Chapter 29

TWENTY-NINE

Tempest

Her teeth chattered as the night wind tugged at her hair. Damien soared through the darkened sky, his approach completely silent. Another flash of light appeared as a ball of fire rose toward the heavens. The center of the fighting.

Her stomach twisted painfully. This was not in the plan. She'd had it all worked out in a plan where war was obsolete. Her fingers tightened on the dragon's harness, at least Damien had been prepared to carry a human rider this time. She wasn't ready for war. But was anyone ever prepared for such a thing?

"Are we sure this is a real fight?" Tempest bellowed over the roar of whooshing, freezing air attempting to blast her from her position. She clung tighter to the dragon's hulking shoulder blades.

He let out a rumble that rolled through Tempest and traveled deep into her bones. She knew he was laughing, which only made her feel sicker .

"What is a real fight, my lovely?" his deep, slithering voice asked.

"As in—is this really the beginning of a war? Or is just a skirmish… something that can be contained and controlled?" Maybe they could still avoid an all-out war. Even if Pyre was prepared, the Hounds would slaughter anyone who came across their paths.

"Almost all fights end in war, you know," Damien eventually said. His gargantuan wings beat at the air, bringing them ever closer to the lights and explosions.

Screaming reached her ears, and she couldn't tear her gaze from the fires below. All she could hear was her mother crying for her.

"Tempest?"

She shook her head, trying to focus on the dragon. "I'm sorry. What?"

"It might take a while—even years between skirmishes —but disagreements between two groups of people always end the same way. It is the way of things."

It didn't have to be the way of things. The notion that war was inevitable and that peace was only a result of somebody slaughtering the opposition wasn't something she necessarily agreed with. What did it solve? If women were in charge, would things be different? Her mind drifted to Nyx. She was level-headed and reasonable compared to the rest of the rebels, yet, even with the power she wielded, she still allowed the Jester to torture the shifters. Maybe it didn't matter. A person's worth was determined by their heart, not their gender.

Damien descended and heavy smoke curled through the air. She coughed, and her eyes stung. The dragon circled above the battlefield—for it was a battlefield, that much was clear—and huffed out a cloud of air that broke through the smoke. The warriors below paid no attention.

"Brace yourself, my lady warrior. We are about to land."

Tempest wiggled until she was perched on his back, fingers still clenching his harness. Damien swept low, and she inhaled. It was now or never. Her thighs tensed as she sprung from his back toward the battle. Her teeth rattled as she hit the ground, rolling through the snow. She popped to her feet and moved into the fray without a second thought. While she didn't condone war, she'd been raised for it.

Her pulse pounded in her ears as she strode among the chaos.

Calm yourself or you'll make a mistake. Madrid's words were a whisper in her ear.

For half a second, Tempest breathed in deeply and surveyed her surroundings, the firelight casting ghoulish shadows over the fighting men. Gunpowder, the metallic tang of blood, and the putrid smell of excrement washed over her. She dry-heaved once and then unsheathed her sword as a dark-clothed man caught her eye and charged. She swung, easily managing to dodge his blows, before cutting the soldier down.

"That's my girl!" Damien called, swiping his tail along the ground, throwing warriors into the air. The dragon launched into the night sky, his wings stirring snow as he disappeared into the darkness. He could have decimated the battlefield if he had wanted to, but he flew away.

Focus.

Tempest lowered her chin and swept her cloak behind her, scanning the battlefield. It would have been nice to have the dragon at her side, but she was more than capable. Another warrior darted in her direction. She met his attack and parried, slicing his Achilles tendon before moving on. Tempest plowed forward. She never outright attacked, only defended herself against any seeking to kill her, whether they were shifter or human. Her brain worked overtime to identify just what exactly was going on. Through the blood and smoke and darkness of night it was difficult to see who was fighting who. Another fiery explosion went off to her right. The ground bucked beneath her feet, and she flung up an arm to protect her face. The flames writhed like a temporary sun and illuminated the field.

She froze. No.

The crown prince stood among the fray.

What was the bloody prince and his soldiers doing here? An ambush.

Her jaw clenched. Why had Destin not mentioned that one of his sons was returning—least of all his heir? This was just getting worse every minute.

Figure it out later. Move.

Protect the prince. Protect the prince. Protect the prince. It ran through her head over and over as she fought to get to his side. Even though he was a worthless sod, he wasn't his father, and she'd sworn an oath to protect the kingdom.

The prince stumbled in her direction, bleary-eyed and clearly drunk, trying to hold his own. He was nowhere near her level of skill, but he wasn't terrible. What he lacked in finesse, he made for in enthusiasm.

"Blast it," she muttered as another of the prince's soldiers collapsed to the ground, leaving the crown prince open on his left. Heimseryan soldiers dropped like flies. The Talagans who were attacking them were not mere thieves or brigands. They were too efficient. Her fingers tightened on the pommel of her sword. This was the Jester's doing.

