The white illuminated girl in black stares me down, her lips stretching to reveal mirrored, elongated canines. She
’s Kythan . . . like us, only . . . how? Where did they come from? And how can they control the land?
She lowers her head and levels her eyes, a grin creeping up the side of her face. “I’m Candra,” she says, her voice light, like a melody, her words spoken in the Egyptian tongue of my ancestors. “But that is only my given Roman name. Soon, I will be known as Subina, my chosen Egyptian name.” She lifts her chin. “What do you go by, sister?”
I hike my eyebrows, dumbfounded by her arrogance—enough to halt fighting in the middle of a battle to introduce herself. “Astarte. But we’re not sisters,” I say in Egyptian, and grip the hilt of my khopesh tighter.
She cocks her head. “Astarte,” she repeats slowly. “Greek or Egyptian? A name’s origin is very important.”
“Not to me.” I glance around at the battle, at the devastation, and raise my sword. “Enough talk. Come at me, sister.”
She laughs. “What? You don’t trust me? We are sisters. We’re the Leymak to your Shythe—the dark to your light. We’re designed by the same magics, only stronger and better. We control the aether. You won’t defeat us, so join us, and be freed of your binds.”
I laugh. “Free?” Taking a determined step toward her, I nod my head at the ink marking her neck. “You are no more free than any slave here or in Rome. Who made you? How did you come into existence?”
A low growl rumbles from her throat. “You’ll regret your ignorance here today.”
I raise my defenses, surprised by how quickly her assured demeanor is riled.
She advances and I bring up my sword, ready to run the unarmed girl through—but she vanishes. Just as my blade reaches for her, she blinks out, wisps of black mist fading away where she once was.
A blast hits my back. It knocks the air from my lungs, and a fire spreads over my skin. I suck in a labored breath and reach behind, grasping at my burning skin. Only there is no fire. The burn is mystical, and my body aches from the impact.
I turn in circles. Bringing my sword up, I try to hear her location—feel her presence. Candra appears before me in a flash. I slice the air and skim her arm. She roars and sends a white beam into my stomach. The pain is immediate—searing.
As she blinks out again, I cradle my stomach, trying to lessen the pain as I heal. My eyes scan the battle. Everywhere guardians are wielding their swords, Flame, and Charge against these mystic Leymak. But to no end, and the Romans attack full on, their blades inflicting damage as the guardians struggle to fight an unseen enemy.
Join us, sister, and become your own master.
The voice echoes in my mind. I spin, searching for my foe. She’s vanished. Gone. And she speaks through the spirit realm; the aether. I’ve never known anyone to do so. Not even the sorcerers.
A Roman attacks me from behind, and I dodge his blow. I beat him back toward the Narcos circling a cluster of soldiers, while keeping my senses open for an attack from Candra. The Narcos stomp down and ignite their Flame. The fire swims along the sand, forming a ring around the trapped Romans.
“Force the soldiers behind your Flame!” I shout, then seek Habi among the madness.
The Narcos chase the Roman soldiers farther out with snaking rivers of Flame. I move toward the center of the skirmish, to where Habi is facing off with one of the Leymak. I ram into the black-clad Leymak and send him spiraling into Habi’s Charge. Habi traps him there, and I drive my blade into the Leymak’s back.
He whirls, his silvery irises ablaze. “You sentence yourself to death, Shythe.” Then he fades. He doesn’t fall to the earth. He doesn’t bleed. He evaporates into the dark mist.
I blink.
Habi turns his weapon on a Roman charging him from the side.
Sweat drips into my eyes, and I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead. The battle is muted in my ears, dull and distant. My mind whirls. How can we defeat them?
A blast of sand takes me down. Its stinging grains needle my skin. Clawing my way through the churning sand, I latch on to a thought. I look down at my hands—hands that have made countless beads and vases using Charge.
“Habi!” I shout.
His head snaps my way, his khopesh held high. Blood and sand smear his porcelain features, and his sharp teeth are bared, ready for another attack. He’s our general, but he’s trusted my plans during battle before.
I scramble to my feet, pulling my sheer tunic up. I rip a strip of material from the hem and wipe the sand from my eyes as I flank his back. “We need to drive the Romans and these Leymak behind their sandstorm. We can trap them.”
“But not defeat them,” Habi says, his voice low, defeated.
“No. Not today.”
Our eyes meet, and the gleam of his blue irises intensifies. He understands my plan.