The Governor shouted sothing—lost in the roar—as another explosion rocked the west wing.
Glass rained from above. Flas surged.
And then—cutting through the chaos like a thunderclap:
“DEATH TO THE TOWERS!”
A fresh wave poured in through the blasted doors—
Eyes wild.
Weapons mismatched.
Bodies trembling from adrenaline, not power.
(A rebellion.)
Not assassins.
Not the Circle.
Not corrupted.
Just… people.
Towan braced himself. Heart pounding.
(Guess I’m finding out.)
Towan didn’t think—he moved.
A tornado kick shattered the rebel circle surrounding the Governor, his heel connecting with a jaw in a crack of bone. The man went down, and Towan used the montum to pivot, driving his elbow into the next attacker’s throat.
“Governor!” His voice cut through the chaos, sharp as a blade. “Go—now!” He jerked his chin toward the far archway, where Sylra’s wind tore a path through the smoke. “Where Sylra’s making an exit. I’ll cover you.”
The Governor stared at him—just for a heartbeat—eyes wide with sothing between shock and recognition. Then, with a grim nod, he turned and ran, his polished boots slipping on blood-slick marble.
Towan spun back to the fray, fists raised.
Another rebel lunged—this one wiry, fast, a rusted dagger flashing toward his ribs. Towan twisted, catching the wrist, and slamd his forehead into the man’s nose. A wet crunch. A scream.
(No ti. No rcy.)
From the corner of his eye, Towan caught the flicker of movent—Len, backed against the shattered remains of a stained-glass window, her once-elegant gown ripped at the shoulder, her hair wild as she parried a rebel’s dagger with a broken candelabra. Beside her, Ser Varras carved through attackers with chanical precision, but the tide of rebels seed endless.
Then—
A hiss. A glint of steel cutting through smoke.
Towan turned just in ti to see the Essentia-infused arrow streaking toward his chest—too fast, too close.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
(Can’t dodge—)
A knife flashed through the air, intercepting the arrow mid-flight with a crack of splintering wood. The projectile veered off course, embedding itself into a marble pillar instead of Towan’s ribs.
He whipped toward the source—
Sera.
Perched on a fractured windowsill, her blood-dark gown blending into the smoke, she smirked as their eyes t.
“You owe one, sweetheart,” she purred—then tipped backward, vanishing into the night before he could respond.
(What the hell is her ga?!)
No ti to dwell. The Governor still needed cover. Len was still fighting. And—
BOOM.
Another explosion rocked the foundation, sending chunks of the ceiling crashing down in a rain of plaster and gold leaf. The grand ballroom groaned like a dying beast.
(Right. Governor. Len. Then—)
A beam collapsed inches from him, flas licking at his boots.
(—get the hell out before this place buries us all.)
Towan lunged forward through the smoke, fire snapping at the hem of his coat. The suit flexed effortlessly, moving with him—no drag, no snag, no weight. Whoever had designed it hadn’t just cared about ceremony. They’d built it for survival.
He reached the shattered window where Len was still swinging the lted candelabra with wild, desperate arcs. Her hair had half-fallen from its pins, cheeks streaked with ash, but her stance—stars above—she was still standing. Still fighting.
“Len!” he barked.
She didn’t look, too focused on the next attacker surging in with a curved blade—until Towan intercepted mid-charge, driving his shoulder into the rebel’s chest like a battering ram. The man flew back, crashing into a pillar with a bone-jarring thud.
Len blinked, stunned. “You’re—? I thought—”
“Not dead. Not yet,” Towan grunted. He grabbed her wrist, heat rising around them as another curtain went up in flas. “We need to move—now. Sylra carved an escape route, we go before this whole place collapses.”
Varras appeared beside them, blood spattered across his uniform like paint. His breathing was ragged, but his blade was still steady. “I’ll cover your rear.”
“That’s one way to say it,” Towan muttered.
Len didn’t argue. She let Towan pull her toward the exit, skirts trailing smoke. For all her earlier control, now her fingers clenched his tighter than they should’ve. She wasn’t used to not being in command.
Behind them, rebels shouted. Essentia flared again. The west wall gave a sickening crack.
Towan didn’t look back.
He led them through the shattered archway, past the broken statues and twisted iron gates, toward the path Sylra had cleared—where wind still howled like a protective beast, hurling smoke and fla away from the fleeing nobles.
The ballroom behind them collapsed in a roar of embers and shattered dreams.
In the courtyard, nobles stood dazed in their torn finery—so wounded, others crying, all of them shaken. Sylra was already organizing guards. Varras slid into command mode, barking orders.
Towan and Len ca stumbling out of the smoke together.
A footman blinked.
A noblewoman gasped.
“Is that Lady Len?”
“Who’s the boy—?”
“He saved her—he pulled her from the fire—”
But Towan didn’t hear them.
His heart pounded in his chest, the ring on his finger glowing faintly.
The suit still warm against his skin.
The sigils of House Elaren—long thought dead—awake.
Len turned to him, eyes wide. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know.”
A beat.
Then she leaned in—just enough that only he could hear:
“I don’t like being rescued.”
Towan gave her a tired smile. “Then next ti, rescue first.”
She huffed—but didn’t let go of his hand.
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