All of this…for me.

A vindication of the softness that survived a gruesome battle.

A veneration of the sparks that smoldered through sorrow.

An honorance of grief that didn’t harden into harshness.

And in that moment, I understood.

I hadn’t failed them; I’d elevated them.

And they wanted to continue their fight.

A serrated breath accompanied the next wave. Rapp and Kiira knelt with them. All movement around the academy had ceased, poised on this very moment.

Blinking rapidly, I tried to arrest the tears, even for a moment, to imprint the scene on my memory. Then, I reached for Rokath’s bundle and lifted it from his hands.

“Rise,” I commanded with as much authority as I could muster around the thickness in my throat.

My mate did, his riotous burgundy eyes sparking with desire. Those behind him followed, piling their bones and feathers at our feet. Rokath swiped the lingering salt from my cheeks and then faced them alongside me.

“My bold, beautiful mate. Give me your tears, and I will catch them like they are precious. Let me be the hands that hold you when the world breaks you again. Let me remind you—your sorrow is not a weakness. It is the mark of one chosen by the Fates to feel what others fear.”

I’d never been more relieved to hear him in my mind.

“You are my sanctuary. My refuge. I am so fucking glad you didn’t die. I couldn’t live without you.”

“Nor I without you. My fierce protector. My primal love.”

He kissed me then, unrestrained passion igniting between us. Fuck our audience. I needed my mate.

Whoops and cheers eventually drove us apart, yet the darkness in Rokath’s eyes told me we were far from finished. He linked his fingers through mine and held my gaze.

The bones at our feet weren’t mere trophies. Decor for our war tents. They were proof that even amid ruin, the soldiers believed in us. In me.

And we would not let the dead burn for nothing.

OceanofPDF.com

43

Blood darkened my hands, but it was nothing compared to how my vision stained red when a raven arrived. The new recruit who dared interrupt my torture trembled at the sight of the half-dead Angel. Shooing him into the hall, I set my tools to the side and wiped my hands on an already dirty cloth. Assyria followed the male, and by the time I emerged, my mate had walked a few paces away from the door.

Leaning against the wall, the back of her head braced on its cool surface, she looked as if she were trying to picture herself anywhere but here. The dungeon of the military academy was dank, musty, and wet, with spray from the ocean somehow reaching inside the tiny crevices of rock and securing its place there. There was no fresh air to be had, and even with the door closed, the stench of our activities pricked my nostrils.

We’d been at this for hours, and she had stomached more than I thought her capable. Despite her injury, she insisted she needed to study this Angel since he held such a high rank. In the Angel army, Mryza was the equivalent of a Parancsok, though they all reported directly to Zahal Ishim. Impersonating him would throw open the door of possibility for us when it came to infiltrating their camp or influencing any Angels we came across.

The garnet-eyed male stood at attention, his back straight and hands tucked. He was bruised, with a split lip and deep gash on one side of his head, but all his injuries would heal by the end of the day.

“Halálhívó,” he said, offering me a quick salute and proffering the message.

A muscle ticked in my jaw as I unfurled the parchment, the thirst for pain unrelenting. Air caught in my throat as I noted the handwriting.

Trol.

Thank fuck he was still alive.

Halálhívó,

A battalion of Angels has split off from the main group, headed east, most likely to Fured. We didn’t notice their departure until I sent a scout on a mission and he spotted them from a distance. They must have used some sort of illusion to sneak away. By our estimates, they should reach you a day after this note.

“Fuck!” I shouted, whirling for the thick stones and punching them, if only to have something to slake an ounce of this rage.

How had they seen us depart? How had they known where we’d go?

Snapping it open again, I kept reading.

We need you to return as soon as possible. The reason I sent the scout is that their forces have begun to pull back of their own accord. As discussed, we have not engaged with them since your departure. From other scouts’ reports, a mass of them are gathering along the wall, both on the border to the north of the Skala Mountains and along the northernmost part of the wall atop the ridges. We aren’t sure how far south they have spread yet or if they will continue to do so.

I am sending a contingent to the wall as a backstop after I finish penning this note. Afterward, I will begin an advance so we don’t lose sight of more Angels. Please send further instruction if you have it.

I hope this reaches you in time so you can prepare your warriors for the imminent attack. I bid you to rejoin the larger force once you’ve routed them in Fured. It is my fear that we can no longer wait for further training and that the Angels are planning some sort of assault now that they know of your absence.

Trol

My hands shook with the force of my fury. Trol had been a day late in his estimate, which wasn’t entirely his fault, but I was still pissed nonetheless. The only mercy offered by his words was leverage. Armed with information about the Angel’s movements, I had a starting point from which to force the Myrza into speaking.

With the Angels spreading like a plague of locusts across Keleti, with my mate wavering on her feet, with how they’d surprised us yet again…I needed all the information I could gather.

“Take this to Hadvezér Rapp and the High Priestess,” I commanded the messenger. “Find Parancsok Olet and tell him to meet us here.”

“Yes, sir,” the male confirmed, offering me a closed-fisted salute. He marched away immediately, leaving me to finish what I started with the Angel Myrza.

“What did it say?” Assyria questioned, her voice threaded with exhaustion.

“Trol warning us of the oncoming attack.” I slammed the door open again, making the Angel jump. The two Vezető assisting me didn’t flinch, though they regarded me with wide-eyed wariness. Assyria closed the door with less roughness behind her, then took her seat in the corner, arms crossed.

A storm clung to me as I stalked forward and braced my hands on either side of the Myrza. “Why are your brethren going to the wall?”

He pressed his swollen lips together, wincing at the movement. Mine curled back, flashing my sharp, pointed canines. Through gritted teeth, I threatened, “Last chance to speak before I start removing your bones.”

His face turned ashen. So far, the damage I had inflicted had been superficial enough that his innate healing abilities would undo most of the damage. But our magic didn’t cover regrowing bones.

I lifted a brow, waiting for a response. He still said nothing.

Shoving back, I said, “Very well then. Hand me that knife.”

One of the Vezető passed me a wickedly sharp bronze blade. I made a show of flashing the edges in the light, gauging the Angel’s reaction. His aquamarine eyes grew large as the balls I threw for Grem and Zeec.

I knelt in front of him—not out of reverence or deference—but because it brought me closer to his hands. Bronze chains bound his wrists to the arms of the chair, and I grabbed his fingers and flattened one out. He twisted, attempting to curl them back into a fist, but I merely smashed the hilt of the blade into the back of his hand, forcing him to relax it. When I had one pinned, I looked him dead in the eye and dragged the tip of the blade along the meaty part of his lower finger.