The Burning Queen

Book 2: The Ravence Trilogy

by Aparna Verma

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

In the thrilling sequel to The Phoenix King, deadly secrets are uncovered, new alliances are forged, and an exiled princess will rise from the ashes of the old world as the burning queen. 

"So what will you become, Elena? Villain, hero, or conqueror?"

Ravence has fallen. Her enemies have ravaged her people. And now Elena Aadya Ravence must decide how far she will go to reap her revenge. As she is pulled into a bitter war that will decide the fate of her kingdom, a new tyrant rises to reclaim his home, and Elena finds that perhaps her hunger isn’t enough.

And his knows no bounds.

Praise for The Phoenix King: 

“A captivating adventure from a gifted new voice.” —Peter V. Brett

"Come for the science fantasy worldbuilding and stay for the characters you just can’t get out of your head.” —Vaishnavi Patel

"A heady and seamless blend of sci fi and fantasy infused with Indian inspiration. An engrossing read that will have you quickly turning through the chapters." —R. R. Virdi

Release date: November 4, 2025

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 416

Sample

To be forgiven, one must be burned. That’s what the Ravani say. They believe fire will cleanse one of all sins and bear them anew. But they have said nothing of the inferno’s wrath.

Leo Malhari Ravence believed he could defy the Eternal Fire and defeat its Prophet. Through burning, subterfuge, and murder, he attempted to catch her—until he learned that the Prophet was not a woman, but a man. By then, it was too late. He had killed the priests of the order and made an enemy of the gods. Perhaps it was divine retribution, then, that led to the Arohassin attack. On the day of his daughter’s coronation, the great king knelt within the Eternal Fire, and the Arohassin bombed his city and temple. But theirs was not the blow to kill him. For you see, the Eternal Fire had tasted his sins and claimed its due. The Phoenix demanded Her sacrifice. Thus, Leo Malhari Ravence, Guardian of Fire, Son of Alabore, the Divine Grace of Desert and Sky, and the Twentieth Phoenix King, died by his own making.

Within the chaos and clamor of the attack, an assassin of the Arohassin found himself embroiled in a battle of another kind—one of the heart. Yassen Knight had sworn allegiance to the Arohassin. After his botched assassination of King Bormani of Veran, he was given a chance to win back his freedom by sabotaging the new queen’s coronation. He infiltrated the palace. Obtained the position of bodyguard to the heir. Laid the trap. But there was one thing our assassin did not anticipate: the heir herself. Elena Aadya Ravence became his undoing. So on the eve of her destruction, Yassen Knight made a fatal decision. He saved the new queen. He led her to safety within the Sona mountains of Jantar. He hid her within his father’s cabin and told himself he had done so selfishly—to redeem himself. But the heart is a strange tormentor. Somewhere in between her anger and his regret, their sorrow and loneliness, he came to understand her. He learned every inch and curve of her face, every tremble of her lip. The wants of her desire, the edges of her pain. He would know her face even in the darkness of death. Perhaps that is how love begins—as forgiveness.

As surrender.

He told her of his broken past, and she told him of her grief. He admitted how his ache for belonging had never eased, and she showed him a home worth saving. The heart is a strange tormentor, yes, but it is also a great revealer of truths hidden from oneself. When the Arohassin and Jantari attacked the mountainside, when the mines burned and the fires pinned them down, Yassen Knight discovered one final, lasting truth: He did not need a home. He had Elena, and she was worth saving. So our brave knight, our lonely bleeding boy, told Elena to run. He would find her, he said.

You’d better, she replied.

She did not turn back when the bullet sliced through his chest. She did not stop running. Elena Aadya Ravence escaped into the dark bowels of the mountains and howled in agony. She had learned how to wield fire through the scrolls. She had even learned how to withstand the Eternal Fire and walk the Agneepath of her forefathers. But she had never learned how to handle this sudden, weighty grief. In the span of a month, she had lost her Spear, her father, her lover, and her kingdom. What was left other than to despair? But the heart is a strange tormentor. It refused to wither. She refused to let their deaths be in vain. So Elena Aadya Ravence, the queen of Ravence and last of her name, crawled through the shadowed tunnels of the mountain and found refuge among the Black Scales. Little did she know that they had been waiting for her.

That he had been waiting for her.

Samson Kytuu rose from the ashes of her dead kingdom. He shattered the eyes of the false god and proclaimed himself Prophet. He was no longer the puppet of a metal Jantari king, or the servant of a mad Ravani one. He was a god, and he will wage a war greater than Sayon has ever seen.

