Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

W e were all weapons.

Every single one of us birthed and forged in the flame of war, a nation of monsters and heathens.

Every gift we were born with was honed into an advantage, each more deadly than the last.

And my beauty was my sharpest weapon of all.

I snorted as I looked at the cherry blossoms dancing in the breeze that whistled through the narrow slip of land beneath me, highlighted by the shimmering moonlight. Such fragile, fleeting flowers. Beautiful, innocent, soft. I may have been compared to them by the brute who had claimed my allegiance, but I was only one of those things.

And there was nothing soft or innocent about me. Not anymore.

I ran the sharp tip of my thumbnail along the curve of my bottom lip, tasting blood as I sliced into the skin. The wind tossed a lock of pale pink hair before my eyes, softening the world with its pretty colour, my lie branded on me in those small ways, my appearance sugar sweet from a distance.

But there was a reason my true name had been forgotten. There was a reason they all called me by the title that was hissed in my wake and screamed upon my arrival.

Sky Witch.

And oh, what a witch I could be.

"Do you think we'll ever tire of hearing that sound?" Dalia asked on my right, her wicked smile clear in her tone as the Raincarvers in the outpost town of Castelorain far below us screamed in anticipation of our arrival.

"It grows repetitive," I replied with a shrug, my gaze fixed on the lights beneath us which were blinking out one by one as magic was snuffed and the Fae cowering beneath the massive slip of land we rode upon tried to hide in the dark.

Moraine snorted her amusement from my left and I glanced her way, the edge of my lips curving as I took in her broad smile, her long silver hair remaining in place thanks to the braids which secured it, while mine instantly took the opportunity to sweep across my eyes as I turned my head. She had shifted into her Harpy Order form, her silvery wings a match to her hair, both a sweeping contrast to her warm, brown skin. The armour her kind coated their flesh in for battle covered the lower portion of her body, her legs and waist in metallic scales which gave way to the black battle leathers that protected her chest and arms.

I pursed my lips at the pang of jealousy her wings roused in me and focused back on the panicking outpost we were closing in on. Beyond it, The Crux scarred the land, a crater fifty miles wide and carved so deeply into the earth that none had ever dared explore its depths – not that anyone would be likely to get close enough to try with fire, water and earth territories all bordering it. It was no man's land, a void caught at the heart of the Endless War, and as we drew closer to it on our flying island, we only added to the threat by placing a fourth nation at its border.

"He's coming," Dalia murmured, and I straightened my spine, turning to look as Prince Dragor emerged from Echo Fort at our backs.

The building was designed for war, squat and strengthened against damage with countless shields imbued in its sandstone walls. War machines were mounted on its turrets, catapults and projectiles loaded with iron bolts and heavy stones awaiting an attack from any flying Orders such as Manticores, Griffins or Pegasuses foolish enough to try and strike at us in our domain – the sky.

Barracks consumed the flanks of the building but at the heart of it, the prince held rooms as grand as any of those in his palaces back in our land of Stormfell to the far north. Not that he spent much time in them; he was far more interested in roaming the front lines and seeking new targets for our warmongering – hence the position of the fort at the tip of our travelling mass of land. Prince Dragor wanted to look our enemies in the eye as he watched them die beneath us.

Dalia raised her chin, the short strands of her close-cropped black hair dancing in the breeze as she stood to attention, her grip tightening on her windrider at her side. The shaft of golden metal was a near mirror to my own, though the slim magic turbines mounted on either side of hers were more angular than my rounded design where the runes carved into the metal buzzed with the power imbued in them.

I turned my back on the landscape far below us, the heels of my boots scraping against the gravel and sending some of it tumbling from the sheer edge behind me. My pale pink hair instantly billowed forward over my shoulders, surrounding me and narrowing my line of sight down to nothing beyond the approaching prince and his convoy.

Dragor's cold eyes looked beyond me as he strode closer, taking in the terrain below, his expression calculating, his strong jaw locked in what seemed to be a displeased expression, though honestly, even after all of these years, he wasn't easy to read. I wasn't certain if it was because his moods could shift as abruptly as the wind or if he was simply so good at concealing his true emotions that gaining a lock on them was never going to be possible.

He was pale, everything from his ice-white hair to his chilled blue eyes and the pristine white battle leathers that clung to his muscular frame and defied all logic. To look at him now, most Fae might assume that he never got his own hands dirty, but I had seen that white stained in blood more times than I could count. The blood of his enemies, the blood of traitors, even the blood of those he had claimed for his closest companions – because true loyalty could withstand a little bloodshed after all. His jaw was a hard line, his cheekbones even sharper and I couldn't help but stare a little every time I got close enough to do so, his hold over me unlike any other.

