Page 120 of To Dance with Death

These are not my father’s soldiers.

A sweep of them rush the first ballista, clashing with the men there. Another ship slides up onto the beach and even more fighters emerge, this time followed by a small figure bearing King Rurik’s battle standard.

Sofya. She must have rallied the Brisendali council to her side. Convinced them to send reserves to fight for her—or rather,againstmy father.

Relief swells, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. The Razami soldiers guide us through another barrage of attacks, and all the while we step over limbs, weapons. Entire corpses.

So much death. I imagine the many souls stretching toward the mirror like withering flowers craving a last chance at warmth—

My attention is then wrenched away, like a knife slashed across my vision. It takes me a moment to realize what I am seeing—the glint of the sun, the shine of a glass sword.

At the sight of Anton, I am nearly brought to my knees.

He’s bedecked in pads of leather and plates of glass and steel, save for his face, salted sea wind fluttering the dark waves of his hair. But it’s his eyes that weaken my knees. They are fierce and bright andclear.

His spark has returned.

He is fully himself.

He treads fearlessly alongside Basile through a small clash of soldiers around the edge of the rocks beneath where my father sits tall on his horse, his focus in the opposite direction. He yells orders, and all the while, Anton makes his way toward him.

But my father is protected by his best soldiers, and the moment he spots Anton, he’ll call even more—because he himself is too much of a coward to face anyone head-on.

Already I watch as one notices him. “Over there!”

I can wait no longer. Mantrin, who looks so much like Sundar in this moment, sees what I do and nods. “I will cover you. Go.”

We aren’t far; we merely have to make it to the rocks several paces away. But there are so many between us and my father.

I unsheathe the mirror, clutching it in my palm.

The rush is dizzying, disorienting.

And then I see them.

Countless souls drift in the air like dandelion fluff, waiting for somewhere to go. It feels like thousands of strings tugging on me at once, as if drawn to the mirror’s power. Even as I move, they grasp for me, hands idly stretching out like moths drawn to light. I ward off the guilt, though, and tell myself that the faster I move, the faster we finish this, the sooner Moranya can guide them to her lair.

I force myself to see beyond them. To focus, just as I did before.

A soldier comes into my line of sight, slashing at Mantrin. His eyes are wild, full of vicious, rage-filled hate. Mantrin blocks his first blow, but he’s knocked from behind, his knees hitting the dirt. The soldier slashes his sword.

With half a thought, I channel the mirror’s power—

And tear his soul from his body. A thin, translucent version of him torn from his physical self, disintegrating midair in a cloud of black.

His corpse topples to the ground.

I expect to be horrified. Instead it’sexhilarating.

It feels like freedom, this power. Like the justice I’ve craved for years, here at my fingertips. Every ounce of rage I’ve kept buried rushes forth, rage fostered over the years for my father, Illian, for men who prey and kill. Desire for vengeance, for setting the world to rights…

Anger burns through me as another soldier lifts a sword near us. I yank his soul free, then another.

A clench of my fist, and both souls disintegrate midair like mist.

A breath hisses from my lips.

I did that. I didn’t just kill them; I evaporated their very souls.