The Scuttleway Jail had been secured, by blood and by blade, by the elves. Lazuli could hear them upstairs, taking potshots to the streets below. Blood deluged down the stairs to the cells in a series of sticky waterfalls. Lazuli was glad he could turn off his olfactory sensors. He was still under the bed, still in a low power state. So far, the elves hadn't taken to exploring down here. They had given the place a cursory search, just to make sure there weren't any Militiamen hiding below, then quickly went back upstairs to keep the place secured. No doubt Scuttler forces were on the streets outside. Lazuli guessed that most of the elves were on the rooftops, firing down at anyone who came too close, or sending off air elementals to update the rest of their soldiers throughout the city that the jail still held.
If the android could shiver, he would. Old Professor Dulbari, his creator, had talked about installing the necessary programs. But he had been killed by the Federation before he could get around to it.
As the shouts increased, as the cracks of kinetic firearms splintered the night above, Lazuli dearly wished he were back there, helping Old Dulbari heat up his tea, or grab his newspaper off the walk. Dearly wished he were back at Castle Belenus, pestering Joe or Barbara or even Becenti.
Above all, Lazuli wished he was home.
And then, home came to him.
Wakeling appeared in a muted flash of silver. Her head. Her arm, which floated around her like a pale serpent. She looked around the cells for a few moments, taking stock of her situation.
“Lazuli,” the guildmaster said, “Come on out.”
The android did so. There was a hollow tone to Wakeling's voice, one that he had never heard before.
“What's the status here?” she whispered.
“...Not good,” Lazuli said, “Elves have taken up the upper rooms. I think they're on the roof.”
“You think?”
“I've been down here. In a cell. You think I can get out?”
Wakeling pursed her lips, then blinked. The lock on the cell clicked, and its door opened. Another dull flash, and Lazuli found he was holding a knife.
“You still have those combat routines online?” she asked.
Lazuli looked at her, his display coming alive with a pixelated face mute with shock. He could only give a silent nod.
“Good,” she said, “Now, I don't think it will come to that, but if anyone comes down here, I want you to be able to defend yourself. Stay behind me now, dear. Time to get to work.”
And she turned to face the staircase. Her arm ceased its orbit around her head, minnowing over directly in front of her, hands splayed out and her palm against the air. She breathed in. Out.
“Muzu'anuat.”
Just beyond the doorway into the jail, at the top of the staircase, there was a sound like a bell ringing. Lazuli felt the world lurch. Felt something in the laws of reality shift. As though one plus one was equal to three, and not two. As though gravity pushed things away, rather than draw them in. Lazuli's internal calculator began to rush like a desperate heart, beating with each new set of equations.
And then, the feeling went away. The order of the world restored itself.
And above, the air was replaced with gas.
Toxic gas. A vaguely pinkish cloud that hung in the upper floors like a bad fog.
It wasn't long before Lazuli started to hear the screams.
“What is-” Lazuli began.
“Hush,” Wakeling snapped. She was sweating. Her lower lip was quivering. But her eyes were set and hard, the silver in her eyes more like steel.
Soon enough the screams died away. Lazuli could not see this, but the cloud that Wakeling had spoken into the world shoved its way onto the rooftop, blanketing the elves. It funneled as some of Sunala's soldiers jumped off the roof and onto the streets, tendrils of gas snarling after them, smothering them whole in a grasp that felt like breathing molasses. Scuttler onlookers, those who watched through windows, or soldiers who had taken to the streets, would later describe what looked like eyes, two dark dots on a pink mass, moving this way and that, cartoonish and filled with glee.
Not a single elf who guarded the jailhouse survived.
Wakeling waited for them to die. Soon enough the screams quieted down into gasping chokes. And then silence.
Everything was quiet.
Lazuli looked at his guildmaster with wide eyes.
She snapped her finger, and the cloud burned itself out. It burned the bodies too, consuming them and dissolving them into ash.
“Come, Mr. Lazuli,” Wakeling said, “Let's see my handiwork, hmm?”
Her voice was forced light. A weak attempt at professionalism. But all Lazuli could hear in the silence were the screams, still echoing in his memory banks and still recalled as though they were still happening.
He followed the floating head, this witch. This woman who had turned back the Salthirnans at Evukor. Who had traveled the multiverse for almost her entire life, and learned magic that was not to be learned, spoke languages that should not have been spoken.