Dragor was the oldest son of King Aquila, ruler of the air kingdom of Stormfell and the most likely candidate to take the throne when his father passed, though his sister and two brothers were also in the running. He was in his early thirties and spent most of his time at war where he had carved out his brutal and ruthless reputation despite his youth, leaving the scandals and politics of court life to his siblings.

He may not have been looking at me, but I watched him without pause. Sometimes I felt like my very existence was so entwined with that of the Prince of Storms that I would simply cease to be were he ever to fall in battle. I was his creature, his creation, his shadow in the darkest of places and my every move was calculated by his desires.

"The clouds kept us hidden above the sea," Prince Dragor clipped, his voice a rough and jagged thing that sent my pulse skittering.

The Wind Weavers stationed close enough to hear him all straightened their spines with pride, though I knew it to be little more than an observation on his part. Had they failed, then he would have had far more to say on the subject. Success was expected. Failure punished.

He stalked closer, the weight of his presence settling over me as he moved to stand by my side and Dalia stepped back to make way for him, the toes of his boots sending more gravel down towards the panicked Raincarvers below. No doubt there were warriors down there – more than enough to hold the line against the fire and earth lands which stood so close at hand, but they couldn't hope to stand against the might of Ironwraith when our island sailed overhead.

I turned to look across the dark landscape below, our island blotting the light of the moon and making it harder to see, but I spotted The Forge which had been named as our target all the same. I wetted my lips, tasting the blood that coated them, a surge of power rolling through me as I tapped into the Ether and grounded myself in the magic which roamed wild throughout every piece of The Waning Lands and beyond.

Few Fae knew the dark arts of wielding Ether, only those willing to risk their souls for the power it offered were bold enough to try and claim a hold over the deadly magic of it. But I had long since realised how much of myself I would need to sacrifice to carve a place out in this world. Even those willing to learn blood magic weren't all selected to do so, the Sages of Stormfell only willing to take on the most promising apprentices. Fortunately, I had made myself a worthy candidate for that position.

"You won't disappoint me, Vesper," Dragor breathed, his hand skimming my spine, fingertips pressing against my battle leathers just hard enough to let me know how easily he could push me from the ledge.

"I won't," I agreed, trying not to react to his nearness, neither to tense or lean into him. Instead, I recited all that I was inside the confines of my own head and made certain my breathing remained just as it had been before his arrival.

They call me the Sky Witch. Bloodborn Aquarius of the greatest nation of them all. My birth took place in the eye of a storm while battle raged around us and my mother's screams were met with those of men dying in the fields of glory beyond. I am yearning. I am lust. I am the greatest desire of all who fall prey to my power, and I am lethal in more ways than can be counted. I am Fae. I am Air. I am master of blood and bone. My name holds no power because it is not what I am.

My true name is War.

Dragor increased the pressure on my spine, his mouth dropping to my ear and an involuntary shudder spilled through me.

"Then go."

I snatched the windrider from its position beside me and leapt from the edge a heartbeat before he could push me.

Wind whipped my hair back from my face, gravity made my heart leap up into my mouth and the wildness of the air surrounding me made a throaty laugh tumble from my lips.

I let myself fall, my grip tight on the metal of my windrider, the runes carved into it raised beneath my palm as I ran my fingers over them, activating them. The magic coiled within its twin wind turbines roared to life as the air rushed through them and I almost lost my grip as it jerked upward, changing my trajectory.

I hoisted myself up, throwing my leg over the smooth shaft which made up the saddle, smiling darkly at Dalia and Moraine as they swooped into formation on either side of me. Moraine beat her silver wings hard, not needing the magical contraption to remain skyborne while Dalia rode her own windrider at my side. In a little over a year, the three of us would claim our places at Never Keep and our air magic would be Awakened at last, allowing us to navigate the skies with the power of our element, but I wondered if I might still prefer the rush of my windrider even then, the exhilaration I felt speeding through the sky on it second only to the rush of bloodshed.

Blasts of ice and water shot for us as our enemies took aim from below and we fell into a deadly dance to avoid them while rushing for the ground at a furious pace.

There was nothing in this world which compared to flying like this, the air ripping through my hair and stinging my cheeks as I tore through it in a bloodthirsty charge.

"The Sky Witch!" a man screamed in warning from beneath us as we drew close enough to the ground to be seen clearly.

I didn't even have my elemental magic Awakened yet, but they already feared me for my mastery over sword and blood magic alike, my reputation on the battlefield earned over six years of savage victories.

They knew what hell approached on this foul wind, and as the sky filled with more and more of our warriors at my back, I knew the dawn would run red with the blood of Cascada.