Page 122 of To Dance with Death

Anton staggers back, his rage near blinding, yet he can’t seem to tear his eyes from Sundar. He hears a distant scream and knows it belongs to Sadira.

Sundar. He’d seen him in Moranya’s Lair, but hadn’t stopped to consider it since regaining his memories, not with the war on his hands. It takes everything in him not to retch on the spot.

Basile puts a hand on Anton’s shoulder. Anton growls, “When we finish this, secure the prince’s body immediately. Preserve it as best you can. Get him back on ice.” Perhaps…perhaps it won’t be too late.

But Maksim’s plan has worked, Anton realizes. Sundar’s corpse was a distraction, and now a new unit has joined their king, ready to defend. Twenty. No thirty—

Fifty men now, all rushing to aid Maksim. Far too many for Anton and Basile—and even his men below—to battle. Anton might be immortal, but Basile is not. Neither is anyone else.

They can’t fight off this many.

For once, fear singes his heart. He grips the hilt of his sword, teeth gritted, a vision of the night before with Vasalie flashing in his mind, before he shoves the thought away. He might have a deal with Moranya, but his friends don’t. He can’t lose Basile or Arjuna like he lost Sundar. Can’t bear yet another loved one torn away, not to mention the rest of his men. He doesn’t have enough leverage to make another bargain—not now that he’s already agreed to attempt what she wanted him to do.

From a distance, he sees Queen Sadira’s helm behind the masses, and he thinks about how he’s about to deprive her of yet another son. More of Maksim’s soldiers crowd in, swords pointed, arrows notched.

Hundreds.

“I am sorry,” he breathes, “for endangering you all.”

“It has been an honor to stand with you, Sire,” Basile says. But Anton shakes his head. He has brought them all here to die.

Then three of the Brisendali soldiers fall to their knees—in sync.

Two more.

Another.

They drop like flies, falling unnaturally, one after another—out of nowhere. As if someone has flicked them over like a line of dominoes. A closer inspection reveals the graying of their complexions, the way their eyes go unseeing before they collapse.

How is this happening? Confusion muffles the voices around him.

And then Anton sees her. Vasalie.

Her pupils are a glittering, starlike white, her hair floating around her, weightless. It takes him a moment to understand, even with the sheen cast about her skin.

Mercy’s mirror. It’s in her hand, and Vasalie—

She is wielding the power of aFate.She has power over souls.

It’s him that almost falls to his knees now—more so as he watches the clenching of her outstretched fist, the dropping of more soldiers. Behind her, so many more are dead. She cleared a path to him. She ishere.

Except she isn’t herself. Not as he calls her name. Not as he shouts it. “Vasalie!”

He notices then the parting of her lips. She recognizes her name, yet it’s as if a part of her has succumbed to the power.

Seeing the destruction at her hands, the power she holds—the final soldiers guarding Maksim lift their hands in surrender, their eyes shot wide.

Weapons clatter to the ground. Even across the battlefield, the fighting has come to a halt. The air is thick with fear, many backing away.

Then Vasalie’s gaze lands on Sundar’s corpse. Recognition sings in her eyes, but then they flash a brilliant, rage-filled red. She stretches out her hand once more—

He runs until he reaches her. He grabs her face, bracketing her cheeks with his palms. “Vasalie, look at me.” Her eyes flit toward his, so bright they are difficult to stare directly into. “Not like this,” he says. “They have surrendered. The battle is ours.”

But she’s breathing so heavily she can’t hear him.

“What are you doing, you fools!” Maksim shouts in a furious fit, oblivious to his daughter, his line of sight blocked.

“Basile, apprehend him,” Anton says before turning back to Vasalie. “Minnow.”