I have woken to a strange world where heroes have turned beasts, and beasts turned men. Where the heartless grow merciful, and the merciful—heartless.

—from the diaries of Priestess Nomu of the Fire Order

It was impossible to distinguish the smell of rancid metal from that of burning flesh. Elena pressed herself against the canyon wall, trying to breathe through her mouth, but the stench crawled down her nose and sat in her throat. She could taste their fear. Her people, already dying.

Carefully, Elena scaled the canyon, the fine webbing of her gloves and kneecaps sucking onto the rough faces of the rocks. The cliffs of southern Ravence towered above her, red and severe, their stiff, craggy faces unlike the soft, ever-changing curves of the dunes. Their silence swallowed her. She felt like a beetle. Small. Inadequate.

She paused on a ledge and flexed her tired arms, wincing. They had been climbing for hours. Behind her, the others vaulted softly onto the ledge. Visha did not stop to rest. The strategist was already flicking open her pod with a gloved hand, studying the maps. The holos cast a pale blue light on her face, leeching the color from her cheeks and making the sharp angles of her nose and chin as stark as the cliffs.

“I say we have about a few more minutes’ climb before we reach the base of the tower,” she said. She elongated her s’s, savoring them like morsels of meat caught in her teeth. Behind her, the twins, Akino and Akiri, were unbuckling their pouches, sliding out various weapons: stun grenades, hand-sized explosives, pulse guns, and of course, their daggers. They were Black Scale issued, with a winged serpent on the hilt.

Elena had warned them not to carry too much weight. The climb was long and narrow, but while she leaned against the wall, trying not to pant, the Black Scales moved with calculated ease, each move measured, bouts of energy managed. Visha was barely sweating.

“We’ve lost connection to the comms,” Akiri said, checking her pod.

“So… it’s only us… from here,” Elena said.

Akino glanced at her and must have noticed the sweat on her brow, for he turned away, frowning.

“Lucky bastards,” he said. “They’re down there while we have to deal with this smell.”

“Skies above, it’s horrid,” Akiri said. Her eyes avoided Elena’s. “And we’ve been moving so slow. And taking too many breaks. If I have to smell this another minute—”

“Quit prattling,” Visha snapped. The twins immediately quieted. “Phoenix set the pace. We’ve made good time, even if we are on the later side.”

Elena’s cheeks burned, but she ignored the slight. “I say… we rest another minute. Then head up. The tower is just ahead of us…” She sucked in air and blew out slowly. “So that means the rocks above will be crawling with Jantari. I can take lead and—”

“Let me,” Visha interjected.

Elena paused. Though Visha met her eyes, there was a force in her voice that left Elena unsettled, like someone had run a wet rag down her sweaty arms.

“I did recon. I know the area. I can scout the cliffs ahead and make it back without losing too much time,” Visha continued. “I’ll move… quicker.”

Elena wrestled the urge to panic. They aren’t disobeying me, she thought. This was her mission. Her orders. Her team. After two months of studying Black Scale military tactics, suffering their grueling training, and planning the operation down to every single minute, every second, she had earned her right to lead. Never mind the fact that every Black Scale, including the three before her, had once vowed to serve her and her kingdom. They were her men, in name. But in spirit? Elena felt that same odd uncertainty, the unease that skittered like the fast-fading vestiges of a dream. Crouched before her, dressed in their black battlesuits with their silver horned shoulders, the Black Scales looked like sleek, vicious gargoyles. Demons of a god.

They will follow me, she thought furiously.

“We’ll move together,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t betray her misgivings. Visha’s face remained carefully neutral, while Akiri scowled, and Akino glanced at his sister.

Mine, she thought desperately.

Something flickered at the edge of her vision. Elena whirled, but the soldiers flew into movement. Their speed astonished her, even now. Visha with her throwing knife, poised and ready; the twins with their guns, one red, the other blue, both stamped with the seal of their leader. The black serpent.

The shadows flittered again. Elena was reaching for her gun when the shadows paled, then diminished as a bright, searing light flooded the top of the canyon.

“Get down!” Visha hissed.

Elena shrank back. The searchlight skimmed over them, every indention, every nook in the wall, suddenly bright and visible, before the light passed and the shadows rushed back with uncanny swiftness.

She waited a beat, then straightened slowly. Visha checked her pod.

“The tower is on,” she said.

“But I thought—” Akino began.

