Page 19 of Each Their Own Devil

“Garm!” she called. “Cover me!”

Garm’s attention was not the only one that her shout attracted, but even the towering Principalities could not contend with the hellhound that barged through them. Feathers stuck to the blood on his sleek fur as he barreled toward Aleja’s side, and wordlessly, they ran.

She could no longer hear Nicolas’s orders over the soldiers’ ragged breaths as their line wavered. Instinct took over—Aleja’s hands moved before thought. A whip of flame lashed out, severing the Otherlander line from the advancing Astraelis. The stench of burnt feathers filled the air.

A booming voice barked, “Wrath is on the field! Take her out!”

“Al, go!” Garm growled, his teeth clashing as loudly as the swordplay in the valley below.

This was easier said than done when no clear path forward existed. The chaos reminded her of Renaissance battle paintings—bodies blending into a blur of boots, weapons, and smudged colors.

“Fuck,” she muttered, pausing just long enough to catch her breath. “Who is winning?”

“The Astraelis if they break the line!” Garm barked.

“What do I do?” she panted.

“You’re the Lady of Wrath!” he snapped, as if that were explanation enough.

“High ground. I need to see…” Aleja trailed off, unsure how she meant to finish.

“I’ll forge a path. Follow me and stay close!”

Garm barreled through the field, unmindful of the bodies in his way. Blood splattered across Aleja’s face, but her mind focused on only one thought: if she didn’t keep moving, she was going to die. Someone in black joined her on the right, then another figure to her left, shouting something she couldn’t understand over the roar of a Throne overhead.

“Follow me!” she called out, unsure who she was speaking to—or if anyone could hear her at all.

The battle thinned as they climbed upward. When a Principality flanked them, Aleja let out an uncontrolled burst of flame. Though the shot was off, the Astraelis was already doomed. A great black hole opened in his chest, as if an invisible fist had punched through his heart. He remained alive just long enough to glance down, mask widening in panic, before collapsing to the ground. Behind him stood a Dark Saint with coppery red hair and gold arm bracers.

“Whatever the hell you’re doing, better do it fast,” Orla snapped. “I don’t know how many more of those I have left in me.”

Aleja opened her mouth to say something along the lines ofI don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but the words died in her throat as two Thrones attacked the sole Avisai still in the air. The colossal tumble of bodies overhead sent everyone in the field—Astraelis and Otherlander alike—scrambling for cover as the beasts crashed to the ground in a thrashing tangle of claws, teeth, and shredded wings.

Garm’s massive head nudged her upward.

The hill was nearly empty at the summit, save for an enemy scout, whom Orla dispatched with another void beneath his feet. He sank underground until only a single feather from his mask floated above the hole cartoonishly.

“I hope you have something planned, because that did me in,” Orla called. Her freckles were nearly washed out against her ghostly pale complexion, her black-and-gold armor gleaming with sweat.

It was the first moment Aleja had to look around her. Two Otherlanders had accompanied them up the hill, only one of whom she recognized: Silmiya, the officer who had once guarded Val in his tent at the army camp. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back into a bun, though it had come partly undone over her shoulder. The other person was much younger, their oversized helmet almost covering their eyes. All Aleja could make out of their face was a set of plump cheeks and a mouth twisted into a pout, as if the battle below was nothing more than an irritating inconvenience.

“I-I don’t know what you want me to do,” Aleja stammered.

Orla wiped her face with her forearm, though another sheen of sweat instantly replaced the first. “Use your fire.”

“I did,” Aleja snapped, her breath labored. “It won’t be enough to push them back.”

Orla’s eyes widened briefly, and Aleja felt a sudden pang of sympathy for her. Despite Orla’s bravado, there was a reason she hadn’t stepped up to take the position of High General when Taddeas had seemed so desperate to give it away. The urgency to decide was almost paralyzing. One ill-thought-out command and dozens below would die.

Garm huffed, drawing Aleja’s attention back to the battlefield. She scanned the chaos below, unsure of what she was searching for, as though studying a painting for the first time without knowing what imagery or symbolism to expect. At the field’s center, the two Thrones had brought the Avisai to the ground. The black dragon thrashed violently, its wings and tail flailing despite the deep gouges in its flank. The struggle had forced the Astraelis soldiers back temporarily, but they were already regrouping on the northern edge of the battlefield.

Aleja searched for the Messenger’s distinct circular mask among the crowd, but either the Messenger wasn’t present, or she had been swallowed by the chaos.

“They don’t have a leader,” Aleja said.

“What are you talking about?” Orla barked.

“If someone was leading this attack, they’re already dead. The Astraelis aren’t following anyone’s orders—they’re just taking opportunities where they can,” Aleja explained.

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