The jailhouse was quiet. There was no one inside. Even the dust had been devoured, leaving the interior of the Militia's base pristine and polished. The air smelled crisp and clean.
Wakeling spoke into the air, and Lazuli heard her voice in his head. A mental link to the rest of the guild.
“This is Wakeling,” she said, “The jailhouse is secure.”
***
Joseph moved so that he was right beside the door, peering in through the frame at Sunala. The noblewoman was staring at the window, the two guards beside her bearing their weapons. But Sunala brought up a single wooden hand, and they stood their ground.
Rosemary had climbed her way up to this floor, brick by ever-painful brick, and the effort seemed to have taken a lot out of her. She was pale, paler than Joseph had ever seen her, and her eyes were sunken and hollow. She was breathing heavily as she raised up her sceptre to point it at Sunala, the end of the rose lighting up the room like a miniature star.
But she did not fire. She merely aimed. Swallowed. Continued panting.
“Rosemary,” Sunala said, “My... my dear, please. Put the sceptre down. This doesn't have to be like this.”
Busciver was mewling in the corner, nursing his purple eye. His niece was crawling over to him, slowly, and she wrapped her arms around him and held him close. Her face was white and filled with fear.
Rosemary swallowed again. She was moving out of the window now, extricating herself and planting herself on the floor. She was unsteady on her feet. Yet she still aimed.
They heard gunfire downstairs. Bang bang bang bang. Joseph's heart leaped to his throat as he glanced over his shoulder. But no, no one else was here. The entire floor was empty save for the seven of them.
Sunala held her rifle in hand, but even now she was lowering it, just a bit. The grip – and her hands, both flesh and wood – was slick with blood. Her armor was torn. She must have hit her head at some point, because she bled freely from her head. Even now, she was using a sleeve to wipe it from her forehead like crimson sweat, never taking her eyes off of Rosemary.
“Dear,” Sunala said, “Don't. Turn around. Leave the way you came.”
“I...” Rosemary's eyes went from hard to sad. She wilted, “I wanted to see you for myself. To tell myself it wasn't true. That you weren't doing this.”
She was at a loss for words.
“You forced me to do this, Rosemary,” Sunala said, a note of bitterness creeping in, “You, and your little honeyed tongue. You revealed our plans to the enemy.”
“The enemy?” Rosemary said, “Is Rithmound truly your enemy? Is the guild?”
“You little snitch,” Sunala said, harsher this time, “All of the death here, it's because of you. All of it is on your head. Your shoulders.”
Rosemary grimaced. Her free hand was shaking. Curled into a fist.
“N-No,” Rosemary said, “You... you were the one who chose to do this. I've... I've heard these words before. Stop twisting it around on me. Look at yourself, Milady. Look at what you've done.”
Sunala blinked. Glanced around her. At her two guards, their scimitars dyed red. At the cowering forms of the Buscivers. Her old friend, with a bruise to his eye she had given him. The sky outside still choked with smoke from her fireworks. More gunshots downstairs.
“I thought about it a long time, you see,” Rosemary said, “I really did. I didn't want to believe that you were... like this. Like a monster.”
“I am not a monster,” Sunala hissed.
“I heard what you said,” Rosemary said, her voice choked, “Remember? After Adaya's speech, back at InterGuild. A world for elves. Only for elves. That means... that means everyone here, my family, my guild, they wouldn't be part of it? Mallory? Joe? Phineas?”
She took another step forward.
“They helped you, Sunala. They saved your life.”
Sunala was quiet.
“Did that world include me?” Rosemary pressed, “Was there a place for me? Or was it inevitable that I’d be found out, that I wasn’t ‘pure’ enough for your Elven homeland. That I’d be cast aside. Killed, like everyone else. I… I didn’t want to believe it.”
And she faltered.
“If you didn't want to believe it, then why did you betray me?” Sunala said, “Why tell Rithmound about the dead plane?”
“Because I did believe it,” Rosemary said, “Because I knew Rithmound would do something. Something I couldn’t. I told him about Chliofrond. He did the rest.”
“Guilt-free retribution,” Sunala said, almost snarled.
Rosemary flinched.
“We all knew what you were planning to do,” she said, “We knew what the Verdant Reclamation’s goals were. Are.”