“We’re late,” Akiri said flatly. Though Elena was facing away from her, she could feel her glower. “And those fucking junk brains are right on time.”

They were supposed to have reached the tower base before the searchlight activated. Elena had made it a point in her briefing. Planned it, in the minute-by-minute breakdown. And now it’s on me. I moved too slow, took too many breaks. She watched the rocks above, heart bleating. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“We can still make it,” Visha said.

Akino collected his weapons, but Elena noticed an added urgency in his movements. Visha pocketed her pod. Akiri was no longer scowling, but there was a dark, almost murderous look in her eyes. Elena could almost imagine her thoughts: If I die because of this Ravani bitch—

“We will make it,” Elena said. She met their gazes, biting back her nerves as they stared, eyes like flint. She fished hurriedly in her pockets for her pod, not Yassen’s, but the other. It was smooth and unmarred, face clean of scratches. A novice’s pod, she thought suddenly as she drew it. Not a captain’s.

“Here, look at this,” she said, highlighting a route in red. It indicated a path that diverged from their planned route, hugging the rocks and then climbing up the steep cliffs of the western side of the tower. There was a sheer drop of several hundred feet on this side, which Elena noted. “But it will work,” she said hastily. “We can’t go the eastern route like we had planned. The Jantari guards will be out. But they won’t expect someone creeping up the cliffs because—”

“It’s a suicide mission,” Akiri said.

Visha shot her a look. “Not if we move carefully. And quickly.”

Akiri opened her mouth to retort, then seemed to think better of it. Akino belted on his gun, flexed his hands. His scar, hanging down from the edge of his eyebrow like a thin crescent moon, scrunched as he smiled.

“I’ll beat you to it, di,” he said to Akiri.

She sniffed. “Like hell you will. I was born two minutes before you.”

The searchlight swung back, and they hid in the crevice again. By the time it receded, Elena felt heat building in her arms, something gritty on her tongue. It took her a moment to realize it was ash.

Her Agni was stirring.

Which could only mean that he was growing impatient.

“We should move forward,” Visha said.

“On my signal,” Elena cut in.

Visha met her gaze, eyes narrowing. “Right. Captain.”

Elena crept up the wall. She could feel Visha’s cold, disparaging gaze on her neck, could feel all their eyes boring holes into her shoulders like perfectly round pulse wounds. She had a sudden, irrational fear that if she looked down, she would find their guns pointing at her. She got caught in the pulse fire, she could almost imagine Visha saying. Poor, poor queen. Elena gripped her gun. She did not look down.

She climbed up onto the next ledge and sidled along the wall until she found the path cutting into the cliff. Once they reached it, she began to move quicker, rounded the corner, the others on her flank.

The corridor sloped upward, then veered left, but the swollen curve of a boulder blocked the view ahead. A blind spot. Elena crept forward. She strained to listen past the blood pounding in her ears for any sound, any indication of something waiting ahead. Nothing. Even the wind held its secrets.

Cautiously, Elena continued. The boulder loomed above her, its red face dark in the moonless night. Twenty paces, ten, five…

As Elena reached the turn, she spotted movement in the shadows in the corridor ahead. She held up her hand, signaling, but then the shadow morphed, and a man stepped toward the far wall, his back to her. He had a jagged silver weapon strapped to his shoulder. Zeemir. Elena backpedaled. The soldier had not seen her. He was too busy fiddling with his pants, the jangle of his belt bouncing through the air. She stepped back and crashed right into Visha.

The strategist hissed, and it was this sound, so quick and innocuous, that made the soldier whirl around. His eyes widened.

“The devils—” he began, reaching for his gun. But Visha was already moving, a blur of armor and knives and bright teeth, her dagger slicing cleanly into his neck as his pulse shot ripped through the fragile quiet. It cleaved through the boulder, rock and dust exploding in the air. Elena dove to the ground. An alarm wailed, and the searchlight swung around, its white, searing light washing out the rocks, Visha, the twins.

The memory came rushing back, pinning her to the ground.

The hoverpod’s searchlight. The burning mountain. Yassen, grasping her hand.

Elena, run.

She clawed onto her knees. Shapes swam in and out of her vision. Her men, where were her men? Elena clutched her gun, calling. Suddenly, someone grabbed her elbow.

“Come on!” Visha shouted.

She pulled her up and they sprinted through the western passage as the searchlight whirled, trying to find them. Elena heard soldiers shouting over each other. Some went down the southern path, away from them, while others turned to the canyons in the east. A few came rushing toward the western cliffs. Toward them.

