crystalline water that nourished most of the wilds, shook as though in a high storm.
Families rushed off of Lindon’s fortress. They hadn’t wanted to leave so relatively close to Sacred Valley, but there wasn’t much choice.
He was going to fly back.
Ideally, they would take the people of Sacred Valley much further away, but this much of a head start was better than nothing. They needed to go back and give others the same chance.
The factions of the Desolate Wilds might not be welcoming to refugees, so Lindon left each family with a weapon, a handful of Underlord scales, and a wax seal stamped with the Arelius family crest.
That should be enough to get them started here, but if it failed…well, at least fellow sacred artists had more mercy than a Dreadgod.
Worse, The Bounding Gazelle had given up, and Eithan had withdrawn it.
“It’s made for high performance,” he’d said, “so it needs either richer aura or more madra. I’d prefer both.”
There had been discussion of Lindon possibly taking over the faster cloudship and Yerin flying Windfall, but the discussion threatened to eat more time than it saved. Eithan was now asleep in his house on the island, and Lindon had to hope that he would recover enough madra by the time they arrived that he could power The Bounding Gazelle again.
While they flew, they all watched the battle.
Malice’s massive form was visible in the sky, even hundreds of miles away, standing like a violet statue on a platform of air. She hovered just outside the boundary of Sacred Valley’s suppression field, firing arrows into her enemy.
At first, Lindon had wondered why the Monarchs had never taken this opportunity to kill the Dreadgods here before. Just trap them inside the field and then bombard them with attacks from outside.
But each arrow dimmed and shrunk the second it crossed the border into Sacred Valley. The Monarch techniques lost their power in seconds, though they still contained a depth of complexity and reality-warping weight that he couldn’t fully understand.
He knew they were making an impact because the Titan roared in response to each one. As Lindon turned the fortress to drift back to Sacred Valley, he felt the golden power of the Dreadgod flare…and then retreat.
Not far. The Titan was only lumbering back the other way. But as Malice flew around the edges of the circular suppression field, keeping up her barrage of attacks, Lindon’s heart climbed.
She was doing it.
Lindon’s mother wrote furiously on her notepad. “Do you gain in size as you advance? Or can you control your growth?”
“Sacred beasts can get bigger than a pregnant mountain,” Yerin answered quickly. “People don’t, at least not any I’ve clapped eyes on.” She nodded to Malice. “That one’s not much bigger than me. Shorter than you. It’s the armor that grows, it’s like a shell.”
Yerin was standing stiffly, her back straight, deliberately looking in another direction to appear casual but flicking her gaze to Seisha with every word.
Lindon’s mother brightened, her writing picking up speed. “Really. And you’ve met her?”
“Not to polish myself up, but I fought under her banner in the Uncr—uh, a tournament for the whole world.” Yerin’s Broken Crown bloomed over her head, a wide black halo. “Came in first, as it happens. Not that trophies matter.”
Lindon had tried to leave his family behind as they had set down in the Desolate Wilds. He had been thoroughly outvoted.
Seisha made an appropriate sound of awe, and even Jaran grunted approvingly. Kelsa leaned forward. “Pardon if this is too much to ask, but can I see the trophy?”
Lindon thought Yerin was about to start sweating. “No, well, I was just talking out the side of my mouth. Didn’t get a trophy. But I would have, if they…had one.”
Without taking his attention from the controls, or the battle happening in the sky, Lindon gestured to the Broken Crown. “That’s the trophy. It’s a unique treasure that only the top eight of each tournament earn.”
Kelsa reached out her hands as though to touch it, but pulled back before she did. Seisha’s pen moved so that Lindon was sure she was sketching the Crown.
“Were you watching the tournament?” Jaran asked.
While Lindon was trying to think of the best way to dodge the question, Yerin popped in. “He fought himself. Top sixteen. There are recordings of his fights, or you can get a memory from the audience. Now I think of it, Dross could…”