“They’re not my goals, Rosemary-”
“And it doesn’t matter,” Rosemary said, “You know that. You know that you’ve gone too far. I… I couldn’t abide by it. I couldn’t let you destroy everything and everyone I love. Even if it ends with you hating me.”
She let the words hang in the air. Sunala lowered her rifle.
“I... I don't hate you, Rosemary,” she said, and her voice was wistful.
“I know,” Rosemary said, “And that's the... the sad part. There's a way you looked at me. Like I'm worth something. I...”
The end of the rose began to glow. Joseph's entire body began to shudder with lightning, as he prepared himself.
“I loved you, Sunala.”
And she fired the sceptre.
Sunala raised her rifle, opened fire.
A beam of light, a shard of the sun, tore through Sunala's shoulder.
Rosemary doubled over as a bullet struck her in the stomach.
Joseph turned into the room. Ozone filled the air. The sun was eclipsed by the storm, as he unleashed a bolt of lightning at Sunala.
One of her guards shoved the injured Sunala out of the way, took the full brunt of the attack, was blown back, smashing into the stand with the single flower and into the wall.
The other guard spun. Joseph was closing the distance-
“Joseph!” Rosemary screamed.
But it wasn't the guard Joseph had to worry about. Sunala was quick. She pointed her oaken hand at Joseph-
Five fingers extended out like spears, thrusting forward faster than the metahuman could blink. They pierced through his side, and he let out a gasp as their rigidity loosened, as they became like tendrils as Sunala lifted him into the air. She stood up, her right arm swaying at her side in a deadman's hang, the other quickly being overtaken by root and vine.
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She spun. Threw Joseph across the room. Blood trailed behind him, liquid clouds that splattered to the marble floor. He cracked hard against the wall, slid down, smeared it red. He let out a groan.
“Joseph!” Rosemary made to run to him, but Sunala spun. Opened fire on her, again, and Rosemary this time was fast enough to erect a barrier of light, a spray of bullets thundering against her shield.
The remaining guard was approaching Joseph. The metahuman was trying to get up, to move, to do anything to get started again.
The guard raised his sword-
The eagle erupted from Joseph's chest. One claw grabbed hold of the guard's sword hand, another slammed a fist into his stomach. The blow lifted the guard off his feet, but the eagle held on so he did not fly off. Instead, the soul rose, grabbed hold of the guard's torso, twisted him into a headlock.
“E-Enough, Sunala,” Joseph wheezed.
The elf turned. Joseph was surprised at how weak his voice was, but his eyes were alight with a cobalt fury. The eagle fizzled and popped like a suspended lightning bolt as he held his hostage fast.
“Joseph Zheng,” Sunala said, “I'm... surprised. Does anything kill you?”
“Takes... more... than... you.”
Sunala smirked.
“Indeed, Mr. Zheng,” she said, “Out of all of your kind, I respected you the most.”
“Don't... move.”
The eagle's claw moved to the guard's head. Claws tip-tapped against his temple.
“Or... I... kill.”
“You would do that?” Sunala said, “Do you really have the guts to?”
“Had to get up here... somehow... right?”
They locked eyes. And she knew he would do it.
The noblewoman pursed her lips.
“...Interesting,” she said, “Well, then,”
She aimed her rifle at the Buscivers.
“Drop him, Joseph Zheng. Or I wipe away our former Doge.”
***
The stone barricade at the entrance of the Grand Commons melted away. Urash, his spellrod glimmering with gemstones, was at the front entrance, his bald head sweating in concentration. Mallory was beside him, steaming already rippling from her palms. It rushed over Becenti's head like a wave, into the line of elves still holding the first floor, the throne room. The gunfire pinning them down stopped.
“Fire off!” Becenti snarled.
Aldreia's fire sang into the room. G-Wiz shot off beams of light. More stone from Urash lifted up from the ground, and he threw them into the room. Becenti himself unleashed a wave of pure heat, as much of it as he could muster and control, his hands shaking from the effort. A few of Rithmound's mages joined in with them, firing off magic spells of their own, splashes of acid, or fire, or bolts of ice.
“Mallory!” Becenti ordered, “Lift the steam, now!”
She did so. The metahuman rushed in, pulling in the ambient heat from her steam around him. He heard Aldreia rush in with him, along with a few Militiamen. A few Elven magicians were still standing, their hands a blur of spellwork to protect them from the assault.
Becenti formed a dagger out of heat, rushed to the first one he saw. Battered aside the weak defense. Gutted him like a fish.