“Down here,” Visha said. She rushed to the edge of the path and hopped down on the ledge jutting underneath it. Elena followed, just in time as the soldiers rounded the corner and ran past. They were heading in the direction of their fallen comrade.

“The twins—” Elena began.

“Don’t worry about them,” Visha said. “Now climb.”

Above them, Elena saw the western watchtower pierce the night sky like a cold, sharp talon. Unlike the canyons, the watchtower was fashioned of obsidian rock. Its red veins shone with a dim, violent light.

Miles below, beyond the lip of the cliff, the city slumbered in fitful sleep. Magar, the Walled Oasis. A large wall ringed the city like a wedding band of sandstone. Elena spotted lights glowing along its ramparts. Only the city center was a dark, silent mass.

The Jantari had enacted a curfew. According to Visha’s intel, citizens were corralled in the city center and had to be given special permission, or escort, to approach the wall.

As she stared down at the silent city, Elena felt bitterness growing within her. Tonight was Laal Joon. Today, her people were supposed to celebrate the founding of Ravence. They were supposed to light diyas. Bathe the city in showers of crimson powder so that every building, every man and woman, looked to be on fire.

But no diyas lit the street. No songs rumbled through the canyons.

There was only a chilling winter wind, and the far, cold stars to bear witness.

They crawled upward and finally climbed onto the flat ground of the tower. A sentry spotted them, but before he could shout, Visha’s gloved hand flashed, quick as a snake. The sentry cried out as her blade buried into his shoulder. He fumbled for his gun, but Visha had already crossed the distance and slipped off her gloves.

With an almost tender gesture, she touched her bare hands to his face.

He screamed as his skin began to bubble.

The poison in her hands corroded his cheeks, darkening his chin, his lips, until he was choking on his own spit. He sagged in her arms. Visha removed her hands, and he slammed to the ground, like a tree toppled.

Elena looked away from his glassy, white-rimmed gaze.

There was a reason the Black Scales called the strategist the vicious vishkanya.

Visha already had her gloves back on as she sidestepped the dead man.

“Here,” she said, but Elena backed away as she tried to hand her the explosives. “It’s all right. My body’s poison won’t harm you.”

Still, Elena made sure not to touch the uncovered skin of Visha’s wrist. Her hands shook as she took the explosives. If Visha noticed, she made no comment. Elena pasted her three explosives around the western base as Jantari soldiers raced out of the eastern front. She ran back around, trigger in hand, to where Visha was placing her explosives.

“Check the city wall,” Visha said, handing her a heat scope.

Elena peered down the cliff, picking up heat signatures. She spotted three soldiers patrolling the ramparts of the wall directly below them. Two more were on the far corner, immobile.

“There are five. Three sentries, two for relief on the southeastern side,” she said, sweeping her gaze. “Several more huddled within the wall, possibly their barracks. In the west—” she began, turning, and stopped abruptly. Something had caught her eye. Elena swept back south, picking out the human-shaped signatures. What had…?

Suddenly, she saw it. A small heat signature, too small to be human. It flickered like a flame. A candle.

A diya, she realized.

There were diyas scattered alongside the Jantari barracks. Diyas that Ravani had left out to light the way for Jodhaa and Alabore and their kin as they made their way through the desert. Diyas to celebrate the marking of Laal Joon. Elena picked them out, slow horror constricting her throat.

“I thought you said all the civilians are kept in the city center,” she said.

“What?”

“There are civilians just inside the wall,” she said. “They’re the ones who put up the diyas. Look.”

Visha surveyed the wall below, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. When she handed the scope back, there was no flicker of guilt on her face. No remorse. “We’re still sticking to the plan.”

“You knew.” Elena stepped back. “You knew there were civilians close to the western wall. Phoenix Above, Visha! You told me we’d hit only Jantari guards—”

Visha calmly placed the last explosive. “Give me the remote.”

“No.”

“Great skies above, if you don’t—”

Elena took another step back, sparks crackling up her wrists. “Try me.”

Visha puffed out her cheeks and then exhaled slowly. When she spoke, her voice was flat and toneless. “If you don’t give me the remote, they’ll still die. But then so will the thousands of Ravani trapped in the city.”

For a moment, Elena hesitated, but it was all Visha needed. She launched forward, and as her gloved hand neared Elena, some irrational part, some part still fearful of her poison, made Elena flinch. Visha snatched the remote, and before Elena could stop her, she pressed the button.

The world erupted.

