Chapter 18

Death Sentence

Mags stood at the bow of the airship—the Skithbladnir—overlooking the ruins of Solstice, still smoldering on the broken horizon. The massacre and destruction she witnessed still fresh in her mind. Flickers of orange and red danced within the ruins, even though the skyfin-carried airships had long disappeared, the work of the Crown Coalition Forces having been completed.

She clenched her fists, so hard it made her fingers ache. Sabo and Vitomir—did they survive the Angel attack? she thought. And, if they had, were they simply chased down and slaughtered by the ruthless and unyielding advance of the empire’s soldiers? The uncertainty gnawed at her, a relentless ache that settled deep in the pit of her stomach. Her thoughts spiraled back to the previous night, when the sky had torn open, unleashing unimaginable horrors onto the innocent people of Solstice. The third Angel. Had she killed or hurt anyone? The mere possibility twisted her stomach into knots and a sharp pain stabbed at her chest.

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to steady herself, and let her thoughts drift back to the conversation with Frey Sarto—the words replaying in her mind with unnerving clarity.

“I want to destroy the Ravaelian Empire,” Sarto has declared, her voice unwavering. Those unsettling eyes remained locked onto her.

“You . . . what?” Mags had stammered. The declaration was absurd. She blinked, the words not quite registering. She’d stared at the woman, searching her face for any hint of a joke, but found none.

Sarto continued, unperturbed. “The Empire casts a long shadow, Magdalena. Everyone feels safe beneath it. Happy to have given up control for such safety. The Thirteen Crowns are permitted their squabbles and allotted long leashes, but at the end of the day, they each pledge their armies to the Coalition Forces. They all bend the knee to Ravaelia. Because Ravaelia is what stands between them and what lies beyond the Green Sea.” She leaned forward over her desk, long fingers bridged together. “But it’s a lie.”

The Empire was supposed to be the bulwark, the shield against the Maldrath incursion. Sarto had pulled back the veil, and Mags couldn’t deny the weight of the woman’s allegations. She let the weight of Sarto’s words press down on her.

“Emperor Archaemeneus was given power and control over the Thirteen Crowns in order to protect humanity,” Sarto had continued, her voice a measured cadence, “but power corrupts. Despite failing in his charge, the Emperor will never relinquish that power, even if it means sacrificing innocent lives to keep it. The truth is, the Empire is crumbling from within. Corruption has spread through its bones, and they’re losing the war against the Maldrath. They just won’t admit it.”

Mags tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. “What does this have to do with . . . me? With what happened to me?”

“To kill the snake, we must cut off the head,” Sarto had said, her gaze locking onto Mag’s. “The Emperor hasn’t left his palace in decades. He’s one of the most powerful Soulsingers in the history of Iardyss. He’s also protected by layers of wards and barriers which prevent any other Soulsinger from getting near him. That’s why we needed the Angel’s egg. We discovered that becoming the host of its power grants access to Yggdrasil—the system that lets Soulsingers draw from the Aethereal Sea—but without the . . . signature that marks us as Soulsingers. The power of an Angel would be enough on its own to pose a threat to the Emperor.”

Mags had stared at her, jaw agape. Sarto’s words had sounded distant. Most of what she had said went over Mags’ head, but that probably didn’t matter. The crux of it was clear enough. “So . . . you want me to kill the Emperor for you?” The question had tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop it, sounding even more absurd coming from her. Mags was almost convinced that she had in fact died during the Angel attack and this was all some pre-death fever dream, too ridiculous to be real.

Sarto clicked her tongue. She sighed, sitting back into her heavily cushioned chair. “We had a plan. We would secure the egg from the Deep and spend a few years preparing the host. We had potential candidates in mind. But Fate had different plans. You, Magdalena, were chosen for us.”

Mags pushed herself away from Sarto’s desk, shaking her head. “This is madness. I don’t want part in some half-baked assassination plan.” The words had made her think of Sabo, who had called her plan to steal loot from the Deep half-baked. It had been her plan that ultimately resulted in her discovering the strange egg. The memory had made her throat tighten and eyes burn.

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A chuckle had interrupted her, drawing her attention to Malacoda, who lounged in the chair next to her, arm hanging casually over the back of the chair, legs kicked out. Mags had forgotten he was even there. He produced a ripe fig from what appeared to be thin air and bit into it with relish. “Are you always this antagonistic?” he’d asked, his voice dripping with amusement. He pointed a finger and half-eaten fig at her, “Did anyone teach you any manners? I’m assuming this is your first political assassination. So, why don’t you let Frey finish explaining. The devil is in the details, after all.” He winked and took another bit of his fig.

