CHAPTER 52

EMONIE

The fortress Carrick built is just as gray as the sky. It doesn't surprise me that the king felt the need to make it. He's always been a show-off when it comes to his magic.

Fae love power, and we also love judging power. We can be quite critical about it. Even now, when so much of our population's magical ability has dwindled.

But there's no denying that King Carrick has the magical might, just like there's no doubt he wants to show it. To stake his claim on this world.

Except…he's not the only one with magic.

I might not be as flashy, might not be able to shove around a bunch of rocks and build a fortress in the middle of nowhere, but my glamour magic has helped me plenty of times over the years.

I'm hoping it can help me now too.

I dart around the back of the fortress. The snow is deeper here, so my footsteps sink down, forcing me to slog through and leave an obvious trail behind me.

Can't do anything about that.

When I get behind the building, I glance back at the bridge, watching the slow but steady stream of Stone Swords filing in, some of them slipping as they make the transition from dreary gray to icy Orean ground.

I'm not sure exactly how many Stone Swords Carrick is sending—I wasn't able to get a clear count while in the prisoner's cart. But so long as these soldiers are coming down the bridge, it means that the Gore aren't yet. And that's a good thing.

It's going to be a very bad thing the second they're unleashed into Orea, but maybe I can stop that from happening.

Turning back around, I eye the edge of ground to my right that looks like it's been torn right off. As if a goddess was once here, and she took the entire world and ripped it like a sheet of parchment, leaving behind the jagged edge of this frozen land to float with the fog. Maybe the other torn half floats somewhere else.

If it does, I really hope they don't have a stupid Stone King. One of him is enough.

I rush to the far corner of the fortress and then peer around it before I start making my way up its side. I sidle past the tower and then carefully look around the corner. From here, I'm blocked from view of the bridge, but I'm able to see all the Stone Swords converging into organizing groups.

The door of the fortress scrapes open, and I lurch back just as Carrick comes striding out. As he goes, he moves his hands, and stone erupts in front of him from the snow. I nearly fall from the shake of the ground, hand scrabbling to hold myself up against the wall.

He yanks up stone from the earth that looks like layered cake. He makes a rocky path to walk upon so his polished boots don't sink in even an inch of snow. Then pillars start to erect ahead of him, making soldiers rush out of the way.

Ten pillars lift up to the sky, more stone flattens on the ground between them, and then a pitched roof forms above with the sound of grinding stone and cracking rock. He's made a large pavilion, presumably for some of the soldiers to stand beneath, getting somewhat of a reprieve from the elements.

Carrick keeps walking and then stops at the edge of the structure. Then he lifts his hands again, and the earth shakes, some of the rifts widening as he pilfers from the land's depths.

From the snow, more pillars of stone rise. About as tall and wide as himself this time. A dozen of them form. Then two dozen. Three. A hundred. Maybe more.

I frown at the sight. What is he making?

My frown turns into a wide-eyed look when he stops jutting up more stone and instead starts to form them. Their bulk shifts, the sounds echoing as the rock twists and morphs, until a hundred stone soldiers stand like armored statues in the snow.

My breath hitches in my chest.

The king seems to test these new forms, his hands controlling them, making them move in unison, longswords clutched in their granite hands.

Shit. This is not good.

The other fae soldiers stand around, watching these new statues in a combination of awe and wariness as the stone figures move and shift. I had no idea the king was able to do this with his magic.

Orea is in big trouble.

Whatever win they managed to have here isn't going to matter. Not if the king can just pop lifeless soldiers up from the ground. The Oreans are going to be leveled. Completely decimated. How can they go against soldiers that don't bleed? That don't feel fear or pain? How do you even destroy one of these hewn bastards?

More dread grows in my stomach, like spreading spores of moss that latch on. King Carrick has to be stopped. He has to, and there's no one else around in this sea of soldiers—both real and rock—except for me to do it.

Really unfair that it's only me.

But no time to feel sorry for myself. Ludogar died by King Carrick's hand. My parents too. Just like so many other Vulmin and Oreans have been killed, all because of him and his predecessors.

Determination stiffens my back, and I harden my features as I watch Carrick settle his creations and then erect one last building on the other side of the pavilion. He disappears into its walls before the roof even starts forming. A trail of Badges follow behind him, probably to make more war plans.

I need to get in there. But first, I need a weapon…or three.

Time to go foraging.

Straightening up, I stride ahead, marching forward as if I'm nothing but a simple soldier with a simple task. The glamoured features I'm borrowing are perfectly plain, so no one pays me much attention. I pick my way through the frozen terrain, carefully avoiding the open clefts and patches of ice and browned veins that run through the snow while I walk amongst the others.

