Nina felt a rush of power. She had spent so many months frightened and unsure, wondering what would become of her country, scraping by on hope, not knowing if she and Hanne would find a way to survive. All Saints, it felt good to be the strong one, to be unafraid at last. With a mighty breath, a single exhalation of lightning, Zoya could destroy them—hundreds of Fjerdan troops and the witchhunter monsters Brum had trained. It would be done. What soldier would dare to march against Ravka, against the Grisha, again?
Nina looked into the faces below as they craned their necks, shielded their eyes, gaping at death borne aloft on black wings. They’d always feared the Grisha, and now, in this moment, from this height, she could admit they’d had a right to that fear—Grisha were born with gifts that made them more deadly than any ordinary soldier. Fjerda had let that fear overtake them, drive them, shape their nation.
But wasn’t there awe in those faces too? Awe Nina had fostered with her phony miracles, her small attempts to sway Fjerdan thought. What had that all been for if it only ended in annihilation?
Save some mercy for my people.
Damn it, Helvar.
There has to be a Fjerda worth saving. Promise me.
She had promised. And in the end, she could not let go of that vow. When she’d spoken those words, when she’d made that oath, she hadn’t been speaking just to Matthias, but to the boy who had killed him, and to the men who cowered in the field below them now.
“Zoya!” she cried, unsure if Zoya could even hear her, if this creature was Zoya Nazyalensky anymore. “Zoya, please. If you destroy them, Brum’s cause will never die. They will always fear us. There will never be an end to it!”
The dragon shrieked and spread its jaws wide.
“Zoya, please!”
Nina smelled ozone on the air. Heard the crackle of lightning.
She pressed her face against the dragon’s scales. She didn’t want to see what came next.
42
NIKOLAI
JURIS.
That was Nikolai’s first thought when the dragon appeared, sunlight glinting blue off its black scales. Until lightning sparked in jagged streaks across the sky. He knew Zoya’s power, recognized it instantly.
He drew the demon back to him. He had long since stopped thinking of what the soldiers around him had seen or if they would damn him for the monster he’d become. Somehow, impossibly, Ravka had seized the advantage. Zoya’s lightning had ignited walls of flame, blocking retreat for the Fjerdan forces, and now she hovered above them, ready to pass judgment.
The Age of Saints. Yuri had predicted it and now, in this trembling moment, it had come. Not with Elizaveta or the Darkling, but on the wings of a dragon. Nikolai thought of all the stories, of Sankt Feliks who had become a beast to fight for the first king, of Juris who had bested the dragon only to take on its form. Zoya had become something the world hadn’t seen since before legends were written.
The dragon’s jaws opened and released an angry shriek. In it, Nikolai heard all of Zoya’s sadness, her rage, the grief she’d endured for every soldier fallen, every friend lost, the deep loneliness of the life she’d been forced to live. The air seemed to come alive, the pressure dropping, lightning gathering.
She was going to kill them all.
Don’t, Nikolai prayed. Don’t give in to this. There has to be more to life, even for soldiers like us.
For a moment, the dragon’s gaze met his and he saw her there, in that inhuman silver, those slitted pupils. He saw the girl who had rested her head against his shoulder in the garden and wept.
There has to be more.
She swiveled her scaled neck and lightning burst across the sky, crackling exclamations that scorched the air and lifted the hair on Nikolai’s arms. But the Fjerdans were still standing. Zoya had spared them.
“Sankta!”
Nikolai wasn’t sure where the shout came from. He turned his head and saw a figure in black, kneeling in the field.
“Sankta Zoya!” the figure shouted again.
He lifted his head, and Nikolai met the Darkling’s gray gaze. The bastard winked at him.
“Sankta!” Another voice, wavering with tears.
“S?nje!” This time from the Fjerdan side.
“Sankta Zoya of the Storms!”
One of the drüskelle threw down his gun. “S?nje Zoya daja Kerken-ning!” he cried, crumpling to his knees. “Me jer jonink. Me jer jonink!”
Saint Zoya of the Lightning. Forgive me. Forgive me.
The drüskelle captain strode forward, his pistol raised. Would he kill this kneeling boy? Blow his head open for daring to entertain heathen thoughts within it? If he did, what would happen?