The king is still shouting at me. Calling me all manner of names, so familiar to me now that they might as well be mine: Mongrel. Beast. Abomination. They burrow under my skin and spread their roots, sprouting painful memories. The looks on the courtier’s faces when Rose revealed me at the masque. The disgust in Marigold’s voice when she learned I broke the curse. The revulsion in the queen’s eyes when she saw me huddled against her daughter.
Aurora could have created a new world. A realm worth fighting for.
They do not deserve it.
Endlewild and I agree on one thing: Briar is no longer the land Leythana claimed from the helm of her dragon fleet. It has become a tree bearing rotting fruit. And there is only one thing to do with such trees.
Burn them to the ground.
My Vila magic hurtles out of my body and pummels into the outer wall of the library. The ancient brick explodes. Part of the roof caves in, stone and wood raining down in an avalanche on the Grace District. The bells are still tolling in anticipation of the royal wedding. I grit my teeth against the sound. Remember what Kal taught me. I was cautious with my Shifts before. Hesitant. But I draw on my unfathomable rage now, letting it snap and spark and roar.
If they want a monster, they shall have one.
Without a second thought, before I can let myself doubt, I take a running leap out of the gaping hole in the wall.
For one heart-stopping moment, I’m falling. The wind tears at my limbs. My stomach lurches into my throat. But I concentrate on my Shift. Command my power to obey.
Now, I order.
There’s a blinding pain in my back. A pair of taloned wings shreds the fabric of my bodice and unfurls from my spine, like the sails rumored to have graced Leythana’s ships. Veined and scaled and beautiful. Nothing like the flimsy illusions I summoned in the black tower. They buoy me up on the current of wind. My breath halts at the sheer joy of it. At the feeling of winter morning against my skin. The sight of the Grace District spreading below me. Exhilarating. I sharpen my eyesight, reveling in the way the citizens are scattering. Pointing at the sky, their shrill screams like music.
I’ll deal with them later.
Stones are still falling from the wounded library. I position myself in the air, calculating where the king and his men are trying to force through my barrier. Mortania laughs, low and knowing, as her magic unspools with mine. A single command is all it takes. The roof above the guards collapses, as if it were made of nothing stronger than sticks and mud. Death cries float their way up to my ears. Shouts to protect the king. But it’s far too late for that. If I breathe deeply, I can scent the charred copper of blood and fear. It is only the beginning.
I’ll give Tarkin credit. For a realm that hasn’t seen war in centuries, his army is well trained. Within moments, archers line the battlements, shooting volley after volley of flaming arrows in my direction. I land on top of the library and let my Vila magic wrap around me like a shield. The blows strike the shimmery green barrier, then slide away. At the first break in their assault, I launch from my perch and streak across the sky. Find the fiery hearts of the soldiers’ torches and build it up. Stronger and hotter. Until each one blazes green with the force of my power and leaps into the archers’ faces. Men howl and topple off the towers like the markers in Tarkin’s war room.
In the distance, a fresh wave of soldiers is readying a cannon. They pour the powder and stuff down the ball in a perfectly synchronized dance.
But they have never faced a Vila.
The shot booms, a blur of black coming straight for me. I tread the air. Let them think they have landed their hit. And then at the last moment I release my magic. It catches the cannonball midflight and sends it careening back toward the battlements. There’s a deafening crack as steel thunks into the side of the tower. The whole thing groans and leans to one side. Half of the men plummet to their deaths. The others are scrambling. Shouting. I concentrate on my Shift. My fingernails lengthen into claws. A barbed, poison-tipped tail punches through the base of my spine. The soldiers are trying to ready the cannon again. Cramming down the ball and the powder. Fools.
I tuck my wings in and dive. Spears sail past me, but I am faster. The wind whistles against my eardrums. Fear setting in at last, the men abandon the cannon and flee. Not quickly enough. I bank. Swoop low. My tail lashes out like a whip and connects with soft throats and tender bellies. Just before I make for the skies, a brave, stupid soul jumps into my path, brandishing a sword. I tear him in two with my claws. His insides spatter on the stone.
More. Mortania’s laugh trills with the clanging of Briar’s alarm bells. More.
Yes. At my command, the powder in the cannon explodes. Green fire snakes its way into every crack and crevice of the tower. I leave it to do its work and circle back to the rest of the realm. The Grace District is soaked in the acrid scent of terror. Men with axes and blades and even pitchforks crowd the streets, swinging their weapons at me like they could possibly make a difference. Women watch from the windows, mouths hanging open. I want to taste the salt of their tears. Rend the plump satin of
