Chapter 17

  The house held its breath.

  Dust floated in the dim light that bled through a crack between boarded slats. Shadows stretched across the floor—long, patient, watchful. River’s pulse thudded in his ears, each beat louder than the last, like knuckles on bone.

  They hadn’t seen the creature yet. Not fully. But they heard it.

  Claws scraped along the outside wall—slow, deliberate. Not a frantic. Measured. A predator testing for weaknesses. Whatever stalked them wasn’t merely hunting; it was studying, taking notes.

  Albert’s shoulders tightened. He turned toward the warped doorway, hammer already in hand.

  “I’ll hold the line,” he said, voice low and even. “You two bring it down.”

  No debate. Weeks of training folded into a single nod from River, another from Amalia.

  Beside them, Tessa and Nymeira sank low, a bass rumble gathering in their throats. Hackles up. They felt it too—this thing wasn’t natural.

  River drew a breath; fists closed. Reflex carried his thoughts inward.

  Calira.

  A groan rolled through his head.

  Do you ever think to ask nicely?

  River couldn’t help but answer sarcasticly. Do you want to help?

  Not really, she said, bone-dry. But I’m assuming you’re useless without me.

  He didn’t get the luxury of an eye roll. Heat bloomed behind him in a burst of gold and crimson. A summer wind of fire washed his back—fierce, wild, familiar. Calira took form halfway between ember and phoenix, not fully recovered from the earlier flight, but defiance did the rest. Hair like feathered flame whipped as if an unseen wind tugged it.

  She cracked her neck; fire danced in her irises. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Albert’s next heartbeat had barely landed. Before the door detonated with a deafening crack, brittle wood shattering into knives that skittered across the floor. Dust and ash geysered up.

  Albert didn’t hesitate.

  His essence surged, rippling out in a wave of pale green. Vines shouldered through the floorboards—thick, gnarled, bark-laced. In an eyeblink, a living wall rose, nature wrenched out of a dead house.

  The first hit landed hard.

  A wet thwack hit the vines. Then another. The wall bowed and groaned but held. River crouched behind it, counting impacts like seconds on a clock.

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  Silence.

  The room clenched itself small.

  Then, humming.

  Insects. Except wrong. Too loud, too precise. A buzz that clicked at the edges, as if cogs were hidden in wings. It scissored through the doorway like a locust swarm stitched from bone and iron.

  He set his breath and reached inward.

  Essence lifted through his core. He pulled fire like bellows feed a forge. He didn’t need logic; instinct had it right. Insects feared flame.

  Heat thickened the air. The floor under his boots warmed, shimmering with promise. Each breath seared his chest; the world sharpened along the edges of light.

  A heavy thud hammered Albert’s barrier. The big man staggered, teeth bared, fighting the construct back together. Vines twisted, split, wept sap.

  It wouldn’t hold. River felt it. Albert did, too.

  With a guttural snap the wall tore apart.

  And the thing slid through.

  Not like Philip. Not like the shadows they’d seen. This was mostly insect and all wrong—an obsidian carapace gleaming in the dim, limbs like razor wire clicking at nauseous speed. Its face was an argument against faces: too many eyes, a slit of wet fangs, a tongue snaking over broken teeth as if it could taste their fear right out of the air.

  River froze for a heartbeat. Only the eyes, a sick yellow, rhymed with anything he knew.

  Albert dove aside. “Now!”

  River let go.

  Fire roared out of him, a column bright enough to scorch the dust from the air. Calira’s power snapped into alignment with his, her will knitting with his own until the blaze felt like a second soul unfurling.

  The flame didn’t just burn. It sang.

  Colors sharpened from orange to blue-white, an angry hymn, and smashed into the creature full on.

  Essence poured out of him with every heartbeat. Arms shook. Lungs scraped glass. Still he held it. The roar through him was too big to leash and too sweet to release. He needed to stop.

  He didn’t want to.

  Better to burn bright than long, a thought whispered. After all he should have died long ago.

  For a dizzy moment he considered giving in—letting the fire devour what it wanted, ending here in brilliance—

  A hand, soft but cold, settled on his shoulder. “That’s enough,” Amalia breathed. Frost braided up his forearm; the riot in his head guttered. Control slid back into his grip like a rescued blade.

  He let go.

  The fire died in a single breath, snuffed like a candle pinched between fingers. Darkness rolled back to the corners. River dropped, catching himself on one knee. Chest heaved. Sweat ticked down his temple. Fingers twitched, empty of light.

  Essence snapped through him on the rebound, needle-cold. He struggled for air as he staggered.

  Silence.

  Only the smell remained: charred insect, thick and bitter, a stink he couldn’t scrape off.

  No one moved for a count of three. Then the practical thought cut through: the device.

  “We need to ask the king what the hell is happening,” River rasped, jerking his chin toward the other room.

  Amalia and Albert didn’t argue. They vanished; River stayed, fighting his breath back into a regular shape. Knees unreliable. Mind pulling awful futures out of the dark. What if more came? What if something else was already inside?

  Footsteps. Relief. They reappeared; Albert shoved the wooden box into River’s hands. River flipped the lid. His finger held steady.

  A voice crackled: “Is it done?”

  River went still. “I’m sorry, what’s done? We encountered some crea—”

  The King cut him off. “I’m sorry… but it had to be done.”

  The tile flared. White light burst from the box. River reeled, blinked hard, vision awash. His heart pelted his ribs.

  Then he heard them.

  Wings.

  Not one. Not a handful. Hundreds.

  A storm of wingbeats poured through the shattered doorway—like knives slicing silk, like paper lanterns all catching fire at once.

  Ice sluiced River’s veins.

  The questions hit like ice: What had the king done?