Page 51 of No Greater Sorrow

A Throne pawed at the dirt to Nicolas’s left, disoriented. He knew he should kill it, lest it get its bearings, but he wasn’t sure how much magic he had left in him—or how much he would need to get his soldiers out of here. Dammit, his chest hurt so much already.

It had been centuries since he’d tugged on the bond between Aleja and himself. Lately, it’d felt too much like an invasion of her privacy, but now there was no choice. After a moment, he felt something weak pull back. The effort of someone responding on instinct alone.

“Garm, keep Violet safe,” Nicolas snapped. “You have my permission to kill Val if needed.”

Nicolas ran into the darkness, encountering little resistance. The black monoliths of smithing equipment appeared around him, then something else moved. The figure was too tall to be one of his Saints, and its head was wreathed in a halo of wings, more numerous than the six-winged masks the other Principalities wore. The Messenger raised her arms, and before Nicolas could send a wave of shadows down her throat, a flare of light chased his darkness away.

Not just in the immediate vicinity.

Everywhere.

He saw Merit, wrapped in iron chains, and flanked by Aleja and Orla. Deep blue bruises bloomed around Aleja’s scarred throat, but she seemed steady. Nicolas did not miss the look the Messenger shot his wife.

“Nicolas,” said the Messenger. She seemed unconcerned about being surrounded by three Dark Saints and the Knowing One, nor about the two Authorities clashing overhead, their blood coming in waves like the spits of a rainstorm.

“You should have given us advanced notice. I would have prepared a proper delegation to meet you. It’s a clever trick with the Authorities, I’ll give you that. How did you manage it?” the Messenger went on cordially. Her mask hid her expression, but not how her fists clenched at the sight of him. Nor the way her left foot dropped back in case she needed to spring into a fighting stance.

Aleja took a step forward, but Nicolas tugged on the bond, hoping she would understand the message. It was too late for any sort of ruse. Their only remaining advantage was the Authorities distracting the rest of the camp.Get Merit out of here. I can handle her, he wanted to scream.

As he drew his sword, the Messenger merely watched Nicolas through her hypnotic mask. She gave a soft laugh. “It’s almost a shame. All this time I’ve looked forward to killing you, and here you’ve done it for me.”

Nicolas turned the sword hilt in his hands; black flames flickered to life around it. Still, neither of them moved. “You’re surrounded, Messenger. Let me walk away with my Dark Saints and we won’t have to fight. None of your Principalities have come to your rescue, and you know one-on-one, I’ll win.”

“I’ve asked them not to,” she said. Quietly. Politely. As if Nicolas had requested this meeting be them alone, and she was gently reminding him that she’d obliged. “I wanted the chance to speak with you myself. Besides, I can sense that poison in your chest. Have you told your Saints or are you hoping to win the war before the Second’s magic kills you?”

“The only thing I’m interested in discussing is your surrender.”

“As stubborn as ever, Knowing One. I am going to give you one more chance. Put your weapons down and walk away with all your Saints but Merit. I’ll send him on his way to you once his work is done.”

Nicolas snarled. “Why would I do that when you’re the one in trouble? You’ve lost control of your Authorities.”

“We have no interest in killing you or your Otherlanders; at least, not unprovoked. But this is an act of aggression on your part and will be treated as such unless you take my offer now.”

One of the Authorities finally lost enough wings to tumble to the ground, collapsing several more of the tents with a crash. Feathers joined the bloody rain, falling in shades of pink and gold, but Nicolas didn’t dare take his eyes off the Messenger.

“Wait!” someone called.

Violet had blood splattered across her face, too viscous and dark to be hers. Nor did it belong to the Principality that she pushed to the ground in front of her. Val’s robes were soaked with mud and gore. A fully grown hellhound stood behind them, with blazing eyes, pawing at the ground as if he could hardly contain his instinct to attack the Messenger on sight.

“Let them go, or I’ll kill him. I know how to do it,” Violet shouted, pressing an Astraelis dagger into the gap of skin between Val’s jaw and the neckline of his jacket. Val hadn’t carried a weapon; Nicolas had made sure of it. They must have picked it up from the dead Principality at the shadows’ edge.

The Messenger watched the scene, motionless aside from the subtle ripples of her mask. If she was shocked to see her son pushed into the mud by a human woman with an Astraelis dagger, all she showed for it was a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Nicolas saw his chance. And, apparently, so did Orla.

There were several gifts the Second could bestow on Dark Saints; fire, shadow, and influence might be the most common, and some Saints—like Taddeas and Merit—were able to channel magic through physical objects. But when Orla emerged from the Second’s cave after her last Trial and displayed her new ability, Nicolas couldn’t deny he’d felt a heap of jealousy.

Void. One of the rarest of the Second’s blessings.

A hole opened beneath the Messenger’s feet, pitch-black and seemingly endless. Jumping back, her left foot tumbled into the darkness. It was enough to throw her off-balance, and she missed her chance to strike as gold flames roared to life around her sword.

“Idiots,” the Messenger hissed, scrambling away from Orla’s abyss. The Dark Saint of Envy would need time to summon another, but Nicolas hadn’t been the one to lose his footing. He struck at the Messenger’s neck—like the Thrones, her most vulnerable body part—but this wasn’t the first time he and the Messenger had come to blows. Yet even as she dodged, anticipating the move, the strike lobbed off a piece of her mask, releasing a new flurry of feathers.

But in the end, it wasn’t the Messenger that forced him to retreat.

It was the second Authority, barreling out of the sky toward them. Its eyes swiveled frantically as it seemed to realize it had lost control.

“Run!” he shouted at Violet and Val, as a wave of mud rose from the impact of the Authority’s body like a tidal wave.

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