Elena was thrown off her feet as earth and sky bled into pools of red. She flung out her arm, clawing the air desperately, and found stone. Gasping, she hugged the boulder just as she saw the tower snap. Like a finger broken from a hand, a branch severed from its tree. It crashed down the cliffs and cleaved the wall below, shattering stone, lights—people.

Somewhere, Visha let out a whoop. The wall had been breached. The signal had gone out, and on the northeastern wall, he would saunter in. But Elena felt no sense of victory. All she could hear, all she could see, were the alarms screeching into the night and the diyas, smashed beneath sandstone. Ravani, civilians, crushed to death by her hand. Snuffed out, like a candle choked.

The Phoenix’s love is strange. At once, it nourishes. Protects. And yet the kiss of fire is so gruesome that I wish to no longer bear Her worship.

—from the diaries of Priestess Nomu of the Fire Order

Smoke filled the breach. Elena felt it vine through her chest, squeezing her lungs as she climbed over fallen fragments of the wall. A small force of fifty Black Scale soldiers, those who had been lying in wait at the bottom of the cliffs, had already ripped through and taken the Jantari unawares. The larger, second force would break through the northeastern wall. Already, she could hear pulse fire in the distance. She should be running toward it, should be in position when Samson and his forces descended into the center.

But Elena did not hurry.

She surveyed the debris, the splotches of blood, the crumpled bodies. A mangled sensation built in her chest.

People.

Her people.

She swayed, trying to catch her balance, and a hand, broken and bloody, crunched under her boot.

She wanted to scream.

She fell, instead.

Her hands and feet began to move of their own accord. Distantly, Elena realized she had started to dig through the rubble. Stones bit into her skin. Scraped her palms. Her gloves were in ruins. She hissed as she felt the sting of the cuts, leaving bloody handprints in her wake.

“What are you doing?”

She whirled to find Visha standing in the breach, a hand on her hip.

It was the sight of Visha’s unbloodied hands, gloved and spotless while hers were red and ruined, that made Elena bristle until all she could see, all she could think about, were those fucking perfect hands.

She rose, snarling.

Visha started, reaching for the urumi on her belt. It was too late.

The flame lanced through the air like an arrow, ripping the sword from her grasp.

“What the hells are you doing!” she barked.

“You lied,” Elena said, stalking forward. “You told us after your recon that only soldiers manned the walls, but there were Ravani there. Goddamn civilians, Visha.”

“Listen, I—” Visha said, taking another step back. Her heel struck the edge of a broken sandstone, and she tottered before regaining her balance. “We need to get to the others.”

“We need to dig out the survivors,” Elena said.

Visha laughed, short and harsh. “That’s not our orders.”

“Those might be yours. Not mine.”

“We’ll send rescue parties after we take the city.”

“If we wait, we’ll find only corpses.”

“Well,” Visha said, fixing her with a cold smile, “we better take this city quickly.”

“Did he know?” Elena said as Visha turned. The strategist froze. “Did you tell him?”

Before Visha could respond, a drone filled the air. At once, Elena felt her fury fizzle, die. She whipped around to see three Jantari warbirds rise from within the center of the city and race toward the broken wall.

“Shit,” Visha said.

“I thought—” Elena said, mouth suddenly dry.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Visha grabbed her arm, pulling her. “Run, Ravani.”

They barreled down the ruins as the jets roared. There was an earsplitting boom, like thunder cracking right above her head. Elena could not even hear her own scream. She slammed onto her back. The air rushed out of her, and for a moment, she couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. The world went black, then white. Elena blinked away bright, hot lights. The ground, the wall, everything was spinning.

A new section of the wall had been blown off. A gaping black hole, yawning into the dark canyons beyond. The warbirds circled overhead, no doubt searching for the mysterious army ensconced in the canyons.

We’re already inside, you fools, she thought vehemently.

Something grabbed her hand. She blinked. Visha swam into her vision, ash streaking her face. She was pointing up, up, up.

But Elena felt them before she saw them.

The red sandstone beneath her rumbled as a steady thrumming reverberated through the air. The blackwings streaked past her from their journey within the Agnee Range, silver serpents rippling on their black hides as if alive. They shot past the warbirds, who scattered. One blackwing peeled away to the south while the other swung around, chasing after the warbirds within the canyons. It opened fire, long-range pulses lighting up the sky like red lightning bolts. Two Jantari jets managed to get away—but one was not quick enough.

A pulse ripped through its wing, shredding metal and severing it in two. The warbird crashed into the deeper canyons. A ball of gas and flames belched into the air like the dying gasp of some twisted beast.

