They screamed.
Merik spun deftly back around, winds spraying outward like an extension of his body. Most men were running now, including the one who’d dragged Cam into the square. But Merik didn’t let him go. In three long steps, he had caught up to the man and kicked him in the back of the knee. He hit the ground, a plume of dust rising that was quickly caught in Merik’s winds.
Merik flipped the man onto his back. Unintelligible words babbled from his throat. He wasn’t much older than Merik, simply bearded. Hungry too, if his hollow cheeks meant anything.
Merik straightened, lifting the man’s cutlass with both hands. Ready—hungry—for the retribution that lived within this steel. He would sever the neck, the arteries, the spine—
“STOP, ADMIRAL!”
The words lanced through Merik’s skull. He stilled, blade reared back. Winds crashing around him. The bearded man trembled, eyes screwed shut.
Merik turned and found Cam twenty paces away—a cleaver to her throat. Garren clutched her from behind.
Instantly, Merik’s body went cold. Instantly, his winds stilled.
“Let her go,” he tried to say, but his voice was a raw, intangible thing. Heat lightning when a full storm was required.
Garren understood. He smiled, his broken face stretching oddly. “Stay where you are, or the girl dies.”
Merik dropped the cutlass and lifted his hands defensively. He needed to move with the stream, to move with the breeze. If Garren got spooked, Merik didn’t doubt he would kill his own sister.
He’d certainly gotten close with the explosion on the Jana.
“Let her go,” Merik ordered, his voice louder. “It’s me you want dead.”
“True.” Garren’s smile widened. “But you have proved to be a hard man to kill.”
“I could say the same about you.”
The man laughed at that, a piercing sound that set Merik’s skin to crawling. “I know who you are, Prince Merik Nihar. But I wonder, do you know who she is?” The blade flicked. Blood blossomed.
Merik’s heart lurched, but he stayed where he was. His fury was fast fading beneath the blood that dripped down Cam’s neck. Move with the stream, the breeze.
“You were supposed to join the Nines, Cam.” Garren’s tone was silky as he examined her. “Take over after me and rebuild this city with the only vizer who cares about us. Instead, you ran off like a coward. And then, like a coward, you let me onto the prince’s ship—”
“It’s not like that!” Cam blurted.
“It’s exactly like that.” And with those final words, Garren snatched up her left hand and sliced off her pinkie.
Blood streaked out, a single dark line. She screamed. The finger hit the ground.
Merik was already there, ready to fling her aside before Garren could do more harm.
Garren laughed, stumbling back, before turning tail. He ran.
Good. Merik welcomed the chase. He took flight. Easy, easy—no rage now. Only cold, calculated death.
He landed two streets over, right before Garren, who had just rounded the corner. His face scarcely registered surprise before Merik’s hands were around his neck. He lifted. Garren’s feet dangled. Then he walked the man back, back until Garren hit a wall.
Fans of glowing mushroom flaked off. Still, the man laughed. “You cannot kill me,” he choked, clutching at Merik’s fingers. “I’m … like you, Prince.”
“No.” Merik sucked in air, and winds coursed to him.
“I am, I am!” Garren grinned. “We’re puppets now, you and I! We can come back from anything!”
“Are you sure about that?” came a new voice. One Merik knew, one he’d spent so many years hating. Yet now, as he allowed his head to turn, as he allowed his eyes to absorb someone other than Garren or Cam, he felt nothing but vicious relief.
For Vivia sprinted this way. Her eyes blazed, her face aflame with a familiar Nihar strength. Silver flashed. She lunged in close. Then, in a single move, Vivia decapitated Garren.
His head tipped, his head fell, and a half breath later, his body followed in a puff of ancient limestone dust.
“Come back from that,” Vivia snarled, before lifting her gaze to Merik. Before a new expression settled over her features. One he’d never seen before. One that almost matched … regret.
“Merry,” she said at last, a breathy, almost chuckling sound, “you look awful.”
THIRTY
Safi had given up trying to still her tapping fingers, her jittering heels. Caden had given up telling her to stop.