Page 105 of The Crown of Moonlight
But that’s only my brain refusing to process the horror.
A scream rises in my throat.Chyr pulls me against him, his hand across my lips.
The queen’s men shovechildrenagainst the first row of stakes.The smallest of them is a blonde girl, her chest deep in the water with spray lashing against her face.The women kick and thrash.A soldier cuffs one across the face, then lifts his dagger.
Another scream builds, and Chyr tries to turn me into his chest, holding me tighter.
My limbs have gone numb, my heart pounding so hard it feels like my ribs are rattling.But I make myself watch, trying to think of a plan.
Instead of stabbing the woman, the soldier splits the front of her shift to her waist and drags it off her shoulders.Then he lashes her, nearly naked, to a stake in the back row positioned deep enough that she will drown as the tide comes in, but not so deep that it will happen quickly.
It’s only then that I spot the two Greys on the beach.They’re the ones for whom this whole horror is being staged, and they aren’t watching the women and children at all.
The men of the village—husbands and fathers—are staked out along the beach facing their wives and children.Gagged and bound, they will be helpless as the tide comes in, as the women they love are forced to watch their children slowly drown before being drowned themselves.
Already the Greys pace along the line of men, drinking in their anguish, their terror, their rage.
Power gathers in cords that crackle along my skin.I know what’s at stake for us, that we can’t call attention to ourselves.But I can’t watch women and children being slaughtered.
I twist out of Chyr’s grasp, earth and air and water pulsing with my fury, wind whipping, the sky darkening.
Dragging the water back from where the women and children are tied, I raise it into a wall six feet high, stealing its momentum and pinning it still.In front of the stakes, the tide drops below the children’s knees, and the surface smooths to glass.Then I swing my arm wide and turn the wall into a weapon, curving it around the women and children and knifing it along the beach toward the two Greys, who are too intent on gorging themselves on the men’s agony to see what’s coming for them.
The soldiers see it.They shout, then scream as they try to run.
I push the water between the Greys and the stakes where the men are tied.But someone is moving between me and the water—Chyr.Sword raised, he’s running towards the stakes, and I try to calculate whether he’s too close.
My concentration breaks.The wall of water starts to collapse, froth churning as it breaks into an enormous wave.
Fear freezes me in place.Water rushes towards the stakes where the men are tied.
Then Chyr sends a blast of air to crash against the churn.Spray and foam shoot skyward, and he holds the water back.
Shaking myself, I reach for the water again—gather it, pull it vertical, rebuild it.I loop the wall back around the two Greys and as many of the soldiers as I can capture.Then I close my fist, and the water mirrors the motion.The water squeezes until the mass and pressure and the weight of my fury rupture and crush—until the Greys are broken.Then I snap the water back out to sea like a whip cracking.The ocean boils and froths, crimson uniforms and cloaks tumbling in streaks like blood through the wake.
I feel the mortal lives snuff out.Maybe like Daire suggested, they’re the enemy and I shouldn’t care.But it’s not enough to be better than someone else.We have to be better than ourselves.
Each of those soldiers chose obedience over death.They chose the wrong side, not caring what happened to others.But I’ve taken away the option for them to ever make better choices.
The sky gutters darker.The wind beats against the shore.
Cries rend the air as Chyr sends ropes of air to capture the remaining soldiers and Cymbeul militiamen who have tried to run away.The Shadehounds have revealed themselves, snarling and snapping at the heels of the escaping men.Half the soldiers run, but the rest are too terrified and fall to their knees with their hands covering their heads.
I leave Chyr to finish them and run forward instead, drawing my dagger to saw through the ropes that hold the villagers still lashed to the stakes.I free the children first.Hemp rope bites deep around tiny wrists.The shocked, still eyes of the little ones have my stomach roiling and my chest aching with pain and fury.By the fourth set of wrists, my palms are slick with the blood of innocents.Sound comes back far away, as if I’m underwater.Time narrows to the scrape of my blade on rope and the taste of salt.When the last knot gives way, my hands won’t stop shaking.
The beach is calmer.Women have pulled up their soaked, tattered dresses and carry the smallest children towards the shore, older children helping younger ones.I stand a moment, tears pouring down my cheeks, my breath coming in great, dry gasps.
Then I realise no one is moving.I turn, and the women are kneeling in the sand and nudging the children to do the same.
I blink, wiping my eyes, and stare back at them blankly.
Chyr steps up beside me, looking like himself again because he can’t keep up illusions while using his active magic.My mouth opens to ask a question, but he runs his thumb gently across my forehead.
My scarf has blown back, and the Crown of Flame is no longer covered.
It’s too late to hide it—and I’ll never be able to take this moment back.
It’s the first time I’ve come face to face with what the crown still means, not to the Evers, not to me, but to us.To the Domhnall.To mortals, to Alba Scoria.The weight of that burden threatens to drag me to my knees.
