Page 7 of Between Smoke and Shadow
“For Demetrius’s sake, that better be the case,” I say. I follow Joran’s lead across the room, where metal handles blend into the scarlet wall. Chairs screech as the representatives do the same.
There’s no sign of Dae or the menders.
Demetrius spits back something about the incompetent servant, but he doesn’t have the chance to finish. He doesn’t even make it to the wall before the next tremor hits. This one is infinitely harder than the first, like getting punched in the gutor falling down stairs. I stumble against the wall, gripping the metal handle as Joran steadies me from the back.
I don’t hear the splinter of glass, but I see it: a hairline fracture that dances from one corner of the window to the opposite side. It spiderwebs until it mars the entire upper window with serrated fissures. The earthquake finally stills, followed immediately by the ring of a two-toned siren. It radiates from this room, a global warning that we’ve suffered damage.
Mother will be so pleased if the room collapses under my watch. And unless I do something, it will.
“We must go, my prince,” Joran says. Heavy boots sound on the marble floor behind me and voices blur in the back of my mind. I tune them out, only reacting when Joran pulls hard at my shoulder.
There are over fifteen royal guards in the room now, and where the four representatives once sat, there is now only an abandoned table. The mending royal has arrived, but it’s far too late for that.
“It’s going to shatter,” I say, my voice hoarse. This was likely Demetrius’s plan all along. Not to report my lenience with servants, but to show my incompetence. I should have evacuated the room as soon as the window lost half its shield. I should have ensured royals arrived to mend it. I should have?—
It doesn’t matter now.
“My prince–”
I rip out of Joran’s grasp, legs still unsteady. Multiple pairs of hands reach for me, as if I could possibly leave the room in this state. I shove them off and center myself in the room.
“Guards,” I say, my voice steady and loud over the blaring siren. “Vacate the room immediately. That’s an order.”
Nobody argues—theycan’t—but still, I feel Joran hesitate behind me. His bulking frame lingers for one second, maybetwo, before he reluctantly leaves. I stretch my fingers, into my palms and away, until my hands are loose.
Magic pulses through my bones, growing hotter as it nears my fingertips. I twitch with discomfort.
I raise my arms, keeping my attention on the window. The mangled cracks taunt me, worsening with each passing second. I suck a deep breath into my lungs and close my eyes. Without sight to distract me, I can feel every morsel of magic in my bones. It’s a living thing, jolting around the marrow, somehow both desperate for release and reluctant to leave.
I open my eyes, find my target, and cast.
The magic rips from my fingers, dark red and coiled tight. Bits of my soul go with it, and though I know it will return, it’s uncomfortable all the same. I scream against the sensation, throat burning with it.
As a son of the Architect, I can harness every type of magic: violence from the Wilds; darkness from the Pit; pain from the City of Mirrors. But I’ve always been drawn most to the power of the Reaping Grounds.
Raw magic comes in discordant bursts, often taking the form of smoke or fog. It’s reckless and difficult to control, and most descendants are not strong enough to wield it.
But I am not most.
With a thrust of my hands, the magic transforms before me. Red mist solidifies into a swarm of vines and roots, multiplying the farther they stretch. A thick bough, wide as my chest, slams against the floor. The magic expands, swirling through the room like a living tornado. Tendrils of reedy branches stretch across the wall and over the window, lacing together like a woven mat. One row and then another, slowly building from the top down.
They solidify as I move on, transforming from pliable magic to hardened overgrowth, thick with bark and tangled vines.I’m almost done. Twisting, twining, until branches cover the majority of the window.
Another earthquake strikes, the hardest yet, and the glass shatters with it. It slices against my living magic, hurting worse than if it was my skin. I stumble with the pain, magic snapping like an overstretched band. I scream harder, finding my balance again and pushing the magic back toward the window. It doesn’t matter—it’s too late. The ceiling sags without its exterior support, slanting as if ready to plunge two-hundred stories.
The room is going to collapse.
I bring both hands together, transforming narrow branches into full-sized tree boles. I’m giving too much, letting the magic take more than I have to offer, but I don’t stop. With jerking heaves, I place one massive trunk after the other, smashing them against the failing shield. By the time I’m done, panting and exhausted, six tree trunks stand as impenetrable pillars. A soft wind filters through the gaping hole in the wall of vines and trees, but the ceiling holds.
I drop my hands, the magic shooting back into my bones. Instant relief courses through me as it settles into its rightful home. Breaths come easier. My legs stop shaking. Even my thoughts clear.
“Your hands, my prince,” Joran says.
I startle at the sound of his voice, though I shouldn’t be surprised. He likely stood just beyond this room in case I needed him.
I rotate my hands. Burning like fresh embers, my skin glows with the extreme heat. I flex my fingers, groaning against the tremor of pain. Now that my magic is where it belongs, tucked in the recesses of my bones, a weariness presses against me.
The earthquakes have ended, at least for now, and the Tower is safe from collapse. I stagger forward, one step, then two.Finally, I collapse into one of the chairs and lay my head onto the table.
