War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,217

an opportunity to strike. Even though I do not care for Cal, and never could, somehow it feels wrong.

But if Anabel and Julian play out their scheme . . .

I have no idea where that leaves me.

Suspended on a bridge, trapped in the middle, with both ends on fire.

The Bridge.

My hands drop, leaving half my hair undone, and I squint at the massive structure spanning the river. The other side of Archeon gleams beneath the rising sun, its many buildings crowned with steel and bronze birds of prey. Nothing seems amiss. It’s still busy with transports and a roving populace. So is the Bridge, all three levels of it bustling with traffic. Less than usual, but that’s to be expected.

It’s the supports below that worry me, and the water breaking around them. Still steady, moving at the same speed. But the current, the wash of white breakwater at each base . . .

The river is flowing the wrong way.

And it’s rising.

I fly through my bedchamber and the adjoining rooms, seeing nothing until I reach Ptolemus’s quarters. The locked door unlatches without a thought, blowing back on twisted hinges as I sprint through. I barely hear myself shout his name. The buzzing in my head is far too loud, overwhelming everything but the cold, acid rush of adrenaline.

He stumbles out into the sitting room toward me, half dressed. I catch a glimpse of rumpled bedsheets through the door behind him, as well as a blue-black arm. It moves, pulling out of sight, as Wren Skonos busies herself with her clothes.

“What is it?” my brother asks, his eyes wide with panic.

I want to run; I want to scream; I want to fight.

“The invasion.”

“How could they do this? Move their army without us knowing?”

Ptolemus dogs at my heels, barely keeping pace as we stalk through the palace halls. Galleries, salons, receiving chambers, and even ballrooms blur at the edge of my vision. In a few hours it could all be destroyed. Burned or drowned or simply erased. For a moment, I see my brother’s corpse, broken and sprawled across the intricate marble floor, his blood like a mirror. I blink, fighting off the thought. Bile rises in my mouth anyway.

I glance back at him—alive and breathing, towering in his armor—if only to convince myself he’s still here. Wren follows, her healer’s uniform clearly marked. I hope they stay together over the next few hours. I would tie her to him if I could.

“We had eyes on their citadels,” I mutter, speaking to keep myself focused. “We knew the Lakelands were gathering for something, but not when.”

Wren’s voice is slow and steady, but not soothing. “They must have gone north. Moved overland.”

“Without the Scarlet Guard, we don’t have many eyes left in the Lakelands,” Ptolemus curses as we round another corner, angling for the throne room.

Our parents haven’t found us yet, and that can only mean they’re with the king and his advisers. They must already know.

Lerolan guards open the doors for us, putting their lethal hands to the tall, lacquered panels. We march past together, the three of us keeping a tight formation on the off chance the Lakelanders have already infiltrated the city. My ability buzzes, flung wide to catch any errant bullets. I count the rounds in the guards’ guns, letting them hang at the edge of my perception as we cross the floor.

At the raised platform containing Cal’s throne, as well as the seats for his uncle and grandmother, the royals collect. Mother and Father are here, with the latter armored as usual. Sunlight flashes off him with every small movement, and he is almost blinding to look at. Mother is more subdued, without armor but not without weapons. Larentia Viper has abandoned her beloved panther for now, despite its prowess as a hunter. Instead she has two shaggy wolves sitting at her heels, their eyes, ears, and snouts all twitching. Both are fearsome to behold, but just as skilled at detection as they are at fighting. No one will catch my mother unawares with them at her disposal.

Julian Jacos and Queen Anabel flank Cal. She is more prepared for battle than the singer uncle, her small, thick form belted into a flame-orange uniform, sculpted by snug body armor. Her hands are bare, even of her wedding ring. Julian is not so protected. His eyes are ringed by dark shadows, hinting at a night with no sleep. He remains close to his nephew, standing only a few inches away. I’m