Page 92 of The Sunlit Man

Balls of light as thick as a man’s leg cut the twilight sky, shot from the cannons, ripping apart the Cinder King’s forces like they were twigs before a highstorm. Ships went blazing to the ground, and Charred howled as they were blasted free from exploding decks.

The initial barrage—and the shock it prompted—was the primary thing Zellion was counting on. He rode in the lead ship, Elegy’sship, which had a single cannon welded to the roof. Four of their other ships had guns, while the remaining four acted exclusively as transports, clogged with as many people as could be stuffed onto them.

The improvised gunship fire cut through the leading enemy ranks, punching a wide hole in the Cinder King’s forces—which scattered. In that instant, Zellion’s forces seemed invincible. He glanced to the side, to where Rebeke was piloting theDawnchaser. In her eyes, he saw a feeling he’d once known. That feeling of terrible awe, of horror and nausea, when confronting your own capacity for destruction.

That was the moment it hit home—amid the roar and the silence of cannon fire. Watching people fall, torn apart by what you’d done. That moment changed a person.

Storms, he hoped the enemy responded with a similar stupor. One thing he’d learned in combat was this: never underestimate the sheerpanica coordinated strike can cause in an untrained line of troops. Many battles could be won in a single brilliant charge.

His ships flew right through the center of the enemy forces. Then kept going. Because he was certain the Refuge, if it existed, wasnotin this specific region.

“Shades!” Zeal’s voice said from the radio. “That was a beautiful sight.”

“I offer this warning,” Solemnity Divine said. “Those shots drained our sunhearts something frightening. We don’t have much left, after our flight here and what we gave Zellion. Be careful how much you fire them.”

After Zellion had expended all of his Investiture to shield the final ship, the Greater Good had gladly offered him even morefrom each remaining sunheart. Enough to get him just over five percent Skip capacity, just barely above his minimum thresholds to maintain peak fighting capacity. Storms, he could barely remember what it was like to run around at fifty or sixty percent capacity, never needing to worry about running dry. How long had it been? Though he missed that, he found himself even more grateful for this five percent, in the face of Beacon’s sacrifice.

“How certain are you,” Confidence said, “in this plan of yours, Zellion? We could fly down low in the chaos and use our prospector to find the opening.”

“It’s not here,” Zellion said, leaning down to the radio. “I promise you that, Confidence. We push forward. Projecting confidence—as you understand so well—at full speed.”

They did so, ignoring the landscape they’d searched the day before. And despite the certainty he projected, his nerves betrayed him. This was a gamble.

Zellion was betting—with everyone’s lives as the ante—that the actual location was close. That the Cinder King had managed to keep the true location a secret, but only by a little. Like how a magician might focus everyone’s attention on one hand, while the other secretly stacked the deck.

They knew the Cinder King’s city always traveled in a straight line, periodically stopping to farm. Somewhere along that path, he tried to open the door to the Refuge. But Zellion was banking on the idea that, to prevent anyone from finding it, he’d arranged for inaccuracies to be propagated about its true location.

More, he was gambling that the Cinder King would be worried. That he’d be watching to see what Zellion did. That he’d be frightened, deep down, that his secret was not safe. That—

It’s happening. Look to your right, ninety degrees.

“There!” Zellion said, pointing as a squadron that had been off to the side—including the Cinder King’s own ship—turned and blasted backward. Ten ships, presumably among the fastest in the enemy’s fleet, went flying on ahead.

They would lead everyone right to the doorway.

It’s uncanny, you realize, how you can pick out what people are going to do sometimes.

“How?” Rebeke asked. “How did you know?”

“Deep down,” he said, leaning forward, “the Cinder King is insecure. He worries he isn’t as strong as he acts. He worries that it will all be taken from him: his throne, his power, his secrets. We are playing on those fears.

“We’re saying, ‘We know what we’re doing. We know where the opening really is.’ After all, why else would we commit everything to breaking through like this? Why else would we fly with such confidence right toward his secret location?”

“But we’re not,” she said. “We don’t know where it is.”

“He doesn’t know that,” Zellion said. “In his eyes, we’ve found him out. So now he needs to go protect it. He doesn’t realize—he can’t realize, because his insecurities are too overpowering and his intellect too underwhelming—that he’s actuallyleadingus right to his secret.”

“Assuming we survive that long,” Zeal said over the radio. “Some of those other ships are recovering. They’re sweeping toward us.”

Damnation. The enemy ships had indeed started to swarm back. They were probably realizing just how slow the Beaconite ships had to move to protect those overloaded transports. Or perhapsthey had seen that the guns were just welded in place and didn’t have proper turrets.

For all their startling flash and bang, Zellion’s forces were extremely vulnerable. “Rebeke,” he said, “you’re going to have to do what I told you.”

“I don’t know how to aim this thing, though!”

“Don’t focus on shooting it. Focus on getting me where I need to be.” Zellion grabbed a steel spear—fashioned for him by the Chorus—then left the cab, striding into the back room. He stopped beside Elegy, still chained by one hand to the wall.

“You’re needed,” he said, reaching for her chained wrist.

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