Page 21 of Under the Iron Sky

She’d landed the craft in her usual spot, beneath a small bridge on the outskirts of what’d once been a lush forest, and began her walk through the withered trees, the thin, bare branches arching high toward the Iron Sky like clawed malnourished fingers, desperately reaching for the suns that were no longer there.

The ground was just as quiet as the skies, but Soraya’s hand hovered by the gun holstered against her thigh nonetheless. She always met Ma’varea here, and although she’d walked this path a hundred times by now, she couldn’t stop her pulse from quickening each time a new statue snuck out from behind a tree. They were all incredibly detailed, as though the sculptor had loved each and every one of the women he’d honed from thick white marble equally, the same care and attention carved into each of the statues’ lovely naked bodies, the weapons in their hands, and the delicate necks that ended in burning stars instead of heads. Endoril, this place used to be called. The forest of stars.

It took no time at all for the cracked glass dome of the observatory to crest over the top of the trees. Just like the rest of Vordell, the same rot and rust had wrecked this once beautiful place.

The goldinium in the doors screamed when Soraya pushed them open, sending the rodents and birds that’d made a temporary home here scurrying away, and when she climbed the spiral stairs to the top deck, the iron creaked with every step she took.

“I do not like this,” Twiigs said, looking up at the open ceiling. “Can’t we close the roof? It feels foolish to be so out in the open like this.”

Soraya stifled a laugh. “You get used to it. I felt the same way on our first meeting.” She’d hated how exposed it’d made her feel, both to the elements and anyone or anything that might be lurking in the shadows, but after spending so long hiding underground or behind layers of steel and concrete, it was nice to have an excuse to be out in the open air.

She leaned against the iron railing, careful to avoid the loose bolts she knew were clinging on for dear life at the far right side of the deck, and looked out into the eerie blackness.

Built on the very edge of the western gulf where land met sea in a circular ridge that resembled the outer line of a crescent moon, was the beginning of the Lunan Sea. She couldn’t see any of that now, of course. Even the massive statue dedicated to Apollas—the second largest of the three suns—that stood on the outer edge of that ridge was hidden, as was the lantern she held out that used to guide merchants and boats back to shore.

She could still hear the waves, though, much calmer than they used to be, and smell the barest hints of salt from the sea below. It was enough to pretend, even for a few minutes, that the world wasn’t on the brink of collapse.

Until Ma’varea failed to appear.

Soraya tried to quell it, but panic soon became a blistering bud in her chest, unfurling like scorching petals across her skin. Where the fuck was he? She unholstered one of the smaller guns on her hip, feeling marginally better with cool steel against her fingers, but not enough to still her boot from tapping against the floor or stop her eyes from darting to every corner and back again, looking for a helmeted figure she was much more familiar with than she’d like.

“Are you all right?” Twiigs asked. “Your heart is racing at quite an alarming level.”

“I’m fine,” Soraya lied. “It’s probably better if you hide. I don’t want him to see you.”

Twiigs rustled his feathers, clearly annoyed, but slid into a hidden pocket in her jacket without another word, although she doubted having him tucked away would do anything to quell the storm that was her heartbeat.

Aside from his desire to rebel against his master, Soraya didn’t know the first thing about Ma’varea, and yet he always had this effect on her. Always had her heart trotting into a gallop in anticipation of his arrival.

He just had this … way about him. A temper as quick as his wit that she couldn’t help but meet head-on. Their meetings were always brief, but death threats were almost always exchanged in one form or another by the time he’d handed his information over—usually Soraya was the first one to bristle and draw her gun, but Ma’varea did have his moments …

When he still hadn’t arrived fifteen minutes later, Soraya’s imagination started to run away with her. Had he been found out? The thought speared into her mind like a rock thrown against a mirror, not enough to shatter, just enough to rattle the frame. To send her mind careening down a path it had no business being anywhere near.

What if someone had figured out he was the one who’d been leaking Ramapheal’s secrets and he was now swinging by his neck on a castle wall somewhere. Or maybe he’d changed his mind. Soraya would hardly blame him. She’d long stopped trying to work out why he’d decided to help them when his side was so clearly winning. What did it matter if humanity gave him a pardon if there was no humanity left?

“There she is. My favorite human.”

Soraya spun and aimed her gun toward the voice on instinct. Ma’varea was dressed the same as always: a dark hooded cloak and the same black armor and cast-iron helmet most of his comrades wore. His shoulders were broad and arms thick, no doubt the physique of a killer. The mere sight of him might’ve been intimidating had it not been for the gun she pressed against the sliver of exposed skin where his helmet didn’t quite meet his armor.

“Where the hell have you been? I thought you’d been discovered!”

“Oh, were you worried about me?” he asked, his voice an unnaturally deep purr thanks to the magic in all their helmets. “How sweet. I missed you too, darling.”

“I’m not in the mood for games.” At just under six feet, Soraya wasn’t short by any means, but she still had to crane her neck back to stare into the depthless black eyeholes of his helmet. “The last time we met, I had an injury. What was it?”

Ma’varea sighed, helmet lifting toward the Iron Sky as though he’d find the answers written there. “Really? This again?”

“You’re the one who insists on not telling me your name. How else am I supposed to know you are who you say you are?” Soraya could understand why he chose to keep that to himself—she didn’t want to think about what Ramapheal would do to him if he was ever discovered—but it didn’t come without its hurdles.

Looking at him now, he was the right build for Ma’varea, and that arrogant swaggering walk was definitely his—but she had to be sure. Even if it irritated him every time.

“Surely there’s another way we can do this?”

Soraya pressed her gun into his throat—

“All right.” Ma’varea’s hands shot up beside his head in a symbol of surrender, as though that could make her forget that one brush of those hands could snap her neck if he felt so inclined. “The last three fingers on your right hand were bandaged. You said it was a burn from a blowtorch. Happy now?”

Test passed, but Soraya didn’t lower her gun. “What’s the information?”