Aldreia was working too, searing away the final magician with a wall of flame. Her eyes were alight with fire, and a dark smile was painted on her face. The air reeked of cooked meat.
It made Becenti want to vomit. He controlled himself, feeling a dull pain in his back. He stretched as more of the Militia moved into the room.
“Getting too old for this,” he muttered.
One of Rithmound's men was aiming a crossbow up at the top of the galleries, but no one was coming in. Nonetheless, Becenti moved away from the election room. He didn't fancy getting plugged in the head tonight. Aldreia was cooling off, her hands steaming. Mallory was chugging her thermos. Urash was looking at his spellrod.
“Two spells left, Myron,” he said, “Not much juice left.”
“Use what you can,” Becenti said.
Through the shattered entrance, he could see Elenry attending to one of the injured Militiamen. A carriage was coming up along the road, flanked by Rithmound soldiers riding krems. Doge Rithmound stepped out, in full armor, the Phrygian Cap notably set atop his head. His son, Isaac Rithmound, joined him. As did Alonso Moriguchi, who had put on a new suit.
Rithmound met Becenti in the middle of the courtyard. The hobgoblin's eyes were looking up to the Grand Commons, studying the architecture, his ears flickering a bit at the sound of gunfire inside.
“Still intense fighting, I see,” he said.
“Indeed,” Becenti said, “I would stay out here, Milord. It's still an active combat zone.”
At this, the Doge grimaced.
“I should be in there,” he said.
“I don't think you should,” his son, Isaac, drew up beside him, “I don't think you should be here at all. I'll go in. Lead from the front.”
“My son-”
But Isaac was already moving off, drawing his sword. Rithmound troops closed in around him. Moriguchi looked to the Doge, who gave a curt nod.
“Right,” he said, “I'll protect Raulito, Milord.”
And the Exodus Walker went off.
***
“You wouldn't,” Rosemary gasped. She was clutching her stomach now, had sunk to her knees from the gunshot wound, “Sunala, don't.”
“I will,” Sunala said. She aimed her rifle at the Buscivers. Lord Busciver's one good eye went wide. Lady Busciver let out a ragged sob, and buried her face into her uncle's shoulder.
“L-Lily-Ann,” Busciver said, “Lily-Ann, what are you doing?”
“...What I must,” Sunala said. But this sounded forced. Like she was trying to convince herself.
Joseph's eyes narrowed. He let out a wheezing cough.
The eagle's claws moved to his hostage's throat.
“Joe, don't,” Rosemary said, noting this, “P-Please, enough people have died today.”
“I... don't... care,” Joseph said. Through his soul's eyes, he could see the Buscivers cowering. This wasn't right. None of this was right. Innocent people had died tonight.
And one of the perpetrators was in his hands.
“Lily-Ann,” Busciver pleaded, “I know this isn't you. I-I know that you're... that you're-”
“That I'm what?” Sunala said, “Go on, Busciver, tell me.”
“A good person,” Busciver said, “I know you, Lily-Ann-”
“No, you don't,” Sunala snapped, “None of you know me. What I've been through. What I've had to sacrifice to get to where I am.”
“Maybe so,” Rosemary said, “But... this doesn't have to end like this.”
Sunala glanced over at her former assistant. Rosemary was using her sceptre to support herself, pushing herself back onto her wobbling feet. She glared hard at Sunala.
“Let's... let's be logical here,” Rosemary said, “What happens after you... kill Busciver?”
“I kill Joseph. Then I kill you,” Sunala said.
Rosemary winced at the frank assertion.
“Is it?” she said.
They heard more fighting down below. From above, as well, the gunshots suddenly winking out.
“You're pinned, Sunala,” Rosemary said, “You're... against the wall. Desperate. And all that's leading to is more suffering. For you and yours.”
She gave a frank nod at Joseph. At the elf. By now, the eagle's claws were digging into the elf's head, his neck. Blood, like teardrops, began to fall from the pinpricks.
“I...” Sunala murmured, “I...”
***
Mekke was down. Her shield was busted on the ground behind her, and she was sporting several nasty wounds. She was alive, at least, wrapping the cut on her side in gauze from an emergency pack. One of the other Rithmound soldiers was beside her, very much dead, his head taken off from the scimitar-wielding elf. Tiger, still, was dueling him, three blades ringing. But they were the only three blades in the hall now that were being used. Corpses choked the floor. Blood pooled like flooding rainwater. They had held, somehow.