I pry a cloak from someone's open pack. I swipe a small dagger from another male's belt while he stands in a circle, talking to other soldiers. I even manage to steal someone's sword while the unsuspecting fellow is squatting behind a snow bank, straining out some sludge.

I wrinkle my nose as I pass. He had better bury that when he's done.

Now armed, I feel much better. My fingers itch to grab more things, but unfortunately, I'm without my beloved foraging pouch, so this will have to do.

I feed my stolen sword through my belt loop, and palm the dagger up my sleeve, securing it against the stone shackle. Then I clasp the cloak around my neck and pull up the hood, because even with my adrenaline burning hot, this place is absolutely freezing.

When I turn toward the pavilion, I see someone walking out from the other building the king created—the one he's still inside of.

I dart for the person, matching his trajectory, walking as quickly as I can without being too fast to gather attention.

If he was in there with the king, he can go in there again.

Or, I can, with his face.

I sidestep around groups of soldiers and stuff the end of my cloak clumsily into my waistband.

But as I'm maneuvering over the uneven terrain, I realize too late that this fae isn't wearing armor. My stomach drops when I recognize the shiny black hair that hangs down his back.

It's one of the twins that met with the king back at the army camp. I can't tell one from the other, so I have no idea which it is.

I falter, steps slowing as I consider what to do. I could stop and abandon this plan, but I might not get another chance, and I have no time to spare. Every second is already spent.

I let out a breath. "This is fine," I mutter to myself. "Completely fine." I was hoping this was a random Badge, because the twins seem more important, but this could still work.

Keeping to the plan, I match his stride and determine where we're going to cross paths. When I'm only a handful of steps away from him, I put my head down, pretending to yank on the cloak like it's caught in my trousers, and—

Bam.

The two of us crash together.

We collide hard enough that he tumbles to the ground, the both of us landing in a tangled heap. He cries out in surprise, shoving me while I scramble, trying to unhook my limbs from his, my movement a flurry of panic.

"Get off me!" he snarls when I nearly knock him face-first into the ground.

I wipe off flakes of snow stuck to him. "Sorry, sir!" I say frantically.

He shoves me away and gets to his feet while I spring to mine.

"Are you alright?" another soldier asks, a group of them walking up.

"Fine," the fae grits out as he shoots me a furious look and dusts himself off. "Watch where you're going!" he snaps at me.

My head bobs in an exaggerated nod. "Of course, sir. Sorry again, sir."

With a huff, he turns and marches away, and the other soldiers who saw the whole thing eye me as I sheepishly walk in the other direction with my head down. I hear them snickering as I go, while I do my best to look embarrassed.

Inwardly, I'm preening.

That worked better than I'd planned. A swipe of hand here, a purposeful shift there, and through it all, I digested every part of him that I need to take on his features for my glamour.

I walk as I do it.

As soon as I reach the pillars of the pavilion where a big group of soldiers are gathered, I force a glamoured change, one feature at a time. One change per pillar I pass.

Eyes, face shape, skin, height, hair. Luckily, the fae is quite slim, so I can give myself more breathing room beneath this horrible stone band still caught around my back.

By the time I reach the other end of the pavilion, I'm glamoured into a different male. The unfortunate part is, I'm in armor, and the twin was not.

I yank off my helmet, leaving it behind in the snow, but I can't strip down the rest. I clasp the gray cloak around me tighter, just to try and make it less obvious that I'm wearing a chest plate beneath.

My eyes scan the stone statues as I pass them by. Their chiseled bodies and fae-like faces are all eerily the same and completely still. The rock they're formed with is in layers of gray, and frost is gathered on their smooth heads like clumps of hair.

As I pass them row by row, I get the uneasy sensation that their motionless, pupil-less eyes are following me, even though I know they aren't.

Still, I hurry forward, aiming for the building ahead, where the king and his army advisors are gathered. My heart beats like a hammer against my chest as I make my way closer, but I force my borrowed face to stay calm and expressionless while I inwardly give myself a pep talk.

Go in. Get close to the king. Kill him. That's it. Three easy steps.

I can do this. I'm a Vulmi. I've done lots of difficult missions.

And if I succeed, I could make the difference for thousands of Orean lives.

Fear sticks to my spine, but I force my shoulders back. Shaking my arm slightly, I shift the dagger caught up my sleeve. Its presence makes me feel better.

Sweat drips down the side of my face, but then I'm only a dozen steps away.

I can hear voices inside. One of them is King Carrick.

My self-preservation kicks in, screaming at me to turn around and get as far away as possible, but I ignore it.

I'm a Vulmi, I tell myself again. Just like my parents were. Vulmin don't tuck and run. We rise with the dawn and we fight.

Here goes everything.