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The rumble grows, no longer subtle. Confusion transforms to fury and then fear as a violent shake sends people stumbling.
A crack rips through the stone near one of the worship alcoves.
People shriek and rush toward the exits, but the falling debris blocks several pathways.
Sterling’s eyes meet mine, and in that moment, I know what he’s thinking.
I reach for his hand. His fingers are cold against mine, but when our skin touches, the elemental magic within us recognizes its counterpart.
Our magic merges.
“On your lead,” he whispers in my mind.
That’s all the confirmation I need.
Stepping forward, I direct a wave of ice toward the entrances to fortify them.
More screams. People thrust their arms up as if to defend themselves.
My fire curves a protective arc above the fleeing Tír Ríogans, vaporizing raining debris before it can crush them. Sterling’s ice creates temporary supports, beautiful crystalline columns that brace against collapsing sections of wall. Fluttering mist knocks the choking dust from the air.
“Stand up and run!” More walls waver, and I hurl another layer of ice to cover it.
“Almost there.” Sterling grinds his teeth, either frustrated at the people who spend more time staring at me than running or at his struggle to maintain his water magic.
The last family rushes through the opening we’ve maintained.
King Mihel and Queen Maeve regard me with wide eyes, their clothing already coated in fine rock dust.
The pressure on the ice mounts, and I have to fill the fissures. “Go!”
“Not without you!” Maeve darts forward to grasp my hand while Mihel throws Sterling’s arm over his shoulder.
Together, the four of us make it through the ice-braced arch. Guards surround us, their attention fixed overhead as we stumble on the uneven ground.
The rumbling stops as suddenly as it began.
The Divine Commons stands damaged but not destroyed. And we’ve managed to prevent extensive loss of life.
Outside in the main square, the crowd mills about in shocked silence. Some clutch each other, checking for injuries. Others stare back at the ancient building, disbelief evident in their expressions. A few glance toward us with begrudging acknowledgment.
“Thank you.” A father cradles his young daughter to his chest. “You saved my child.”
A spark of hope ignites in my chest.
“Ah, yes. We needed Tirene’s king and queen to save us.” The Devoted woman appears unscathed, her robes barely dusty. “Since they’re the only ones with magic. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if such power were available to all of us again? If, rather than depending on the mercy of Tirene royalty, we could have saved our children with our own hands?”
The spark flickers out, doused by the Devoted’s taunt.
Murmurs start up again, this time underlaid with resentment rather than gratitude.
Maeve and Mihel release us and back away.
I need to understand this fear. This loss. This desperation that lends the Devoted’s words so much power.
And then I need to do something about it.
The door to our guest quarters closes with a heavy thud. I sink onto the edge of a plush chair, my limbs buzzing with the aftermath of adrenaline. Sterling paces by the window. Agnar leans against the wall near the door, his skin ashen with exhaustion, while Rafe stands with his arms crossed, thick eyebrows drawn together like storm clouds about to collide.
