Page 91 of Stolen
“Besides, I’m theviyellaof the Lord of Air, Master of the Eyrie, keeper of Winds, and whatever else he told me he is,” I say and grin, though my heart feels heavy. “To me that means the people who came here scared and looking for protection are mine to care for, too.”
Her eyes widen.
“Now, bring me to where Lord Alaric’s subjects are waiting. The injured, the frightened, the ones who’ve had to flee. And make sure we have food, clothes, anything else they might need.”
She swallows hard. Then nods. “Yes, Lady Jules.”
And I follow her—through glowing corridors and echoing stairwells—because if I can’t be at Alaric’s side wielding a sword, I can be here, ready to hold the line for those who can’t.
I can be his strength behind the walls.
And if the SoulTakers think they’ve seen everything of theLord of Air’spower and might, well…
they haven’t met me yet.
Chapter20
Alaric
The First SoulTakerInvasion In the North
Smoke curls through the sky like dark serpents, trailing from the pyres and shattered siege carts that litter the field.
The battle below thunders like an angry god.
Steel on steel, screams carried on the wind, and the unnatural growl of SoulTakers in their frenzied bloodlust.
Tents line the ridge behind our frontline, a makeshift war camp rising from the snow-dusted earth like a desperate gasp of order in a storm of chaos.
I have seen this before. But never have I felt so unsettled by it.
Because it’s too close to her.
Because it is my fault she is here.
And if anything should happen?
I will never forgive myself, and the whole realm will suffer for it.
“How do they have so many?” Dagan growls as we duck into my command tent, brushing aside the heavy flap just as another distant explosion rattles the ground.
Blood and soot streak his jaw, and one of his curved axes still drips with black ichor.
“The SoulTakers have never been this organized,” I admit grimly. “I was not expecting their numbers. Or their tactics.”
“None of us were,” Kael agrees, shaking off his helm and dropping it onto the nearest table.
He grabs a mug of mead and downs half of it before wiping his mouth.
“They have formation now. Rank discipline. Reinforced fronts. What the fuck is that about?”
“They’ve got a new leader,” Thorne says, his voice like gravel as he enters behind us, black robes swirling and his fire magic already prickling against mine.
“A necromancer from my lands.”
“From the Broken Plains?” Kael asks.
“Yes. He calls himself a Dark Sage. Master of the Dead. But his name is Idris.”
