Starsinger

Damage

Ezra stood atop the remains of Vivalta's wall, surveying the damage with cold eyes. The menagerie was a pile of rubble. The gate was smashed beyond recognition, the manse's grand façade was pocked with scorchmarks and something long and slimy twined around the spires of its rooftop, hissing whenever a guard got too close. Smoke still rose from the village beyond.

Ezra wanted to grind it all to dust.

He could feel Malcolm fidgeting beside him, nearly as battered as the estate itself. Ezra forced himself to stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on a handful of mercenaries as they corralled a gryffin back into its chains. If he allowed himself one look at Malcolm's terrified, sniveling face, Ezra would tear it clean off his head.

I should never have left her in the care of an ordinary. He had been making progress with Sapphire, but too slowly. Harlan and the rest of his shadowseers needed the obsidian, and Ezra hadn't been able to justify the delay any longer. He'd thought about taking Sapphire with him, but she still didn't trust him, and a Shadow without trust was dangerous.

So he'd followed Malcolm's suggestion, worked up an illusion for the lanky soldier they'd found in the study, to convince the princess' fellows that Sapphire was dead, and then he'd left. Their spirits would be broken, Malcolm assured him. They wouldn't dare try to escape again. And even if they did, they'd never think to try and rescue a comrade they'd already lost.

Ezra clenched his fists. He knew better than to listen to the assurances of ordinaries, but how hard could it be to keep her locked up for a few more days? He'd sailed off to deliver the obsidian, then turned right around to come back for her.

Malcolm had underestimated her. Underestimated all of them, by the looks of it. And Ezra had been more the fool to let him do it.

He thought of Sapphire, locked once more in the suffocating embrace of the ordinaries she called her teammates. All the tender, bitter places inside him ached. He knew how tempting it could be, to be offered something like acceptance, like belonging. But with ordinaries, that sense of belonging always comes with strings attached. People like Ezra could only belong if they made themselves smaller, weaker, subservient. If they hid themselves away and treated their strength like something shameful, bit down on their rage so hard their tongues bled.

Sapphire knew that pain, too. He had to break her of that, or she would never wake.

Ezra had always dreamed of being the one to find the Shadow. It had seemed only right – Ezra was a prodigy, and the Ravens that had become the shadowseers' army were his inventions. Who better to greet their prophecied champion? A thousand times he'd imagined recognizing the girl by her wisdom and power, taking her to Harlan and the other masters, guiding their savior home. He never thought he would need to save her first.

"Bryant, report," Malcolm snapped as the black-eyed youth appeared beside them on the wall. Ezra listened to the ordinary Raven rattle off reconstruction updates with all the emotion of a plank of wood. If he had been a mage, Ezra could have put him to use with the shadowseers, but the boy had been a mistake. A waste of good magic.

"That's enough." Malcolm cut Bryant off with a wave of his hand, wincing as he bumped his splinted arm. He turned a hasty glance on Ezra. "Of course, none of this will delay our preparations."

Ezra let the silence stretch, felt it shredding the nobleman's nerves. Sometimes silence was more effective intimidation than any threat.

"They will be headed for Aster, of course." Malcolm rushed to fill the emptiness, trying to regain some control of the situation. "After spotting our battle plans, there can't be any doubt. Raelyn will want to protect her parents and her people. Sapphire will certainly go with her. It wasn't exactly how we planned, but—"

"Fate will guide the Shadow to her place." Ezra bit the end of his words off like a sharp wind. Malcolm shivered, and the shadowseer allowed himself a sliver of satisfaction.

"She still imagines herself on the side of the stars," Ezra murmured, frustration creeping in. "If I can't turn her to the truth in time..."

It didn't bear imagining. The Astral Cycle was a battle the shadows must win.

For the first time since Ezra had stormed ashore, light sparked in Malcolm's eyes. "Perhaps I might be of some assistance."

Ezra glanced at him. There was that glint of cleverness again – the cleverness that drove Malcolm to hunt down one of the last living unicorns and bargain with the shadowseers, offering the creature's visions in exchange for an earthly crown. The same cleverness he used to negotiate black market deals through his hired freelancer captain, stockpiling obsidian for their war. The cleverness that made him a useful, if irritating, ally. "You think to turn her yourself?"

"Not alone," said Malcolm. "Not without a certain bit of, ah, leverage."

Below, the cornered gryffin shrieked and leapt for the sky. A mercenary's sword caught the beast in the side and it veered off course, divebombing for the ramparts where Ezra and Malcolm stood. Malcolm shouted and ducked.

Ezra threw out his hand and wished for nothingness.

A black cloud erupted from his palm, catching the gryffin mid-air. The creature dropped like a stone to crash atop the wall, rubble tumbling to either side. Familiar words bubbled to Ezra's lips and with his other hand he reached for the obsidian lining of his long coat, felt the gems gleam cold under his fingertips, their stored power leeching into his blood.

The gryffin struggled, but stayed caught on the rampart, choking on void. Slowly the void shifted from a cloud to a spike, funneling to a fine point.

Ezra was sweating. He clenched his fist and the spike drove into the beast's forehead, vanishing like smoke. The gryffin twitched frantically, its slit pupils tiny and wild with fear. Ezra held tight. He relished the feel of the creature's mind wriggling like a fish on a hook, gasping for air. Fierce, but inevitable.

The beast's movements became sluggish. Then still. Its pupils swelled like grapes until the blackness burst, staining the eye from lid to lid.

Ezra approached the fallen gryffin. Its black eyes blinked, docile and empty.

Stand, Ezra willed, and the beast tottered to its feet. Blood still streamed from the cut in its side, but the gryffin didn't react. Malcolm watched with fear-flared nostrils as Ezra stroked the creature's golden-brown muzzle and assessed the massive wings.

"Bring the rest to me," he said.