Which meant thousands of people out over open water entirely at Roland’s mercy. Once again we’d underestimated Angoulême’s ingenuity: he hadn’t fallen into our trap. We’d fallen into his.

Chapter Fifty-One

Tristan

I ran like I had never before. Roland’s magic hammered against my shields, knocking me to my knees and leveling the forest, leaving nothing but smoking ruins and steam.

I couldn’t kill him, not with a city full of civilians balanced precariously on his magic.

I couldn’t flee, not without risking him dumping half of them into the ocean to lure me back.

There was no option but for me to engage. I kept to the coast, sending out feelers of magic deep into the water to test the steadiness of Roland’s bridge. It was solid. That’s why he’d been sighted standing on the beach: not because he’d been fascinated with the water, but because he’d been building, preparing, for this moment. Holding up those thousands of people was costing him nothing, but if he dropped them and I had to catch them, it would cost me everything.

Cutting down onto the sand, I risked a glance out to sea and confirmed my hope. The skiffs were moving, propelled by a dozen or so trolls that no doubt had been responsible for forcing the people into the wooden craft in the first place. All I had to do was keep him engaged until they were across. Never mind that it might take them hours.

Skidding to a halt, I turned, waiting for Roland to cusp the hill so that I could launch an attack of my own.

His short legs were pumping hard as he came into sight, tear-streaked face a twisted mixture of wrath and desperation, and never in my life had I hated Angoulême more. Who did this to a child? Who used an eight year-old boy as a tool to slaughter their enemies, especially when said enemies were the boy’s own family members?

But conflicted or not, Roland didn’t hesitate to attack. Our powers collided with thunderclaps that shook the earth, explosions of heat melting snow for miles around. His strategy was nearly as mindless as my mother’s had been, but as with her, his total disregard for his own safety or the destruction he was causing allowed him to channel more power into his offensive.

Not that it should matter: he was eight. A child. A decade from realizing the potential of his power.

He struck again, and my magic shuddered violently. Again, and my heel slipped. Again, and I had to take a step backward or risk falling.

A wicked little smile blossomed on his face, and fear twisted up my spine like a snake. Contrary to popular opinion, I was not the most powerful troll living.

Not even close.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Cécile