He opens his traitorous mouth. How can he side withÉdouard?I glare at him. “Enough.”
“Perhaps it's better not to argue before a strike,” Murungaru murmurs.
I walk over and stand on my tiptoes to kiss his deep-brown cheek. “I'm glad someone understands.” I aim a dark glare at Numair under my lashes.
“Aerinne—”
“Enough,Chevalier.”
He subsides.
Juliette gives him a smug smirk before glancing back at me. “This does change things though. There's no shame in aborting until we learn if the Prince might be in play.”
The Commander is already shaking his head. “This feud hovers on a blade's edge. We won't get another opportunity like this soon. Montague has been rotating their drops on a staggered schedule, and luring us with decoys. This is the first actionable intel in weeks.”
I set aside my aggravation at having to agreewith him. Tata?1 Fatma and I handle the bulk of the House financial management.
“The weapons stash is significant. We literally can't afford to give it up,” I add. Something as simple as the difference between gear can give us an advantage, or at least maintain Montague's lack of one.
“I wouldn't call better armor, better blades, and more arrows to kill us a lack of advantage,” Juliette mutters. “What we need are a few warriors with offensive Skills. That would even the field.”
Édouard's scowl matches eyes black with the opposite of hope. “Until the Prince steps on it.”
“We get it.” I slam my fist into the table. “I fucked up. Move on and deal with the present instead of whining about what we can’t change. In the end, it's my head on the block.”
“That will never happen,” Numair says, each word distinct. “The Commander knows none of this is your fault.”
“I'm not angry with you, Aerinne,” Édouard says. “In fact, I should thank you.” His expression darkens. “If there's ever even the slightest chance to meet the Prince on the field, I will take it, abandoning strategy, reason, even the pleas of my mate. I will avenge our Lord.”
A tense silence in the room, and then Tereille purrs, “The melodrama, my love. Delicious.”
I smile humorlessly. “If the Prince truly wakes, we'll probably get Édouard's wish. Frankly, I'd rather get it over with sooner than later. It's the waiting that kills me.”
I take a deep breath. “Our armory is depleted and our funding is running dry this quarter. We can’t hold our Districtwith air and hope. So we move out. Burn the house, incapacitate the guards. No mistakes.”
Juliette sheathes her final knife. “Fine. We're wasting moonlight.”
We head out, silent on streets built deliberately narrow to accommodate the width of no more than two carriages. Vine-covered rowhouses of dusky stone, two or three stories high, block much of the moonlight and cast us into shadows despite black lamps and the glowing yellow circles they cast.
When we enter Labornne, allied with Montague District, the streets are better lit and the white and pastel buildings in fresh repair.
“Labornne District smells like teen spirit,” Tereille says in a cheerful whisper. “Or is that the stench of shameless sycophants?”
“It's the scent of Baroun paying Keysia to kiss his unwashed ass,” Juliette snaps.
A smattering of muted chuckles.
“Tonight, let them kiss ours,” I say—not exactly poetry to encourage warriors on the eve of battle, but we’re a simple House. Juvenile humor works fine.
By the end of the night we gain a cache of new weapons, and six fewer enemy warriors.
But though the strike is textbook, I cast my gaze toward the palace, fearing we’ve entered the eye of the storm.
Darkan, please.
I feel his attention on me, but no impression of thought or comfort. Instead, a heaviness to his presence.
It seems as if he is…gathering.
