of colored glass. “The heart of the angelic empire. This is where the empirium raised the first angel from the dust and breathed the gift of long life into her lungs before sending her to live among the clouds.”

Rielle turned away from him, her gorge rising. She knew that story quite well. Many times, Audric had read it to her from his favorite collection of angelic lore. Even now, she could hear his warm, rich voice shape the words, imbuing it with the rhythm of song.

Corien turned sharply to glare at her.

Their eyes met, a hundred warring words on her tongue.

Then the Obex found them.

It was an ambush indeed, just as Corien had hoped for, and a pathetic one. As soon as the first arrow flew—whizzing down from behind the spiked parapet of a crumbling watchtower adjacent to the library—Rielle’s exhaustion faded, and her instinct erupted.

Afterward, she didn’t recall slaughtering them. Their faces, how they had staged their attack, where they hid, what they wore, how many there were, how many of them were humans and how many were marques employed by the Obex—Rielle knew none of this and didn’t care to know.

She knew only that there were weapons flying at them and that it was time to kill.

It was over in moments.

Glorious, fire-hot moments during which she could feel neither the edges of her own body nor the earth under her feet. Her power had been waiting for this moment, brewing under her skin as she slept and fretted; as she huddled, miserable and sick, on the stolen ship; as she hid from the tenacious scraps of Ludivine’s voice in fevered dreams of Corien’s making.

It had been waiting for weeks, an animal pacing in its cage, and when it broke free of her, the explosion of power knocked Obritsa and Artem to the ground. Rielle remembered blackness rising up and taking her, replacing her eyes and lungs with gold.

Later, she came to slowly. On her hands and knees, on a shattered marble floor, she panted. A red sun of blood circled her, its rays wet and shining. There were no bodies; flakes of bone drifted slowly through the air like snow. A hum filled Rielle’s ears, and she couldn’t determine if it came from somewhere far away or from deep inside her ribs.

She fumbled through shards of shattered marble, clods of fresh earth. Her hand landed on a long, heavy piece of metal, and when she lifted Ghovan’s arrow free of the rubble, her vision cleared.

She sat in a tableau of utter destruction.

The library was gone, its ruins demolished. Piles of dust and stone were scattered across the uprooted foundations like snowdrifts. Curls of black smoke crowned each of Rielle’s fingers. She cradled the arrow in her arms and smiled, her skin buzzing. She felt the cords of Saint Ghovan’s arrow snap into place as it connected to Saint Marzana’s shield, Saint Grimvald’s hammer, Saint Tokazi’s staff. A web of power that fed her own and painted her skin in veins of bright color.