Page 35 of Silver & Smoke
Torj circled warily, keeping himself between Silas and the sisters. ‘Not planning on dying today.’
‘But soon, yes?’ There was a smile in Silas’s voice now. ‘I hear you know of the parting gift I left you with when you rescued poor Reyna. How hard that must be for you and your storm queen – to share such a bond, only to be torn apart...’
Torj ignored his words, didn’t give Silas the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. It was just an expression, wasn’t it? Silas couldn’t know of their soul bond, could he?
Torj swung his hammer, only to see a curved blade materialize in Silas’s hand beside his shield, coated in a familiar alchemical sheen.
They clashed in a furious exchange of blows, Torj’s Furies-given strength coursing through him, but ebbing away faster than ever before. And Silas moved like smoke, impossible to pin down. The alchemy-treated blade left trails of darkness in the air, and where it struck Torj’s hammer, the metal hissed and blackened.
‘You can’t stop what’s coming,’ Silas hissed, pressing his advantage as Torj defended. ‘I made sure of it.’
In the distance, Torj could hear Wilder and Cal fighting their way towards him, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. Behind them, the academy shuddered violently. The great oak had become a conduit for pure storm energy, its branches reaching to the clouds above, drawing down lightning in continuous streams. A sudden blast shattered all the remaining windows and the building’s walls began to collapse inwards as the lightning and flames coursed through the tree’s roots, tearing through the foundation.
Even with the distance between them, Torj felt Wren’s cry of anguish in his bones, her lightning causing the earth to rumble beneath their very boots. Fire engulfed everything in its path, consuming all the knowledge that Drevenor housed, the knowledge that had been the victor over fate. In moments, decades of work was gone. The last samples of the silvertide rose, Wren’s carefully documented experiments, every breakthrough she had made – all of it dissolved into ash, and Torj grieved for her.
Silas struck with his shield, and Torj staggered backwards. He landed hard, the breath knocked from his lungs, tremors wracking not only his hands but his body as well. Through blurred vision, he saw Silas rise to his feet. The energy he’d absorbed was swirlingaround him in a maelstrom, his mask shimmering with alchemy now as well.
‘The old world is dying, Warsword,’ the Kingsbane said. ‘I’m the future now.’
Torj’s arms burned with effort, his hammer buckling as he blocked another blow from Silas’s otherworldly weapon. ‘The future,’ he rasped, spotting Wren from the corner of his eye, ‘doesn’t belong to men like you.’
Torj felt Wren’s power surge through their bond and, in the distance, the academy gave one final, tremendous groan before collapsing entirely.
And then lightning blinded them all.
CHAPTER 18
Wren
‘Resilience is humanity’s oldest alchemy – transforming suffering into strength’
– Transformative Arts of Alchemy
‘IHEREBY PLEDGE MYSELFto Drevenor,’ Wren murmured in reverence as the academy went up in flames.
They fled on horseback as it burned, with Silas claiming its ashes as his own. Wren and Thea’s lightning had temporarily stunned them all, leaving them with just enough time to run before Silas could take the power for himself, before a fresh wave of incensed People’s Vanguard soldiers descended on the burning academy grounds.
The Kingsbane didn’t pursue them, which told Wren that despite their efforts and all the destruction, he had what he wanted, and he would face them at full power in Delmira.
Wren’s chest constricted and an ache pulsed in her throat as she struggled to swallow the lump that had formed there. Another home destroyed; another piece of her gone. Even knowing it was necessary, even having chosen this, the devastation was absolute. Wiping the blood from her nose, she didn’t speak as they raced through thenight, the air thick with smoke around them. She didn’t trust herself to keep her composure.
During the madness of the fight, Wren had glimpsed small groups of remaining students fleeing into the forest under the guidance of Drevenor’s faculty. Master Crawford had organized an evacuation route months ago – a contingency they’d hoped never to use. Wren could only hope that they’d made it out safely, and that they were making their way towards the safe houses established throughout Naarva.
The road to the seaside port town was a blur as shock settled over Wren. Drevenor was no more. The gardens, the workshops, the conservatory, the poisons dungeon... All nothing but rubble now. The academic institution had survived the brutality of the shadow war only to succumb to another form of darkness.
As they rode, Wren’s mind wandered to the half-finished experiments she’d left behind in the alchemy workshop – projects she’d never complete. The gleaming Master Alchemist medallion she’d imagined hanging around her neck seemed like a child’s fantasy now. Despite everything, some small, stubborn part of her had clung to the possibility of returning someday to finish what she’d started at Drevenor. To earn her mastery, to take her place among the great alchemists whose work she’d studied so diligently. That fragile hope had burned with the academy. There would be no graduation ceremony, no quiet afternoons in the workshop perfecting formulas. The path she’d once envisioned for herself had vanished completely, replaced by the road to war.
Wren’s teeth were chattering, and she realized distantly that she was cold. She could feel Torj’s worried gaze on her, but she couldn’t meet it. If she did, she would fall apart.
Soon, weathered stone buildings with salt-encrusted facades came into view as the road descended towards the harbour, the settlement awash with the glow of street lanterns. The briny sea air hit Wren’s face, catching on the tears she couldn’t recall shedding, the salt scent mingling with those of fish, tar and chimney smoke.Gulls circled overhead, while townsfolk eyed them suspiciously as they followed the winding street towards the heart of the port town.
‘If you’re looking for that party of rich pricks, they’re at the Salt and Barrel, three crossroads down,’ came a scratchy voice from a nearby cart.
Wren’s head snapped towards the sound, spotting a withered old man gutting fish at the side of the road.
‘Thank you,’ Thea replied, and the man’s eyes widened at the sight of her.
He put three bloody fingers to his shoulder in salute. ‘Meant no offence,’ he added.
