Laughter danced around them, and Nei clenched her fist, her nails biting into flesh.
Roque rolled his shoulders, bringing himself up to his full height. “The time of this monarchy is done. There will be consequences for slave traders and for the slaughter of desolates. It starts today with the expulsion of this council. You are all relieved of your duties and services.”
Oren pushed his chair back, the wood screeching against the cement. He looked feral as he seethed. “And what exactly are you going to do?”
The Roque she recognized flickered back through and he leaned forward, almost touching noses with Oren as he said, “Nei and I are building a sanctuary for all who want to learn how to control their abilities and harness them to be used for good and not for fueling the death tolls and riots. A place for desolates to take refuge. Most importantly, a place to build a government that will preserve our culture and uphold the rights of our people.”
“A place that will never exist,” Oren said fuming.
Nei chuckled. “Oren, you are already behind the times. A place that will exist and you are staring at its founders.”
Roque leaned back. “I do believe we are done here.”
Each of the council members flushed a deep shade of purple and left in an arrangement of glares and rolling anger.
Oren stared at them both, collecting himself before saying, “I hope you are both prepared. We will not let this stand. And Roque, that you have chosen this... this woman over the dreams of your father…”
He left, allowing his words to linger in the air, before snapping the door closed behind him.
“We have to go. Now,” Roque whispered. She collected herself. The council would move fast, but they were faster. Bresslin was ready for them, with Emory and her husband, Cesan. They would leave this city behind and flee for their futures.
Nei consumed the distance between them and, throwing her arms around his neck, whispered in a relieved sigh, “Thank you, truly.”
Roque encompassed her, bowing his body into hers, into the push and pull of their energy.
Nei broke away first, tucking a golden hair behind her ear. “They will probably try to kill us, you know.”
“Oh, no doubt. And it will take years for people to accept this idea, this mad dream of ours.”
“Let them try, Roque. We already broke the mold the day you married me. This is another step toward fighting for the life we want.”
His crooked grin spread fast and wide across his face as he shook his head. “You are insane; you know that, right?”
Her heart cracked as she replied, “Of course, why else would I ever agree to marry you?”
His laughter chased at her heels as they left, racing toward freedom, toward their best friends and their daughter. The note in Nei’s sleeve felt like lead, anchoring her to her decisions. She was torn in two, a queen and a daughter loyal to her people. Their footfalls pounded around them, echoing in the hallway, and she summoned a flicker of energy, calling to her elements. Her skin burned, and the note ignited, quickly dissolving into ash, the remains soaring behind her, lost and unseen. No one would know. Not Roque, Emory, or Bresslin. Her father’s reply to her letter seared through her. “I will miss you, my sweet daughter. But know we will wait, and when you are ready, we will answer your call for war. May the winds be with you and your fierceness never falter.”
She ran, her heart pounding. She dared Oren to come after them, to declare a threat to their peace. Because the Shattered Isles were ready, and they answered only to her.
Part 1
The Lost Boys and the Royal
1
Fourteen Years Later, The Academy
Brokk
The afternoon sun soaked into his neck as Brokk Foster raised the bow, drawing the string back, his arrow nocked. The courtyard faded away in that second: his hawk-eyed teacher, Professor Iasan, standing to the side, arms crossed and face impassive, his fellow classmates, the looming structure of the Academy behind them. A strand of his golden hair tickled his forehead, as he exhaled, the taut bowstring almost grazing his cheek. It’s not real, just release the arrow, just release it.
At the opposite end of the range, a stuffed dummy was slack and raised, a red emblazed target where a heart would be. Not real, not real, not real. His muscles screamed and sweat rolled down the middle of his back. He tried to empty his charged mind, tried to convince himself that the undiluted fear clutching his heart was unreasonable. With shaking arms, he released the arrow, listening as it cut through the air with a soft hiss. Laughter erupted behind him, making him cringe as he lowered the bow and saw the feathered end lodged in the ground not even close to the dummy.
“Enough!” Professor Iasan’s booming voice cut off his classmate’s jeers. Brokk twisted away, before meeting the gaze of one of his best friends, Memphis Carter. His friend raised one eyebrow as his smooth voice filled Brokk’s consciousness, only for him to hear, “Well, what are you going to do this time, Foster?”
Clenching his teeth, he wrenched his gaze from Memphis. Sometimes he could be such a prat. Tactical training had always been one of the hardest classes for Brokk, and he met, not for the first time, Professor Iasan’s cutting accusations, “Foster! What do you call that?”
More chuckles rippled out and the tips of his ears singed red. A minute passed and then another as he studied the fascinating details of his leather boots.
“Well?”
Meeting his teacher’s gaze, that familiar flicker of anger ignited him. He was so tired of being
