Mist laced the deck. Rifles burned around them. There was no escaping this, no cover protective enough. No words that could change the knight’s minds.

  Marshal knew this.

  Knew his soldiers.

  Because it was he who enabled this method.

  He who made that order.

  Shoot down any pirates regardless of reason or excuse. A dead pirate was a safe pirate. He just wanted to keep the streets safe. Keep the families within his walls, warm without worry. And this was the cost.

  Then, whipping his tight hide across the planks, Matthias grabbed Lorelai.

  “What are you doing? Just tell them who you are. There’s no way they’d shoot a princess.”

  But Marsh frowned. No, according to his orders, even a royalty, even one of the seven rulers, was fair game. Because it wasn’t like anyone could prove it. The Void below left no bodies to check. No proof of title or claim.

  He took a step, a single shift of his boot. But it was enough for the knight’s weapons to twitch slightly. His next step caused a vibration in their barrels, his third forced their eyes to squint in aim.

  “What are you doing?” said Shadow. “Your body is not fully healed. Your diamond bones are still crackable.”

  Marsh stopped, it was just shy of the plinth. Just a hair from Lorelai’s tall, regal pose. He stared defiantly at the knights, like her eyes could deflect bullets if she dared them to try. But he found himself fixed on her. Locked to that form.

  Whether she liked it or not, the woman was beautiful, even soaked in soot, even dressed in rags. That look she had, those eyes that burned, it stopped his breath, made him want to lean in. But this was the demon that wanted him dead. The person who should have been on his throne. The woman he needed to repay.

  Because above all else, he had watched her father die, watched the man who died to protect his men, die despite wanting to see his daughter one last time. He had watched too much death in his lifetime. The death of a mentor, the death of family, the death of his hope.

  Would he let another go? Another death he could have prevented. Another action that could have stopped it all. He had always hesitated, always doubted. But this time—

  Let her hate him. As long as she’s alive to do it.

  So he took a step.

  “Marshal?” Shadow said.

  He took another, then another.

  Heat roared, the air a hiss.

  Flashes of gunfire burst, sprays of glass like a net of knives.

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  “You’re not immortal!” Shadow shouted, “Stop!”

  He stopped in front of the pedestal, Lorelai’s eye stabbing his back, her voice just on the cusp of saying something. Time slowed, the lock of eyes lasting too long a moment.

  “Marshal?” she said.

  He didn't answer. He just exhaled — slow, almost sad.

  None of this was her fault. If anyone was shot to pieces, it should be him.

  “MARSHAL!” Screamed Shadow.

  And he stepped again.

  He had his hand out before it happened, before Shadow roared inside his skin, pulled his every bone, surged the Gravium in his blood. The planks cracked under him, his breath boiling in his throat. Bullets fired, screams rang. But Marshal just raised his palm. Pointed it like a cannon. Even he had to admit, Shadow was better at using it than he was. But the fragment also didn’t like to take orders from anyone.

  “My name is Marshal Sylvain, the Dragon slayer.” Shadow howled. “You dare shoot at me!”

  Then Marsh’s body exploded with purple particles, flowing off like fire, leaving his skin. Shadow’s fingers merging with his, the fragment’s hands puppeting him from the inside, his body scuming to control.

  “Enough!” Marsh Shouted.

  Not shadow, not the knights.

  Marsh roared.

  Lungs like sonic boom, fingers moving like a string master, all bullets that burned in the air, cracked, the force folding projectiles into flat coins, the glass melting as momentium, screamed to a halt.

  “Stand down!” Marsh ordered. “I’ve returned.”

  The sound of airships and chatter flooded the space he left. The knights, completely pale, the crew now gawking.

  But most importantly, he turned to Lorelai. A shell an inch from her nose, the spray of glass a millimetre from blowing her to shreds. But that look she gave him. One that differed from all the salutes that started to rise around him. Her snarl rising in her lips, hate purging her eyes.

  But Marshal didn’t care; he just remained still.

  “Welcome to my kingdom,” he said. “Welcome home, Lorelai.”

  “Home.” She hissed.

  Her tail stiffened, her fangs ready to kill him right there. Her soft face contorting to an image that suited his atonement. A princess’s fury, and Lorelai’s foreshadow of murderous intent.

  And all lasted until she spoke.

  “You’re the Monarch of Wrath?” she said, her voice cracked, “you’re the bastard that took my throne.”

  But this wasn’t what he wanted. The linger of hesitation, the waver of her breath.

  Why did that face hurt him so? Why wasn’t she trying to kill him?