Sarto had smiled, inclining her head toward Malacoda. “As I was saying, we thought we had years to prepare. Now, we have three months.”

Mags had narrowed her eyes, pretty confident that this time Sarto was pausing to provide her with the opportunity to ask the obvious question. “Why only three months?”

“Because in three months’ time,” Sarto held up three fingers, “the Brightwash Military Academy at Wrifton begins its new term.”

The enormity of the name had landed like a boulder in Mags’ mind, stunning her into silence. Wrifton was the seat of the most prestigious universities in all of Iardyss, and Brightwash was its crown jewel. It was where the best were trained, where future generals, scholars, and leaders were forged. Additionally, unlike the other renowned military academies in the world, every student admitted to Brightwash was a Soulsinger.

Malacoda spoke up around another mouthful of fig. “And I’m assuming you’re sixteen or seventeen?”

“Good guess, I’m sixteen but will be turning seventeen in a couple months,” Mags said. “Why?”

His mouth quirked into a knowing smile, like he was in on a joke that she wasn’t. “Fate has a funny way of working out, huh?”

“Brightwash has methods of confirming a person’s age, and while they permit younger students to join, they have a hard cutoff at eighteen,” Sarto said. “So, if you are to enter the Academy, then it must be during the upcoming cycle.”

“So, you want me to prepare for some sort of admissions exam?” Mags asked.

“Sort of,” said Sarto. “You’ll bypass the general admissions exam. I have a letter of recommendation that will get you through the door. But that’s the easy part. Once admitted, there are three challenges.” She raised three fingers again before lowering the first. “First, you’ll need to excel in your classes, keep up with students who’ve spent their lives preparing for Brightwash.” She lowered the second finger. “Second, you’ll face the Trails—the first semester is treated as the true admissions process, an elimination process designed to weed out the weak. Fail, and you’re sent straight to the Front.” Then, she lowered the last finger. “Finally, you need to control your new powers. All students have basic control of their Soulsinging by the time the Trials begin. We will . . . need to figure that out, and quickly.”

Mags couldn’t help but consider those obstacles. The first two didn’t faze her. She thought back to Soulgrave House, the rigorous lessons and training. No. She pushed the memories down, into the recesses of her mind. She also thought of the countless evenings and hours spent training and sparring with Vitomir and Sabo. She was confident in her ability to meet the academic and physical demands. But the third obstacle loomed ominously over her head. How could she expect to learn to control powers she barely understood? It was a different beast altogether. “My powers…”

Sarto nodded, as if in anticipation of this subject. “These new powers that you will develop pose the most interesting challenge. You are no longer human, Magdalena. For all intents and purposes, the girl you once were died in Solstice and an Angel has taken her place. As an Angel, it is the job of myself and my colleagues to exterminate you. After all, it is like I said, we kill Maldrath.” Sarto paused for a breath. “If you lose control of your powers, the Ghost Hounds will execute you, without hesitation. If you lose control while attending Brightwash, a nest of Soulsingers and soldiers, you will be terminated on the spot.”

The message was clear: her powers—whatever happened to her in Solstice—was a death sentence. The sentence would be stayed for as long as she could control her powers and keep their nature secret. Frey Sarto and the Ghost Hounds only made the exception because she could be of particular use to them. Ultimately, they didn’t care if she lived or died. You’re coming across loud and clear, Mags thought.

“How am I supposed to master these unknown, new powers in time?” she asked.

Sarto offered a small, almost sad smile, gesturing to Malacoda with the nod of her head. Malacoda had fallen asleep, gently snoring with his mouth agape, a trail of drool running down his chin. “I have arranged for special tutoring. Vice Captain Malacoda will be your trainer in combat and magic.”

Mags eyed the snoring figure, her skepticism deepening. This man was supposed to be her mentor? The thought didn’t instill confidence.

“And how does all this help me kill the Emperor?” Mags had pressed, desperation creeping into her voice. The plan still seemed like a suicide mission.

“There are many things that have been set in motion. I want your focus solely on Brightwash Academy. Survive, and ensure that no one discovers you are an Angel.” Sarto leaned in, her gaze unwavering. “And, let me be clear, in order for you to succeed in your part of the plan, we are not expecting you to achieve the bare minimum. We are expecting Dux per Par. Anything else will be considered failure and cause for you to be executed.”

Mags swallowed, her throat was sore and dry. “What’s that? Dux per Par?”

“The top student upon graduation is granted the status of Dux per Par—the Leader Among Peers—a title of high regard. The Dux per Par is given elevated rank upon graduation, special opportunities, and limited access to the Emperor himself.” Sarto’s eyes glistened in the dim light of her quarters, like a predator’s in the night.