Visha whooped. “Blast them, boys!”

Elena could not look away, even as the explosion split the air and blinded her. It was brutish and elegant and terrifying all the same. All that fire. She leaned forward as if to feel the brush of that distant inferno. She could feel its heat sear through her as if she herself had summoned it. It filled her with a deep, carnal pleasure, and a desire to burn. To do so much worse.

Soon, you will want to take everything, Samson had told her. You will want everything to sing its song.

But then her gaze slammed back to the fallen wall, and Elena tasted something acidic and vile on her tongue. Hot shame flushed over her. She swallowed the prickly torridity pushing up her throat and forced herself to breathe, to bury that treacherous desire.

“Come on. We need to get you to the center,” Visha said.

Elena rose unsteadily to her feet, looking back to the wall. She wanted to stay. To sift through the rubble with her bloodied hands and rescue the survivors. If there are any left, she thought. How many were gasping for air right now, buried under rock? She almost took a step toward the wall when she felt a ripple, low in her stomach. A whine keened in her ears. And it began again. The thud thud in her veins as her Agni gnashed and roiled in frustration.

It was beginning.

He was calling.

“Elena, we have to go.” Visha held out her pulse gun. “Come.”

When she still did not move, Visha stepped forward and pressed the gun into her hand with a gentleness that startled her.

“How many more will die if we stay here, searching for what few survivors are left?” Visha said softly.

Elena turned to her, eyes red. Her throat ached. “Don’t.”

But Visha was already moving. She preferred to stay in motion, always. “There are more Ravani trapped in the city center, waiting for their queen. But you can stay here, mourning the dead. Don’t bother with the living.”

The words felt like a slap.

Burn, the Agni within her begged. It was as if the flames pulsed in want. Burn.

Slowly, painstakingly, Elena turned away. Everything within her screamed. Every step felt like a betrayal, and that feeling felt too familiar, too cruel. She pushed back the guilt. Swallowed it as she ran, listening to the rising chant of the flames as they called for her.

They hid behind a makeshift barricade as pulse fire shredded the air. In the tight lane, three Black Scales crouched behind a hovercar. Jantari soldiers, hidden behind a dilapidated storefront, fired from the other end, and Elena ducked as a pulse clipped off a store sign.

“Cover me!” Visha shouted.

Elena fired as Visha dove into the fray, joining the soldiers by the car. None of her shots hit their mark. Elena swore, warming up her barrel again when she saw Visha stand. The strategist ran forward as the Jantari fired. Elena and other Black Scales gave her cover, but a pulse, friendly or not, grazed Visha’s thigh and she tripped, falling, but not before hurling a black ball toward the Jantari.

The grenade exploded. In the din of shouts and screams, Elena shot up and hauled Visha behind a cart full of shattered diyas.

“Can you walk?” she asked.

Visha nodded grimly, but Elena could see the blood blooming across her thigh. The other Black Scales had already run up, firing into the smoke.

They joined them to find five Jantari soldiers sprawled dead within the rubble. A comms crackled, and one Black Scale yanked the bloody device out of the fallen’s ear with a sudden, vicious movement.

“There’s another squad up ahead,” he said as he listened. “Twelve of them in the northwest bazaar. They’re calling for reinforcements.”

“Soon all those bastards will be here,” Visha said. “We have to move.”

Their advantage was speed. That, and surprise. The Jantari had not known they would attack in the middle of the night. Twice. The blackwings picked off any escape hoverpods and warbirds as the infantry pushed in with a two-pronged attack, like a knife followed by a sledgehammer. A quick cut, then the killing blow.

“We just have to hold them off a little bit longer,” Visha said. “When the second wave comes in, they’ll crumble.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” The soldier fitted the Jantari comms into his ear and grinned. It was his grin that reminded Elena of his name. Kavson. A tall brute with small ears and close-set eyes. Eyes that he fixed on her. “Let’s take back the queen’s city.”

And save its people, Elena wanted to add, but they were already turning away.

They ran through a twisting alley that opened onto a wider road. Torn storefronts and sagging walls bowed to Elena. She spotted a body crushed beneath a wall, the legs splayed out, as if the soldier had been caught mid-leap. More bodies, some fallen Black Scales, mostly Jantari soldiers, were tangled within the rubble. She spotted a hand, half-closed. A shock of black hair, with the face squashed under stone. A boot, with no sign of its owner, sat alone in the middle of the road. As Elena picked her wa