Levi is ashen. “Only you and the princess are equipped to deal with this threat, but we can’t risk both our Conduits at the same time. We also can’t allow the darkness to spread to any other humans. Even though you’re not ready for this fight, we need you down there. But I’m not going to force you. The choice is yours.”
“This is my next mission,” I say. “My will is yours.”
“And I’m commanding you to choose.”
Sometimes war is the only path to peace.
The words play on a loop in the back of my mind. War is never a good thing, but as history has proved, it can be a necessary thing. When one group tries to harm another, it is inevitable, and the only way to prevent something worse from happening.
War is never pretty. It is bloody and brutal and violent. People die. Innocents die. We, the soldiers—we must do what we think is right.
“I’ll fight.” I can’t allow darkness to snuff out Light. I won’t.
“Thank you,” Levi croaks. “Once you’re down there, we won’t be able to whisk you in and out at will.” The urgency in his tone leaves a cold film over my skin. “The earthquakes you feel? They happen when one of the realms engages a Buckler. You also feel a quake when the other realm disables a Buckler. You can tell them apart with a glance. Myriad’s Bucklers are shadowed, ours glow. But you won’t need to guess which is which today. Only Myriad will be using a Buckler. They’ll enclose our soldiers in an effort to pick them off. If you see one, do not attempt to leave the Land of the Harvest. Stay where you are until it falls. Understand?”
I’m struggling to breathe, but I nod. “I still don’t know how to cleanse—you know.” Penumbra. “When I touched Dior, I hurt her. I hurt myself.”
He scrubs a hand down his face. “Don’t worry about cleansing anyone today. We simply want the infected out of Myriad’s control. Plus, we think your presence alone will prevent the spread of the disease. That’s why we want you near Mr. Diez until we’re able to transport him to an unpopulated area.”
I square my shoulders. To save Troika, I’ll do whatever proves necessary. “I’ll do it. I’ll get to him, and I won’t leave his side.”
“Good. Anytime you’re injured, take a drink of your manna.” He checks the vial around my neck to ensure it’s been filled. “Go. Go!” He waves me off. “The Buckler is down, and your location is set. Mr. Diez is on the move, so we can only transport you within a one-mile radius of him. But our Laborers know you’re on the way. They’ll protect and guide you.”
Heart hammering, I slip back into the crowd and race through the Veil of Wings...
Whoosh...a blur of stars...a tide of dizziness...impact.
The landing jars my knees, but I don’t pause. I take stock. Night has fallen, and yet it’s far from dark. TLs are perched on guard towers, shining halogen lights in every direction. Light that isn’t exactly the Light we need, if that makes sense. MLs are there, too, doing everything in their power to destroy the halogens.
So. Many. Spirits. They are in the towers, on top of nearby buildings and on the ground. Swords of fire—Pyres—swing this way, that way, every way. Glaciers, too.
We’re in Seattle, in the middle of a busy street. Shells are in the process of ushering humans away from the battle zone. Not that the humans see the spirits around them.
We are nothing but wind and mist.
I search for Javier, his picture hanging in the back of my mind. Troikans glow while Myriadians wear small, dark clouds like cloaks. I see fellow citizens I’ve never met... Myriadians... I see my great-grandmother Hazel... And oh, wow. General Jane is a killing machine. She swings a pair of short swords, moving through the crowd as if she’s floating on water. Around her, Myriadians fall, dropping like dominoes set in imperfect rows. Her strength and speed are incredible.
General Spike drops to his knees and slides across the ground, cutting through Myriadian ranks with ease. Before he stops, he swings a Pyre, and the fiery tip slices through the underside of a Myriadian’s chin—the ML who just decapitated a TL.
A Glacier—incoming! With a yelp, I duck and roll. The smoking ice misses me by an inch. Reed rushes to my side and blocks the next strike, saving me from injury. Or worse.
“Thank you.” As I stand, another Myriadian appears out of nowhere and strikes.
Contact! Acid licks my neck. My flesh sizzles and bubbles like cheese on a pizza. I scream in agony but remain on my feet.
Reed kills my attacker, but can’t help me with my wound. The next threat has arrived, and the two engage.
Despite my pain, I step into the fray, thrusting and parrying the way I’ve been taught, maintaining a wide circle of personal space—until a dead body trips me, and I fall.
Three Troikans rush to the rescue, Hazel among them.
She shoves me into a wall. Impact knocks my brain into my skull. Stars overtake my vision, but they can’t obscure the fact that she saved me from another Glacier, taking the wound herself. Her comrades fend off two burly males while I pour manna down her throat.
“No, no.” She tries to turn her head away. Lifeblood leaks from the corners of her mouth. “You need—”
“You need it more. You’re going to be all right,” I tell her. It’s a command.
Several other Troikans spot us and rush over. Hazel is escorted away. Home, I hope. The other TLs surround me. One of them jabs a needle in my neck, jolting me—energizing me.
“A concentrated dose of manna,” she explains.