No, Tiger had held. He truly was a wild animal. His eyes had gone wild, almost rabid. His blade strokes were heavier, more savage, more unhinged. It was not defense that had kept Tiger alive this night, it was overwhelming offense. One could not strike him down if one was too busy defending themselves from his strikes, slashes that whirled faster than one could see, mere glints of emerald and steel in the half-dusk of the city.
The scimitar-wielding elf was matching his blows. But he was on the defensive. The two of them danced over flesh and armor, blades ringing-
Until, at last, Tiger got past his guard. Slashed open the armor, his blade tearing through rings and scaled mail like paper. For his blade, too, was an enchanted make. The elf fell to the ground.
Tiger kept on him. Slashed at him. Stabbed at him. At one point threw the blade away entirely to start tearing chunks of him away. The big cat forgoed this, too, and grabbed the dead elf's neck with his teeth, holding the corpse with his jaws, tore away his throat in a final spasm of brutality.
The corpse fell with a mundane splot. Mekke watched as Tiger, hunched over, looked around, sniffed the air, turned to her. There was a ragged edge to him now, his breathing coming out heavy. Exhausted. Triumphant.
Wanting more.
“Tiger,” Mekke said, “...Tiger?”
He stalked towards her. Stepped over the corpses on the floor. Mekke's heart hammered in her chest, but this was no time to panic. She had seen him get like this before. She felt around for her sword for a moment, found it, dragged it behind her back with shaking hands, ready to keep her guildmate at bay.
“Tiger,” Mekke said, working to keep her voice steady, “Wake up.”
He lowered himself down so they were face to face. She could smell his reeking, iron-tinged breath.
“Tiger,” Mekke whispered.
And he came to. The wild eyes disappeared. He let out a low growl, stood up tall, proffered her a paw.
“Apologies,” he rumbled, “I lost myself.”
“It's fine,” Mekke said, “It happens.”
“Hnn,” Tiger said, “That does not make it right.”
He looked around the room. At the devastation he had wrought. Rithmound's sole remaining soldier was looking at him, his eyes wide with fear. The big cat sneered.
“We are alive,” he said, “Let Becenti know.”
Mekke nodded, tapped into Wakeling's mental spell.
“Becenti,” she thought, “We're done here. Going down another floor.”
There was a pause.
“Right,” Becenti said, “I'm outside now. Meleko, how many lifeforms can you detect? How many elves?”
Another pause. Meleko's voice rang into the spell a moment later.
“Only a few more in the upper floors. The rest are us. Looks like Joe’s on the fifth floor.”
“Good, he’s still alive,” Becenti said, “I'm letting the Doge know now.”
“Right,” Mekke said, “Over and out.”
She clicked the spell off. Winced at her wounds. Tiger had moved away from her, was cleaning his blade with a bloody rag. He looked at her, and she noted a hint of shame in his eyes.
“It really is alright, Tiger,” Mekke said, “We know that you'll come back to us. You always do.”
“I might still hurt someone,” he said, and he glanced at his carnage, “Well, hurt someone I don't intend.”
“But you haven't. Not yet. And you never will,” Mekke limped over to her guildmate, rested a hand on his shoulder, “You are more than an animal, my friend. Come, I believe this is almost over. Let's rest. Look to our wounds.”
He let out a low growl. But nodded.
***
“That's the last of them,” Meleko said, “Except for whoever Joe's fighting on the fifth floor. A few on the fourth. Seven, maybe eight elves left. We're converging on them.”
“Are you sure?” Becenti asked.
“I am,” Meleko said, “I think I'm scanning a few more agents throughout the city, but they won't be able to do much.”
The Doge cut in.
“We'll deal with them in due time,” he said, “Excellent work, Mr... Meleko, was it?”
“No problem,” Meleko said, “I'm making for another swing around.”
“Right,” Becenti said, “And the prison...?”
“Cleared,” Meleko said, and through the spell, the metahuman could tell that the Jugdran was placing his words carefully, “All cleared.”
Becenti nodded. He looked to the Doge. Rithmound was giving him a grim sneer.
“Time to go in,” he said, “If it's over, I need to be in the thick of the recovery actions. Besides, it'll be safer in the Grand Commons then it will be out here.”
