Every single one of the seven halls built to house the courts has been destroyed. Whitecroft Hall stands alone and is entirely surrounded.
No. No, no, no, no. Mother, Father, Mera, Drusk.
Panic threatens to overwhelm my senses, cripple me. I swallow it, forcing myself to focus. I need to get into Whitecroft. Tired as I am, I don't want to risk attempting to force my way through—I can't hope to use magic against thousands and thousands of humans without someone managing to plant a dagger or an arrow in my chest.
My wings are tired; I can't count on their speed either.
I assess the rest of my abilities, and come up short. I don't think I can sass them into letting me get through.
But there's something else…
I've only been able to access it once, instinctively, without meaning to. Ten years ago, when Drusk was under duress at Hardrock, I did manage to blend into his Myst and appear close to him.
I'd be hard-pressed to tell exactly how. I was running, a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach telling me I needed to be elsewhere, or something terrible was going to happen. I entirely gave into that feeling, letting it consume me.
Right now, I'm managing my fear. Back then, I wasn't. I let it claim me.
I've changed in ten years. I may not have moved a single muscle, but my mind has grown, evolved, mostly because of my ability to think through things before I act. To talk myself out of irrational fear or panic.
For a moment, I need to revert to the old Vlari. The one who'd be crying, in pieces. The one who doesn't control anything at all.
My mother might be dead.
My father might be dead.
The few friends I have? Gone.
Drusk, my mate? Destroyed before he was even truly mine.
I let in fear and darkness, till I find it hard to breathe.
They need me. They need me. They need me now.
I feel the Myst caress my skin, wrap around me, and the next instant, I'm standing in the middle of the assembly hall Ciera converted into a throne room, my wet clothes soaking the white stone floor.
There's chaos all around me. The hall is packed. Mothers cry, hugging fae children, lords scream to the queen standing next to the throne, begging her to do something, anything. Attack, retreat, call for negotiations. At the windows, our archers launch volley after volley of arrows, and though each hits the mark, they barely make a dent in the pack of mortals attacking us.
Ciera stares in the distance, her green eyes cold. She's lost, powerless, and unable to deal with the pressure on her shoulders.
I barely pay her any attention, my eyes on one of the men next to her. Drusk. He's here. He's fine. So are my father and grandfather, but I don't even see them at first.
His eyes directly find me, and remain on me, as he gasps.
I cut through the thick pack, doing my damnedest to make my way to them.
Gradually, the shouting and crying fade, and in their place, I hear whispers.
My name. They're calling my name.
The crowd parts to let me through, and Drusk descends from the dais. I practically fall in his arms. He wraps them around me, tight enough to hurt, but I welcome it. Too soon, he lets me go. I rush to my mother's side. She opens her arms, too, but that's one embrace I can do without.
I get the leather pouch at my belt, making the stones inside jiggle. "I have the water stones. Do you have fire?"
Eyes wide, she nods and strides toward the back room, waving at us to follow.
"How did you get in?" Drusk asks, as he walks—and I trot—after her.
Where should I even start? "Long story. Did the salamander get the fire stone?"
