Page 24 of Heir of Broken Souls
“Nothing yet.”
The reason we all decided to burn the treehouse, allowing Peter and his mutts to believe we walked blindly into a trap, was to lead them astray. Have them think our focus is on the treehouse when in actuality our eyes are on Azalea’s shores, teeming with thousands of soldiers led by Nolan, waiting for Peter to try and conquer our city.
My brows furrow. “What if it wasn’t Azalea he planned to attack?” Because one thing is for certain, the thousands of demonic creatures now surrounding the remnants of the in-between are only a small portion of the army the king has been creating for years.
“I sent word to the other courts. We have to pray they listened to me and are on high alert,” Knox murmurs, his eyes locked on something in the distance.
Following his gaze, it only takes a second to wish I hadn’t.
A hush falls over our small legion, the dragons brimming with a fiery passion so thick it threatens to suffocate the bubble of invisibility I still hold over us.
What has anger rising, hearts dropping, and stomachs somersaulting is the sight below—the war raging between the Fae and our creatures, and the dark plague of Peter’s demonic army.
Blood, both crimson and as dark as oil, plagues the terrain and the border the Fae so rightfully refuse the demons to penetrate. The sweat and tears our kind pour into the line of defense to keep the Fae lands safe makes my heart swell.
The battle snakes for miles upon miles, all the way to the east and west shores.
War is not a beautiful sight. It is a travesty of blood, gore, and death.
Usually when I watch Fae fight, it is in admiration at the power and speed in which they move. But there is nothing beautiful to behold watching Fae fight for their next breath. It is a devastation that steals the air from my lungs at the wrongness—the injustice—of it all.
Just two weeks ago Knox received a report from Nolan about a thirteen-year-old Fae boy from Cardania who was found crushed to death along the front lines, stabbed in several places, his eyes unseeing toward the sky.
Thirteen.
Thousands of years stolen by a demon’s blade. A lifetime of memories taken within the blink of an eye.
The ages of those who are sent to the front continue to lower as, day after day, we lose dozens—hundreds. We’re running out of warriors, because no matter how many demons we kill, they continue to come back. Their numbers are never-ending, while ours are gone for good.
Pure soul after pure soul is taken, stolen by the dark, rotting hearts of demons.
Andthat’sthe thing we cannot fight against—the power the creatures siphon from killing.
The Fae and our magic are pure; we don’t profit off the deaths we inflict. If anything, it chips away at a part of our soul each time. But dark magic is fueled every time they slash our hearts.
The only thing that is known to truly kill a demonic creature and the black magic thrumming through its veins is the power of an archangel.
Which is extinct—or so we thought, if my dream is anything to go off of.
* * *
Hours later, with aching stiff legs, I descend from Aurora’s harness. She doesn’t give me a second glance before taking off in the direction Zephlyn prowled, chuffing a quiet, sad cry.
Lenox strides inside the estate, his back and shoulders rigid. Harlow trails behind him, shooting daggers at the back of his head, but I call out to her before she can pick a fight. “Harlow, wait.”
She pauses, cocking a hip and crossing her arms. “Summoning me now, are we?”
I tamp down the urge to roll my eyes. “What do you know about languages?”
Harlow’s brow shoots into her hairline and a small part of me feels satisfaction at catching her off guard.
“What do you need to know about languages?”
Knox comes to stand beside me, his face pensive as he mirrors Harlow’s stance. “Have you ever heard this before?” he asks. As the question leaves his lips, Harlow’s brown eyes grow unseeing, lost to Knox showing a portion of the dream to her.
It isn’t long before her eyes snap back, narrowing on me. “When did you receive this?”
“Early this morning.”