“Nonetheless, I recommend caution,” Becenti said.
The Doge opened his mouth as though to retort, but wisely closed it. His beetle-black eyes stared out at the palace for a few moments, before he gave a nod.
“Will you be at my side, Mr. Becenti?”
“I will,” Becenti said, and then he gave a smirk, “Assuming there's a bonus, of course.”
The Doge let out a dark chuckle.
“Of course,” he said.
***
Inside, Isaac Rithmound had drawn his sword. Had tasted combat for the first time in a long time. His heart was pounding as he cleaned the blade, as he stared hard at the elf he had killed, having run her through with a final stroke. He could hear more sounds from across the hall. More fighting. Moriguchi was at his side, cracking bruised knuckles.
“Almost over,” he said.
“Indeed, Raulito.”
Isaac looked down at his sword. He had forged it himself, in grand Rithmound tradition. He had worked with his father's forgemaster, pounding the metal into shape, sharpening it to a fine point, inlaid the enchantments himself, with the House enchanter. It was the first time it had seen real combat. Part of him realized that he had always hoped it to be a ceremonial thing. A product of a bygone era.
“Do you think,” he said, “Do you think it was necessary?”
“Yes, Raulito,” Moriguchi said without hesitation, “It is always necessary.”
His father was walking into the Grand Commons. Isaac could see him from one of the balconies where, just a few weeks ago, he had seen a couple of dignitaries from Mantis Shrimp hmm-ing and haw-ing at the election debates. He gave the Doge a wave. The Doge nodded back.
“Must mean it's over,” Isaac said, “Or nearly so.”
“Indeed,” Moriguchi said, “Thank the stars for that.”
***
They heard the shouts of Rithmound soldiers from below. Rosemary's eyes flickered to the open door, then back to Sunala.
“It's over,” Rosemary said, “And you know it is. You've failed, Lily-Ann.”
“Don't call me that,” Sunala said, “Don't you dare-”
“Milady,” Rosemary pleaded, “It's over. Rithmound soldiers are pouring into the Grand Commons as we speak. I know. I saw them as I was walking in. I saw Wakeling make her way to the prison. She brought one of her arms with her. I don't know if that means anything to you, but if you knew her...”
She trailed off. Joseph, in his blooded fugue state, knew what the old bat could do as just a head. He had also seen her use a single arm, and his head was still spinning.
“I die here, or I die later, Rosemary,” Sunala said, “It isn't as simple as giving up.”
And yet part of the noblewoman already had. Her rifle was no longer aimed at Busciver. The roots digging into her skin had begun to recede back to her artificial hand. Her voice was tight as she spoke.
“They mean to kill me,” she said, “They sent… an agent, after me. To assess what I had done here. And I have not done well, Rosemary.”
She looked at Rosemary with haunted eyes. The eyes of a dead woman walking.
“I am a loose end, my sweet, dear Rosemary. I am nothing but a wilted flower.”
Rosemary swallowed, her mind racing.
“We-We'll protect you,” a small voice said. It was Busciver, “I'll talk to Rithmound. Get him to protect you from them.”
“Do you really think Rithmound would protect me, Busciver?” Sunala said, and she let out a small, haughty, empty chuckle, “Me?”
“He follows the rule of law,” Busciver said, “He follows the will of the city.”
“And the will of the city would have me executed for treason,” Sunala said, “It is death all the same.”
“It's death with your head held high,” Rosemary said, “It's not... like this.”
And she gestured around. Sunala considered her words. Looked to be on the verge of tears.
“Rosemary,” she said, her voice breaking, “I'm so, so scared.”
“...I know,” Rosemary said.
She took a shaky step forward.
“I know. We're living in scary times. And you've done awful things. You’ll… you’ll have to face the consequences. But please, don't let it be here.”
Another shaky step. She extended her hand.
“Don't die in the sins you've wrought.”
And the noblewoman sighed. She dropped the rifle. As she moved, her oaken hand fell away like a dead branch, clattering with a dull thud to the ground. And she was Sunala once more. Handless. Her heaven unattained.
And it was this woman that the Rithmound soldiers found as they entered the room, weapons drawn. Holding onto Rosemary, this faerie, in her eyes a lesser thing. Rosemary cradled her like a child.
Her face was like glass.
The fireworks had gone out.
The sky choked with smog. The ground choked with death.
But it was over.