like this off.” He pauses, thoughtful. “I doubt even
the Lakelanders would like throwing an old woman, a cripple, and lit-
tle Gisa in a cell.”
“Good,” I reply, relieved ever so slightly. Feeling better, I brush the
flakes of his ration bar off his shirt.
“I don’t like it when you call them normal,” he adds, catching my
wrist. His voice is suddenly low. “There’s nothing wrong with us.
We’re different, yes, but not wrong. And certainly not better.”
We are anything but normal, I want to tell him, but Shade’s stern
words kill the thought. “You’re right, Shade,” I say with a nod, hoping
he won’t see through my feeble lie. “You always are.”
He laughs and finishes his dinner in a massive bite. “Can I get that
in writing?” He chuckles, releasing his grip on me. His smile is so
familiar I begin to ache. I feign a smile, for his benefit, but Cal’s heavy
steps quickly wipe it away.
He strides past us, stepping clean over Shade’s extended leg, his eyes
fixed on the cockpit. “We should be in range soon,” he says to no one in
particular, but it sends us into action.
Kilorn scrambles away from the cockpit, as if shooed away like a
little boy. Cal ignores him completely. His focus is on the airjet, and
nothing else. For now, at least, their animosity takes a backseat to the
obstacles ahead.
“I’d buckle in,” Cal adds over his shoulder, catching my eye as
he sinks into his own seat. He fastens his safety belts with detached
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precision, tightening each one with quick, hard tugs. At his side, Farley
does the same, silently claiming my chair for the time being. Not that
I mind. Watching the jet take off was terrifying—I can only imagine
what landing looks like.
Shade is proud, but not stupid, and lets me help him to his feet.
Kilorn takes Shade’s other side, and together we make quick work of
getting him standing. Once he’s up, Shade maneuvers himself easily,
getting buckled into his seat with a crutch under one arm. I take the
seat next to him, with Kilorn on my other side. This time, my friend
buckles himself in tightly, and grips his restraints in grim anticipation.
I focus on my own belts, feeling strangely safe when they tighten
against me. You just strapped yourself to a hurtling piece of metal. It’s true, but, at least for the next few minutes, life and death depend solely on
the pilot. I’m just along for the ride.
In the cockpit, Cal busies himself with a dozen switches and levers,
preparing the jet for whatever comes next. He squints, averting his
eyes from the sunset and its blaze of light. It sets his silhouette on fire, illuminating him with red-and-orange fingers that could be his own
flames. I’m reminded of Naercey, the Bowl of Bones, even our Train-
ing matches, when Cal ceased to be a prince and became an inferno.
Back then I was shocked, surprised every time he revealed his brutal
self, but no longer. I can never forget what burns beneath his skin, the
rage that fuels him, and how strong they both are.
Anyone can betray anyone, and Cal is no exception.
A touch at my ear makes me jump in my seat, jolting against my
restraints. I turn to see Kilorn’s hand hanging in midair and his face
quirked in an amused smile.
“You still have them,” he says, gesturing to my head.
Yes, Kilorn, I still have ears, I want to bite back. But then I realize what g l a s s s w o r d 1 3 7
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he’s talking about. Four stones, pink, red, deep purple, and green—my
earrings. The first three are from my brothers, part of a single set split
between Gisa and me. They were bittersweet gifts, given when they
conscripted into the army and left our family, perhaps for good. The
last one is from Kilorn, given on the edge of doom, before the Scarlet
Guard attacked Archeon, before the betrayal that still haunts us all. The
earrings were with me through everything, from Bree’s conscription to
Maven’s treachery, and each stone feels heavy with memory.
Kilorn’s gaze lingers on the green earring, the one that matches
his eyes. The sight of it softens him, wearing down the hard edge he’s
gained over the last few months.
“Of course,” I reply. “These will be with me to my grave.”
“Let’s keep the grave talk to a minimum, especially at the moment,”
Kilorn mutters, eyeing his restraints again.
From this angle, I get a closer look at his bruised face. One black eye
from the Colonel, one purpling cheek from me.