Dante Ashwood, Kingpin of Uskhanya and future Doyen of the realm, had shadows swarming him like fireflies to offer a shield of protection. Zekia thought they smelled like dark, burnt magic, as if Ashwood had seared their power to him, and sometimes she held her breath when they neared, just in case they tried to burn her from the inside out, stealing the parts of her mind that had not yet gone.

Zekia took one of Wesley’s cuffed hands in her own.

His fingers were cold and limp, and he stared blankly ahead as if she hadn’t touched him at all. When Zekia squeezed his hand, his jaw ticked.

Wesley looked like he was trying very hard not to kill her.

The moon acted as a torch as they eyed the barricade.

The fort was erected by the amityguards, with guns and charms holding their positions steady. There were hundreds and hundreds of them, but Zekia wasn’t worried. Her army had what these soldiers never could: vision. The hope of a new realm, ruled by magic, with Crafters ready for a glorious future, filled with peace and light and no more pain.

They just had to kill a few people first.

But it was worth it. Ashwood had told her so.

Sometimes you have to hurt people to save them.

Ashwood approached the man on the ground and placed his large hands around the prisoner’s head.

“Surrender,” Ashwood said.

From behind the barricade, a voice cracked through a speaker. “We don’t take orders from crooks.”

Wesley snorted. Zekia squeezed his hand tighter.

Just surrender, she thought. If you surrender, then I won’t have to do anything bad.

“Nobody needs to die today,” Ashwood said.

“You sure as fire-gates do,” the voice shot back.

Ashwood sighed, and in a last attempt to stay the bloodshed, he said, “Lay down your weapons and join me. Or keep them and die.”

There was a pause.

Utter and complete silence.

The capital city of Uskhanya was alive every second, from dawn to dusk before the cycle started over, and usually a scream could barely be heard above the bastardized magic and laughter of criminals. But now Zekia could hear the birds crying out in warning and, if someone had a pin, she’d probably hear that drop too.

The speaker crackled again.

The man on the other end took a breath.

“Djefil,” he said. “Go fuck yourself.”

Ashwood sighed. He turned to Zekia. She caught a glimpse of that ghost smile somewhere in his face, and swallowed.

“We can save you.”

Zekia said it quietly, almost a whisper, but then Ashwood twisted his hand around their prisoner’s neck and Zekia felt the snap shoot through her.