Page 93 of Eyes of Kings

“You can’t abandon me here!” Sinoa screams. “I prayed to you! Push me through! We can get Yi back. I know we can.”

But the godling of greed says nothing. Her work is not relevant anymore. The front line will fall. The war is as good as over, and there is a stark difference between greed and delusion. Only one more weapon waits with Sinoa Tuoleimi, and the godling doesn’t know if she will actually use it.

“Fine,” Sinoa says below. “Fine!”

“Fine, fine!” Otta yells.

No—wait, go back. The palaces have changed. He recognizes this one. This is not the Palace of Earth that used to stand in the provinces; this is the one Anton grew up in. This is San-Er; this is their time, and this is Otta Avia, throwing a tantrum in a sitting room because they ran out of the tea she likes.

It is embarrassing. Calla does not much care for herparents, but she enjoys that moment of shared disdain when she glances back to the king and queen of Er. They are pleased that Calla is well-behaved. She has been raised to know better in the Palace of Heavens, where she will rule one day. She excels in her swordsmanship studies already. At such a young age.

When the attendant comes with a new teacup, Otta knocks it over. Calla wishes August were in the room, because he is a calming force. Calla wishes August were here so they could talk maturely about what books they have beenreading and what murals in the palace have caught their interest, but instead it is only Otta, who acts five years old instead of fifteen.

With a sigh, Calla goes to help. The attendants rush to tell Her Highness toplease, leave it to them, and Calla waves them off. She finishes collecting the pieces. She meets Otta’s black gaze.

“You will answer for what you have done,” Calla says.

CHAPTER 43

Calla skids back.

The attack flares through her body. She can’t control what she absorbs and what she releases, and then someone is barreling toward her with a blade. She isn’t armed. She can only deflect the slash with a surge of qi, shoving furiously to put distance between herself and the assailant.

“I was summoned,” Calla heaves. Her gaze flits about. The moon has hidden behind cloud cover. It’s too dark to see much past the yamen—whether there are more assailants waiting, or if this is one person acting on their own. She draws inward instead. Taps into the flow of power from the divine crown, and she feels their qi. There are ten, twenty, thirty hovering in proximity, some on the scene, others inside the yamen and waiting for instructions.

This was an ambush.Why?

Another blast of qi, but this time Calla is prepared, crashing to the ground and rolling. She lunges forward, trying to grab the assailant, but they block her arm, quick to grip her elbow in return. Calla stifles a hiss, pulling back. Her opponent aims a fast kick at her knee. It threatens to give, but Calla regains her balance with a sharp swerve, using the momentum to swipe against their ankle instead. The assailant goes down.

“Bring Venus out,” Calla demands, clamping her hand to their shoulder.

A searing flash. Her vision goes entirely white, and the assailant shoves their boot into Calla’s stomach. Her head strikes the ground.

Has West Capital been overtaken by rural insurgents wielding qi… or gods?

Calla strains against an invisible force. She’s been pinned in place.

“Don’t fret,” the assailant says, and she pulls a dark mask off her head. She appears familiar. “We needed to confirm your identity. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has sent a stand-in for an important meeting.”

“Such an important meeting would proceed more smoothly if you’d let me up,” Calla replies. She runs through her options—every way she is capable of attacking the woman while this borrowed body is being held flush to the ground. There is a disconnect between Calla’s power when she is not wearing her body, when the crown has been cast afar. But she could cut her throat. She could pull qi from the skies and blast it down like a lightning strike.

Calla does not. She wants to know who she is dealing with first.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced,” the woman says, and Calla is still immobile. “Erwen. Mayor of West Capital.”

Calla narrows her eyes.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

With great strain, Calla cranes her neck back. There’s movement, outside the purview of the yamen lanterns. She senses it before she sees it.

“Tell me, Erwen,” Calla says. “How long have the Dovetail been running Rincun?”

“Since Hailira passed,” Erwen replies smoothly. She seems pleased to have been asked, her work finally appreciated. “His generals had varying levels of enthusiasm about answering to his daughter, which meant our first foothold into performing maintenance on the province.”

It doesn’t surprise her. She’s almost impressed. When Calla accompanied the survey from the palace, she thought it odd how the locals didn’t care aboutthe attacks. She thought it odd, actually, that the first attack on palace soldiers happened inRincun, which the rest of Talin regards as fringe territory. Later, when they discovered that the attacks were happening because August Shenzhi had paid the Dovetail a sum of money to disturb the council and its command over their province generals, Calla should have put two and two together. The Dovetail—the rural insurgents in Talin—have long expanded. They have quietly established a foothold over Rincun’s affairs, keeping what they need to themselves, paying taxes to remain unnoticed.