sent back to the Netherworld and the first true King of the Nine claimed the palace, builders added stairs to many of the looming towers—but not all.
There was, however, a small servant’s portal she’d discovered, a remnant of when mortal slaves served here, that would take her to the main market in the city. From there, the coastline was a hard sprint away.
The only sound as she crossed the bridge and then leapt onto the closest ledge was the whipping of her cloak behind her. She leapt from balcony to balcony until the slender towers gave way to parapets and crumbling stone.
Dark shapes stirred the murky air as the Seraphian sentinels patrolled the sky, sifting through the clouds for the intruders.
So they were winged, this time.
Shadowlings? Morgryth’s Golemites? Gremwyrs? The list of possible enemy intruders was as vast as the city spread out below. A city full of innocent civilians who had followed her here with the blind faith that she could protect them.
And yet, here she was, scrabbling and lurching down the castle, a single misstep from death.
Grunting, she forced her movements into a dangerous pace. Any fear she might have felt was overcome by anger.
A dark, glittering rage.
When the ground peeked from the mist only a few stories high, she leapt, rolling to break the fall. Her bones groaned on impact, reminding her she was mortal. Flesh and blood.
Completely, annoyingly breakable.
But the flames of magick surging from her open palms were anything but human as she speared into the city that honeycombed the hills. The nightly storms that frequented Shadoria’s coasts lit up the sky; dark, inhumanly fast shapes streaked against the violet jags of lightning over the water.
The intruders had been pushed back from the city.
Resolved to keep it that way, Haven cut through the main street, sprinting past newly opened shops and small homes carved from the onyx mountainside. Runelights flickered from windows as the people who had given up everything to follow her hunkered behind their walls. Their bitter terror choked the night air, as pungent and real as their muffled cries.
Haven was supposed to protect them. To keep them safe. And so far she’d failed at that.
A great swell of fury nearly blinded her. Twisting her fingers, she drew a newly learned swift rune into the air. The moment the final tail of the spiraling symbol disappeared, the world around her smeared into streaks of light.
Her speed ripped the air from her lungs. She hardly had time to blink before the cobblestoned streets gave way to bone-white sand so pale it nearly glowed. The tang of blood permeated the sea breeze. Haven whipped her gaze skyward to the shadows fighting high above.
A frustrated growl ripped from her throat as she paced below, boots sinking into the shifting sand.
If only she had the Seraphians’ wings.
A thud drew her attention to the cliffs behind her where the luminous white hair of Seraphian soldiers bobbed against the dark rocks like flames. She collected more details as she stalked closer. A female Seraphian lay crumpled on her side, her beautiful glossy wings limp against the bloodstained sand.
There was something horrifying about seeing those wings, which were always moving, always outstretching and curling and so full of power, now lifeless and inert.
The other female knelt beside her friend tending to her obvious wounds. A thick white braid snaked down her back, and when she whipped her head to regard Haven . . .
“Delphine?” Haven called, rushing over.
Delphine turned back to her friend, her deft fingers working a series of dark runes into the air, while her free hand stroked her friend’s cheek. Haven dropped to the sand beside them, ignoring the feel of blood as it seeped through her pant fabric and into her knees. She started to do a new healing light rune she’d just learned when Delphine lifted her eyes to Haven and shook her head.
That’s when Haven realized Delphine wasn’t performing healing runes; it was obvious the female was too far gone. These symbols were different. Some sort of last rites the Seraphians performed before death.
The dying Seraphian lifted her head. Her muted black armor, so dark it swallowed the moonlight, creaked softly.
It was painted in bright smears of blood and the scattered feathers of its dying owner.
As soon as the female recognized Haven, a strange serenity calmed the chaos inside her ebbing eyes.
With a silent gasp, the female used the final moment of her life to stretch a trembling finger toward the nearest tower to