Page 27 of Storm of Stars
Not just moved, but danced. Every motion was poetry, every spin a declaration. He wore a long dark cloak that swirled like smoke around him, but halfway through the piece, he ripped it off, revealing wings painted across his chest and arms…moth wings.
The audience exploded. They didn’t understand. Not really. Maybe some of them did. They thought it was beautiful, dramatic. They didn’t see what the Runaways saw. The hidden message within the movements.
But we knew.
A moth. A starfield. A prince. A folk song.
A rebellion wrapped in performance.
Tears prickled behind my eyes. I blinked fast. I couldn’t afford to cry right now.
We were in this together. All of us. Even Fenly. My throat tightened at the thought of his name. He should be here too. And maybe, in some way, he still was. His absence only spurred me forward.
What was happening tonight was bigger than any one of us.
Ezra was next. He entered the stage with shackles on his wrists. I felt a jolt of shock and confusion as I watched him take his place center stage. The audience murmured with confusion as well. He made his way to a small pillar that was raised from the stage. Metal, sturdy, immoveable.
He began wrapping the chains connected to his wrists around the pillar. Slow deliberate movements. Circling the pillar like a vice grip. Then, with nothing but brute strength, ripped the chains apart, the shackles fell from his wrists clattering on the floor. The audience cheered as Annalese scurried in.
“My my, what a show of strength, Ezra,” she began. “Why did you choose to share this talent today?”
Ezra leaned down to the mic and looked down the barrel of the camera before him. “Just a reminder that not every cage is inescapable.” They cheered again, and Ezra slipped from the stage but not before shooting me a gentle look, and a soft smile meant just for me.
Then Annalese called our names.
Briar shot me a soft smile, one only I got to see, then stepped into the lights. I followed close behind, and the moment our bodies hit the stage, the crowd screamed. Ravenously. Their praise came like a wave, overwhelming and deafening. It echoed against the domed ceiling and crashed against the stage.
I scanned the audience, a sea of wealth and brilliance. The stage lights beamed hot on my skin, and the faces beyond were mostly smudges in the glare.
Until I saw him.
Zaffir.
My chest fluttered, just for a moment, and I allowed myself a small, fleeting smile. But I didn’t linger, because as my gaze continued to wander, it landed on her.
Archon Veritas.
She wasn’t in the crowd. Perched above in a box seat like a God in judgment. Her gaze was sharp, assessing, unblinking. She leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on the rail, the barest smirk playing on her lips…waiting. Daring me to make my choice.
And I held her stare. I didn't bow. Didn't look away. Not tonight. Not ever again.
Briar took her seat first, perched on the stool like she'd been born to do this, even if it had been years since her fingers last caressed a guitar string. She adjusted the mic, and her hands trembled just slightly as she set the guitar in her lap.
I stepped in front of the second mic. My own hands gripped the stand, clammy and shaking, though I prayed it didn’t show.
I glanced at Briar. She nodded once. Then her fingers strummed the first chord.
The sound bloomed soft and aching. A dark tone, slow and haunting. And just like that, the room fell still again, just as it had for Thorne. Every sound seemed to hold its breath.
Then Briar began. Her voice came low, near the vocal fry, with a hint of gravel that made it sound worn and true. Not like a songbird, but like someone who had lived every word.
“When the run is over, and the lights grow dim,
When the songs are silent and the victors grin…”
I closed my eyes just briefly. Took a breath. And stepped into the next line. My voice was quieter than hers, but pointed. Steady. Like I was leaving behind a trail. Amap.
“You’ll find me by the old gold gate, where the wild roots grow,
