“Lioness!” Stasia shouted, calling her secret name again and again as she closed the distance between her and the battle. Mari’s ears perked up, and she bounded over the line of Thanet rebels to land before Stasia. Her head tilted sideways.

“What?” she asked, her impatient snarl translated by the word-lace.

“Set the houses aflame!” Stasia demanded.

“Which ones?”

“All of them.”

Mari turned her attention to the houses, thinking for a moment, and then nodded. Stasia had thought her sister might take a torch in her mouth. Using her feline speed, she could easily leap from home to home, spreading fires so that the entire square was ablaze and Cyrus might have a chance to escape amid all the smoke and ash.

Stasia clearly did not have her sister’s imagination, nor her understanding of the power of gods. Mari threw back her head and roared to the heavens. The word-lace offered no translation, for it bore only pure emotions. Pain. Rage. A desire for chaos. A need to hunt. The air rippled, and within it, Stasia felt the power of the divine.

In life, Endarius’s wings had borne long white feathers tipped in red, at least according to the paintings of the god Stasia had seen. In death, he granted no feathers, just jagged bones. In death, Mari demanded something more. The roar deepened. The air shimmered. Fire burst from the long bone wings, rolling across Mari’s body into the perfect shape of folded feathers. They unfurled to her sides, and the sight was so beautiful, so terrifying, Stasia gaped in awe of her sister.

Mari turned to face her, and at last the word-lace had speech to translate, echoing a sentiment Stasia had offered in a much more serene setting.

“I say we get to burning.”

Stasia whooped as her sister leaped to the rooftops of the homes overlooking the gallows. Her wings fluttered, casting fire upon the shingles. Within moments black smoke billowed overhead, the dozen buildings quickly becoming an inferno. Stasia slammed her two axes together, their parts interlocking with expertise that was incredible even for her gifted father’s handiwork. The haft she kept clipped to her side like any other weapon, and she slid it free of her belt so she might lock and twist it into the base of the axes. No more dual-wielding. She needed the reach and power of using it two-handed.

Weapon ready, she sprinted straight into the thick of the chaos. She never slowed. She never hesitated. Stasia announced the Ax of Lahareed’s arrival with a massive downward chop that cleaved a soldier in half from shoulder to hip. The screech of metal and snapping of bone turned nearby eyes her way, and she relished the attention. Gore coated her weapon, and she would paint a thousand new layers atop it.

“With me!” she screamed to Pilus’s soldiers. “Let the empire break against my ax!”