The remaining soldiers closed ranks. One of Aurora’s guards from yesterday drew his sword, pointing it at Cassius’s chest, as Taven exited the courtyard with Aurora. Cassius knocked the sword from the guard’s hand with one well-placed hit and within a breath, he turned it back on its owner, pressing it harder than necessary into the vulnerable skin beneath the man’s chin. He could have slaughtered the man in front of him and several others by the time they clumsily pulled their weapons.
Cassius growled, “The next time you hold a blade to me, it will end with you sliced open and your insides spilled at my feet. Now tell me where he’s taking her—to a physician directly or to her room?”
The only response was the training of multiple swords on him. Cassius let out a long string of filthy curses, but not one word moved the soldiers in front of him. His mind was clear enough to see a hopeless battle. He needed to regroup and find another way to make things right with the princess.
“Very well,” he seethed. “I will return to my rooms and inform my family of this accident. I expect to be kept informed of her well-being.”
He threw his stolen sword into the dirt and pushed through the soldiers, unworried about their weapons. They let him go, though they followed him inside the palace until he turned down into the guest wing. As soon as he was alone, he spun and punched the nearest wall. Knuckles split and bleeding, he made his way to his room to collect what coin he had.
He should inform his father. If word reached him before Cassius had a chance to explain, his fury was likely to be unmatched by any rage his father had ever thrown. And he had thrown many. But he had to see her first. With his money purse in his pocket, he set off for the royal wing of the palace.
He did not enter the hallway that led to Aurora’s room, but waited nearby in an alcove behind a statue of a Stormling ancestor for someone to leave. It felt like hours passed before a maid bustled from the hall, head down and hands full of bloodied rags.
He stepped into her path, and she yelped, several wet rags slapping against the stone floor. “Your Highness,” she whispered.
“How is she?”
She hesitated, eyes darting back down the hall. He plucked a gold coin from his pocket and asked again, “How is she?”
The girl bit her lip. When he retrieved a second coin, she snatched them both and began in a hurried whisper. “The wound bled a great amount. But it is beginning to slow. She is awake. Coherent. But fatigued. She is pale.”
“Does she have use of her arm? Can she move her fingers? Bend at the elbow?”
“It pains her, but yes.”
“Who is with her?”
“Her Majesty. The physician. A few maids.”
“No soldiers?”
“No. They left to evaluate the storm. To give Her Majesty as much time as possible with the princess before she must attend her duties.”
“What type of storm is it?”
“Skyfire, Your Highness.”
“And how long until it reaches us?”
“A bell. Maybe more, maybe less.”
“Tell Her Majesty to stay with her daughter. I will see to the storm.”
The girl’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “Oh, I ca—”
“If the queen would like to argue, she can find me at the storm terrace. But we both know she would rather stay here.” Cassius pulled out another coin and offered it to her. “Keep me informed of her condition, and I shall keep these coming. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” She grabbed the coin, bent to pick up her fallen rags, and bustled away.
Cassius weighed the coins left in his purse. He had a feeling it would be quite a bit lighter by the time he had all the information he desired, starting with where exactly the storm terrace was located.
*
Blue-white light struck the ground in the distance like a whip forged by the gods. Cassius stood on a terrace atop the famous golden dome of the palace. He had heard that in the mornings, sunlight reflected off this dome, making it appear as if two suns hung in the sky, but now dark had fallen hours before it was due, and the clouds pulsed with light.
He sought out the skyfire crystal at the base of his spine, pulling it from the holster in his armor. The hair on his arms rose as energy crackled over his skin. He focused on his connection with the stone, drawing its magic into him, stoking it into something greater, stronger. In the distance, he felt an echo of power bounce back to him.
“There you are,” he murmured. “Come and play.”
As if the storm could hear him, the sky blazed with light—dozens upon dozens of skyfire bolts streaking between clouds, lighting up the expanse of the churning black that had claimed the heavens. It was a show of strength from one storm to another.
Tempests were sentient enough to seek out destruction, to chase victims, or strategize like a commander during battle. But they could not see as a man could. So when he breathed life and magic into the Stormheart in his fist, that skyfire beast could not tell the difference between Cassius and a competing storm; and with a roar of thunder it began to approach Pavan at a quicker pace.
Cassius knew how most Stormlings would fight this battle. From a distance. It was the reason for the terrace upon which he stood, and the four watchtowers facing the cardinal directions. The Queen of Pavan likely would have produced a barrier in front of the city, and waged war against the skyfire there. But casting one’s energy that far took a toll. It took longer to subdue the storm, and the fields surrounding the palace would be scorched beyond use as the skyfire struck again and again in the same area.
There was no challenge, no enjoyment in that kind of fight. He would not stand back and watch the storm flounder and weaken against his magic from afar. He craved victory, battle. Those beasts of the sky—where nature and the unnatural met and merged—centuries of myths and religions and scholars had tried to understand them, to know their origins, their purpose. But the only way to truly know a storm was to flay it open, to wring out its magic, to gorge on it until all that remained was desperation and hunger and fear. That was when the moment came, when the beast stopped fighting and surrendered its proverbial neck to the greater foe.
He lived for that moment. But it could only happen if the storm came close.
He gathered his magic, pulling from the well inside himself and ripping more from the Stormheart. The magic blended together, burning beneath his skin. For a moment, Cassius simply relished the power, then he flung it out far and wide, in all directions, not just toward the storm. He envisioned his magic like a woven textile, as millions upon millions of threads—crossing and knotting until it became a flexible but durable barrier that covered the city from wall to wall.
Then he waited.
The city below was still and quiet—the people hidden away in their homes or shelters as another warning horn sounded, louder and longer than all the rest. Nearer and nearer the storm drew. A few bolts streaked down, but the storm seemed to be biding its time, saving its destruction for where it would do the most damage.
When it had almost reached the city wall, the door behind Cassius slammed open. He scowled when he saw a few of the soldiers who stood between him and Aurora before.