She removes a thick leather belt from her waist and secures it to mine. Multiple daggers and guns are sheathed in the pockets. Whoa! She disarmed herself to arm me? No way. I try to return the belt, but she’s already moved on, fighting an ML.
“This is my next mission,” I say. “My will is yours.”
“And I’m commanding you to choose.”
Sometimes war is the only path to peace.
The words play on a loop in the back of my mind. War is never a good thing, but as history has proved, it can be a necessary thing. When one group tries to harm another, it is inevitable, and the only way to prevent something worse from happening.
War is never pretty. It is bloody and brutal and violent. People die. Innocents die. We, the soldiers—we must do what we think is right.
“I’ll fight.” I can’t allow darkness to snuff out Light. I won’t.
“Thank you,” Levi croaks. “Once you’re down there, we won’t be able to whisk you in and out at will.” The urgency in his tone leaves a cold film over my skin. “The earthquakes you feel? They happen when one of the realms engages a Buckler. You also feel a quake when the other realm disables a Buckler. You can tell them apart with a glance. Myriad’s Bucklers are shadowed, ours glow. But you won’t need to guess which is which today. Only Myriad will be using a Buckler. They’ll enclose our soldiers in an effort to pick them off. If you see one, do not attempt to leave the Land of the Harvest. Stay where you are until it falls. Understand?”
I’m struggling to breathe, but I nod. “I still don’t know how to cleanse—you know.” Penumbra. “When I touched Dior, I hurt her. I hurt myself.”
He scrubs a hand down his face. “Don’t worry about cleansing anyone today. We simply want the infected out of Myriad’s control. Plus, we think your presence alone will prevent the spread of the disease. That’s why we want you near Mr. Diez until we’re able to transport him to an unpopulated area.”
I square my shoulders. To save Troika, I’ll do whatever proves necessary. “I’ll do it. I’ll get to him, and I won’t leave his side.”
“Good. Anytime you’re injured, take a drink of your manna.” He checks the vial around my neck to ensure it’s been filled. “Go. Go!” He waves me off. “The Buckler is down, and your location is set. Mr. Diez is on the move, so we can only transport you within a one-mile radius of him. But our Laborers know you’re on the way. They’ll protect and guide you.”
Heart hammering, I slip back into the crowd and race through the Veil of Wings...
Whoosh...a blur of stars...a tide of dizziness...impact.
The landing jars my knees, but I don’t pause. I take stock. Night has fallen, and yet it’s far from dark. TLs are perched on guard towers, shining halogen lights in every direction. Light that isn’t exactly the Light we need, if that makes sense. MLs are there, too, doing everything in their power to destroy the halogens.
So. Many. Spirits. They are in the towers, on top of nearby buildings and on the ground. Swords of fire—Pyres—swing this way, that way, every way. Glaciers, too.
We’re in Seattle, in the middle of a busy street. Shells are in the process of ushering humans away from the battle zone. Not that the humans see the spirits around them.
We are nothing but wind and mist.
I search for Javier, his picture hanging in the back of my mind. Troikans glow while Myriadians wear small, dark clouds like cloaks. I see fellow citizens I’ve never met... Myriadians... I see my great-grandmother Hazel... And oh, wow. General Jane is a killing machine. She swings a pair of short swords, moving through the crowd as if she’s floating on water. Around her, Myriadians fall, dropping like dominoes set in imperfect rows. Her strength and speed are incredible.
General Spike drops to his knees and slides across the ground, cutting through Myriadian ranks with ease. Before he stops, he swings a Pyre, and the fiery tip slices through the underside of a Myriadian’s chin—the ML who just decapitated a TL.
A Glacier—incoming! With a yelp, I duck and roll. The smoking ice misses me by an inch. Reed rushes to my side and blocks the next strike, saving me from injury. Or worse.
“Thank you.” As I stand, another Myriadian appears out of nowhere and strikes.
Contact! Acid licks my neck. My flesh sizzles and bubbles like cheese on a pizza. I scream in agony but remain on my feet.
Reed kills my attacker, but can’t help me with my wound. The next threat has arrived, and the two engage.
Despite my pain, I step into the fray, thrusting and parrying the way I’ve been taught, maintaining a wide circle of personal space—until a dead body trips me, and I fall.
Three Troikans rush to the rescue, Hazel among them.
She shoves me into a wall. Impact knocks my brain into my skull. Stars overtake my vision, but they can’t obscure the fact that she saved me from another Glacier, taking the wound herself. Her comrades fend off two burly males while I pour manna down her throat.
“No, no.” She tries to turn her head away. Lifeblood leaks from the corners of her mouth. “You need—”
“You need it more. You’re going to be all right,” I tell her. It’s a command.
Several other Troikans spot us and rush over. Hazel is escorted away. Home, I hope. The other TLs surround me. One of them jabs a needle in my neck, jolting me—energizing me.
“A concentrated dose of manna,” she explains.
She removes a thick leather belt from her waist and secures it to mine. Multiple daggers and guns are sheathed in the pockets. Whoa! She disarmed herself to arm me? No way. I try to return the belt, but she’s already moved on, fighting an ML.