Another soldier rushed at her. She met his attack and gasped as he whipped under her guard, slashing her along the ribs. Tempest sucked in a sharp breath and staggered to the side, thankful she'd worn her corset reinforced with steel. He'd have gutted her without it. The man rushed at her again, but Tempest was ready for him. She met him, brandishing both sword and dagger. Their swords locked, and she growled, feeling her boots slipping. The man spat at her and then his eyes went wide. His mouth slackened, and his legs collapsed. Tempest skittered back, wrapping a hand around her ribs, wheezing. He'd been shot with three arrows.

Were those meant for her? She locked eyes with a shifter holding a bow. The woman smiled and twisted to meet an oncoming attack. She'd take that as a no. An ally. For now. Her gaze dropped to the man, and her heart clenched at the huge silver ring sitting on his finger.

A wolf ring.

A Hound. She'd fought a Hound. And he was dead because of it.

One of your own. Who are you?

Tempest hefted her sword, ribs screaming, and stormed forward. A shifter with ram horns bellowed and charged at her. She planted her feet and screamed back—a guttural, vengeful roar that Brine would have been proud of.

The crown prince turned at the sound of the scream. The relief on his dirt-streaked face was palpable when he realized who she was. Thank your stars, boy, that I am protecting you. She could do this. Protect the prince. Become the queen. Protect the people .

Her brain shut down until she was just a product of her training. One man. Two, three, four. Some of her attackers were skilled, of that there was no doubt, but she was a Hound, trained by the Dark Court. She was death.

The prince stumbled again, a sloppy smile on his face. "Tempest!" he cried, swinging his sword like a child. "I am so—"

A spear slid right through his chest. The young man gasped, blood staining his lips.

Tempest's vision went black, then white.

" No !" she screamed, dropping her sword and yanking her bow from her back. In a matter of heartbeats, she'd felled the prince's attacker. Tempest tossed her bow over her shoulder and grabbed her sword from the snow, already closing the distance between herself and the prince. The young man fell to his knees, and his hands went to the shaft of the spear, disbelief in his too-bright eyes as he yanked the weapon out.

"Don't do that!" Tempest commanded. The prince gasped wetly and dropped the spear to the bloody snow. She caught him before he fell. "Set up a perimeter!" she bellowed at his remaining guards, who were forming a circle around them. Tempest pressed the bottom of her cloak to the prince's wound but knew it wouldn't help.

Blood bubbled from his mouth and onto the snow beneath them, his face growing pale. A drop of water smeared the ash and snow, then another and another. She was crying. "It's going to be okay," she soothed.

"I—don't," the prince began, though the words were barely audible through his parched lips. "Don't want t-to die."

Tempest smoothed back his hair and lied; it was all she could do. "You'll be fine. You'll be fine. You can do this. Just keep your lovely eyes open. "

The prince wasn't fine, and he didn't close his eyes, although it didn't help. His chest stilled, and his eyes glassed over.

The royal was dead.

She froze like that—on her knees, with the prince in her arms—for what felt like an eternity, though she knew that wasn't possible. The world slowed until it resembled a watercolor painting. A dull roar echoed in her ears, but she didn't move, slowly rocking the crown prince. She'd never liked the boy, but that didn't mean she wished him dead. The fear in his eyes before death took him would never leave her mind.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she flinched. A dagger found its way into her hand, and a foot soldier held up his hands. He was barely more than a boy. What was a boy doing on the crown prince's protection detail?

"My lady," he said, his voice wavering. "You are hurt."

Tempest dully looked down at herself. She was covered in gore. Wounds on her arms and shoulders sluggishly leaked blood. She couldn't feel them, whether it was from the shock or the cold, she didn't know. At some point, the sun had come up. Tempest blinked slowly and scanned the battlefield, illuminated by the morning sun.

It was a massacre.

Her gut clenched, and she twisted, violently throwing up. Tears sprung to her eyes as she heaved. Her body shook as she straightened and wiped her mouth with the back of her arm.

"Let us treat your wounds," the soldier said, holding out a hand to help her up.

Tempest shook her head and held onto the prince tightly. "I can't leave him."

"Tempest."

She vaguely recognized the voice. It belonged to one of the battalion commanders—she remembered sparring him once, when she was younger.

The commander gazed impassively at the young prince and then nodded at her. "If your wounds are not treated, they'll become infected. Let us see to the prince and you to your injuries, then you can accompany us back to the capital."

Her fingers crushed the prince's icy, velvet cloak. What the man said made sense, but she couldn't get her body to do what he asked. She gazed back at the prince's face and closed his eyes. One finger at a time, she released his body and laid him gently against the snow. It took all her strength to stand and stay on her feet. The commander eyed her and held out a hand toward what remained of his battalion.

"You will find a healer among them as well as a horse for our journey."

She didn't smile or nod. It was a miracle she was able to put one foot in front of the other. The masquerade seemed like ages prior, but, in reality, only a few hours had passed.

And with them so many lives.

Her numbness hardened into an icy rage. The Jester had known this was going to happen. Their last conversation hung heavy in her mind. She would not go back to him—not after what he said. Not after the vile attack she had been thrust into.

You gave him the information.

Tempest brushed the thought away. The men of her world were determined to bring hell upon them. She'd have to save them on her own.

"You can do this." One tear tracked down her cheek. "You have to."