behind him in a rush of sliding metal. He bends his knees.
Red, I say again through our link.
And then there’s a blur of motion. I shudder once, violently, as a blast comes from the prison below the National Plaza. I look behind me to see a winged soldier burst into the sky, all black steel and metallic hair, his figure silhouetted against the sky.
I let out a breath at the sight of him. Maybe we can have a chance. With Red, I dare to believe it.
Our bond pulls tight. Then he vanishes over the wall.
Out by the front gates, another fireball comes hurtling over the edge of the gates to crash into the Inner City.
“Steady, Strikers!” the Firstblade calls out, holding his gun aloft. His eyes are fixed on the shuddering gates. Beyond them come the shrieks of Ghosts driven into a feeding frenzy from the sounds of hundreds of thousands of human voices.
In unison, every Striker fans out until we form an arc facing the steel walls. Our conversations die as we each pull on our masks.
I find myself lingering for a moment on Aramin’s image. Around us, some other Strikers are pale with terror, a few of them pausing to retch before hoisting their weapons and preparing themselves for our last stand.
Aramin must know that none of us will return from this night. But even now, I see no hint of fear on his face, no sign of doubt or uncertainty, no wavering in his stance. His head stays held high; his eyes flash in a fiery, almost insane defiance. A smile even plays at the edges of his mouth.
This is why he is our Firstblade, why he was chosen so young. Here, with his hair up in its fierce knot, he looks every inch the leader I’ve seen cutting through Ghosts on the field. He seems to relish the coming battle and the chance for us all to strike back, one last time, against our impossible enemy. On my other side, Jeran has his head turned in Aramin’s direction, his jaw clenched tightly shut.
Then he, Adena, and I exchange a final look. In the sky, I feel Red’s pull, the rage in him pouring ceaseless and unending.
“Weapons!” the Firstblade shouts.
I pull out my swords in unison with the others. The sliding of metal against hilt rings out across the night.
There’s a moment of calm.
“It’s been an honor, Strikers,” the Firstblade calls out.
We lift our fists to our chests and pound out a final Striker sign.
Then Aramin lowers his blade at the wall. “Attack at will!” he shouts.
On instinct, I step forward in sync with everyone else. My attention focuses on nothing but the steel walls and the shrieks coming from beyond them. In my periphery, I see Adena and Jeran on my left.
We march outward in a ring to our deaths.
As we glide through the city streets, I see crowds of people teeming along the roads in a panic, heading in our direction and away from the walls. Marans. They’re fleeing by the thousands, their faces pale with terror, cringing every time they hear the scream of a Ghost come from beyond the walls. Some of them clutch children in their arms. Others carry prized possessions—everything from clothing to gold to family heirlooms.
When we reach them, they stream past us and run toward the back of the city, where tunnels lead into the forests on the south side of Mara.
It’s useless. But I keep my eyes forward and let them flee. We are surrounded by thousands of their bodies, crushing upward against us in a panic. Children wail in their parents’ arms. Families call out for one another over the chaos. Over the walls hurtles another fireball. It barrels right into a set of buildings and explodes in a shower of flames. Dozens of people are caught in its inferno.
The Strikers don’t flinch. I don’t stop moving. We go on as the citizens run behind our line.
Suddenly, I see familiar faces as I continue to push forward. Some of the people running with the crowd are the same Senators who had been waiting in the arena for my execution. Among them, I see Jeran’s father and brother.
How powerful they’d always seemed. How cruel. But now they are no different from the rest of the crowd, disheveled and desperate. Their eyes flash with fright. Jeran’s father is coated in a film of mud and dirt, as if he’s already fallen several times in his mad rush. In his