Wintersteel (Cradle, #8)

by Will Wight

The hair-thin connection between them flexed to a thick, braided cord.

I am honored to have felt your full power.”

Whoever it is, cut them in half.” [This is a good plan,] Dross whispered. [Now we’ll be able to train against a model of him. Our uprising will be swift.]

“I…see.”

“You want to hold the bunny?”

He dove straight into the trees. He was going to kill them all. Horrified, the sisters followed, pushing their clouds to maximum speed. As spirits flared in battle, Kei only hoped they weren’t too late.

[Aaaahhh!] Dross screamed. [Combat report!]

The Blood Shadow had crept out of her spirit without her noticing, and it had used that time to sneak into another hut, steal an injured baby rabbit, and hold it while eating Yerin’s food.

“Teach me,” she demanded. “Ah. Well…apologies, but I have pure madra.” “I could still use it on wind artists.” “The hunger binding is part of me now.” “I’ll give up an arm.”

He disappeared, leaving behind a spray of blood. The cultist had drawn his dagger across Pride’s throat on the way out.

He crashed through the Eruption Ring with his fist swinging.

“It’s too fragile,” Lindon said. [You were like a rock covered in steel and wrapped in more rocks.]

Their fear was not improved by Dross, who kept whispering threats into their minds as they tried to sleep.

As he expected, he should give up. But while he was here, he might as well give the fight a token effort.

But Sophara was trying to kill her mother.

“Contestant Lindon, you cannot keep doing this. We thought the increased security this time would teach you a lesson.” Lindon pressed his fists together. “I did learn quite a bit. Gratitude.”

The Winter Sage staggered back in shock.

“In the future?” Malice asked. “You’ve failed already.”

Mercy kept her eyes fixed on the ground. She said the only words she could possibly say in that moment: “Yes, Mother.”

Now, after so long being carried around, she could help carry him.

And while the ball of light surrounded him, his eyes turned solid, oceanic blue, as though they were made from sapphires.

“Gratitude. Who’s next?” Pride’s opinion of Lindon went up a level.

He landed, examined the arrow, nodded appreciatively, and then tucked it into his void key.

“That was unwise,” Charity said, picking up her cup of tea and taking a sip. “And not nearly as harsh as he deserved. Before we begin your training, let me help you work on some better insults for next time.”

“How did you survive to Underlord? How do you survive getting out of bed every morning? If you were the smallest fraction of the man your brother was, your father wouldn’t have to cry himself to sleep every night.”

“Well,” it said, “cheers and celebrations for you.”

The black sword was called Netherclaw, named for the beast that guarded the Netherworld in the mythology of some culture Yerin didn’t care about.

Made of gold, of course. Yerin wondered if Sophara knew there were other colors.

I will stab anything in my way, Yerin thought. No reaction from the aura. Shame. That one had felt right.

The Arelius Overlord swept his long blond hair away from his face and affected an offended expression. “I’m afraid your invitation never reached me. Your many messengers must have betrayed you, or been waylaid by enemies.”

“Ah…apologies, but…” She looked hurt and confused, but he had to go on. “You’re…not Yerin.”

“That one’s on my account,” she said. “Not used to my new legs.”

“There is no such thing as an Overlord Herald,” Northstrider said. His stony face quirked into a small smile. “Until now.”

“There is nothing he can do with the Abidan and six other Monarchs here.” Northstrider murmured. “Nothing to do with all his power, all his wealth.” His smile was like the cracking of stone. “Poor little dragon.”

Xorrus choked out a voice tinged with fear and anger, “Why? If you could advance, why did you wait?” A Forged hand of shadow grabbed her by the scaled throat, and Fury pulled her close. He was only the size of one of her eyes. “To see this look on your face.”

“I am the end,” Lindon said. Something trembled around her. Not the aura. He’d triggered something, but it wasn’t Overlord.

“Kill me,” she challenged, “like you killed my⁠—” Lindon blasted dragon’s breath through her chest, exactly like he’d killed Ekeri.

At Eithan’s will, lines appeared on the wintersteel badge, etching out one familiar word in the old language: Empty. Or, as they would say in Sacred Valley: Unsouled.