Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) by Addie Thorley (best beach reads .txt) 📗

hunter far deadlier than a reed panther or an alligator. A wolf, hidden among the sheep.

Temujin strides into the clearing, flanked by a pack of Shoniin, wearing a predatory smile on his lips.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

GHOA

WHEN KARTOK RETURNS TO THE THRONE ROOM THE FOLLOWING day, I’m ready—crouched at the far end of the hall, barricaded behind the pile of smashed chairs like a frightened animal.

He methodically scans the room, and when his eyes alight on me, my teeth automatically clench. I cower lower and gag on the putrid taste of hot-spring water rising up my throat like vomit—my body reminding me to stay as far from him as possible. I’d be disgusted with myself if the response weren’t useful. And calculated.

When a dog sees a frightened cat, they can’t help but chase it. They’re too gripped by the scent of fear, and the thrill of the hunt, to consider where the cat might lead them.

And whether it has claws.

“Retreating so soon, Commander?” Kartok laughs. It’s exactly what I would do if our roles were reversed and I had him trapped in an Ashkarian prison cell, cowering and pissing himself in the corner. We’re alike, the generál and I. A fact that would rattle me—if I let it. But I choose to lean into it. To sink into his mind like a thief and steal the upper hand.

He weaves through the mess of broken wood, gliding toward me like the specters he conjures. The little copper discs sewn into the hem of his cobalt robe tinkle as he stalks nearer. My nerves jangle with them.

“Surely you can put up a better fight than this?” he jeers.

I say nothing and hunker lower. Vibrating with readiness. Gathering up the cold and channeling it into my fists.

Thanks to Hadassah’s ministrations, I feel better than I have since leaving Sagaan. Which is a boon—it would have taken months for my body to recover on its own. But when I let myself think too much about her magic swirling around inside me, defiling me, my skin pinches like ill-fitting armor.

I don’t like it, but my body must be strong to wield my power.

That’s why the ice dagger I threw at Kartok that first day vanished. And why the bursts of frost I’ve managed to summon melt so quickly. My power has been slowly rebuilding, but my body has been too weak to wield it properly. It’s the only logical explanation. The Zemyan would never be able to manipulate my ice at its full strength. Or even half strength—which I’m inching toward now. Last night I jolted from the depths of sleep to a glorious crackling in my joints—like the song of a slow-moving glacier.

And Kartok is completely unaware.

He stops directly in front of me and peers through the barricade of broken chairs like a fox staring into a rabbit warren. I want to pounce immediately and unleash my fury. Punish him for every gasp of pain he’s caused. But I must wait for the perfect moment. When I’m in a position to inflict the most damage.

I’ll only have one shot.

He reaches into his robe. I force myself to make a tiny whimper, even though it kills me to give him that satisfaction. “Please, no more hot-spring water,” I beg.

“Oh, water’s at the ready, if we need it, but thanks to your brilliant suggestion, I’ve decided to tackle this quandary from a different angle.” He flicks his wrist and shards of wood rise from the floor and reform into a chair. His attention to detail is so meticulous, there isn’t a single fracture to show it was ever broken. Once he’s settled, he produces a thick leather volume from his vestment. The book is old and ragged, and the stale smell of dust tickles my nose as he thumbs through the pages.

“Can you tell me what this is, Commander?” Kartok angles the book toward me and taps on a picture of a tall, helter-skelter pile of stones. It looks like it could topple over at any second, with all of the ribbons and bottles and trash stuffed into the cracks. It’s ugly and blasphemous—one of the shrines to the First Gods where travelers used to pray and worship. They’re unmistakable and, thankfully, gone. The Sky King tore them down, making the grasslands far more beautiful.

I’m not about to cooperate, though, so I hum and cock my head. “Rocks?” I say after a long moment.

“Don’t toy with me, girl.” Kartok scoots closer and wags the book in my face. Like I knew he would.

I squint at the picture for another long moment. “Some sort of religious relic?”

“Legends claim it’s a gateway to the land of the First Gods. Have you ever seen one?”

“I don’t know…. Maybe a long time ago? But you can’t honestly believe—”

“Where?” He leans even closer, perched on the edge of his seat. Almost close enough.

“I don’t remember. I was a child. And they’ve long since been destroyed.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, all of them. We haven’t worshipped the First Gods in generations.”

Kartok blinks as if I just pronounced myself empress of Zemya. “If you don’t believe in the gods, how do you explain your powers? It’s like denying the hand attached to your arm.”

I don’t know why he’s so upset about this—he doesn’t worship the Lady of the Sky and Father Guzan either—but the reason doesn’t matter. When I see an angry purple bruise, I jab my fingers into it.

“For someone who has dedicated their life to fighting Ashkarians, you know nothing about our beliefs,” I say calmly. “We stopped worshiping the First Gods when we realized they weren’t dead or ignoring us—they never existed to begin with. My Kalima power comes from within me. I am a god. Which is why there’s nothing you can do to take or diminish my powers.”

The long lines of Kartok’s body pull taut and he leaps from his chair. Diving at me.

Finally.

I thrust my hands forward and heave against the ice block in my chest, pressing harder than I ever have