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I don’t dare step closer where the crowd might actually see me. The bodies near the base of the platform are churning as the most aggressive members of the audience grapple with our guards.
Voleska’s ponytail flashes in the sunlight as she and her people squeeze in to form another barrier between the attackers and our queen. I catch a glimpse of one daimon toppling a woman with a burst of scorching supernatural energy and a guard bringing the butt of his sword down on a man’s head.
Our allies are going to start slaughtering them—the people Petra’s been saying she wants to raise up with her. And then even more of the crowd will rage.
How in the realms do we come back from this?
Casimir and Stavros call out to the crowd in increasingly desperate voices. The shouts for justice, for riven blood, are only getting louder and more furious, drowning out most of my men’s words.
There are at least a dozen times as many spectators as Petra has confirmed supporters. What are we supposed to do?
My magic flings itself against my ribs, providing its own, typical answer.
Knock them all to their knees. Steal their breaths to stop the yelling; break their arms to end the fighting.
These people want to execute me. Why shouldn’t I return the favor?
But I don’t want to. That’s not who I fucking am.
I can’t see what choice I have that’s a good one, though. I don’t have Sulla here to ask, if she’d even have an answer.
This is why she never wanted to come down from her mountain. Right now, I’m not sure I can blame her for her reluctance.
“Stop them but don’t hurt them!” Petra calls out to the ring of figures around the platform, but there’s only so much her protectors can do. More lightning crackles. Steel clangs against steel.
Another body and another falls—and not all of them from the audience.
The crowd surges farther forward. A crash from behind has me spinning toward the back of the stage.
The rioters have swarmed right around the platform to capture us in a sea of raging bodies. Now they’re pulling apart the carts and wagons, ripping canvas and yanking off boards—in search of me?
Yes.
“Find the riven sorcerer!” someone hollers. “Destroy the monster!”
The blasted scourge sorcerers are still spewing out their toxic ideals. “We have to prove to the All-Giver that we embrace everything we’re meant to be—and that we’ll clean this country of everything we’re not. Tear down the traitors who tried to trick us and lead us astray.”
With a renewed roar, the audience heaves toward the platform. Grunts and groans warble through the air alongside the thump of collapsing bodies.
I can’t calm them myself. To soften their anger, I’d have to stir up more to balance it out.
Soothing half of the people around us won’t do any good if the other half rage even more furiously.
But I have to do something.
I reach for the boost in power the sacrificial accomplices have offered, but I can’t sense them emanating their gifts anymore. My stomach flips over.
Have they been caught up in the riot too?
Clenching my jaw, I stretch out my arms and release a wave of magic that’s all my own. It whips around the platform in a much larger shield than the one I created for Petra. More of the carts collapse, disintegrating as I shatter their wood in exchange for solidifying the air.
I haven’t unleashed this much power in weeks. My thoughts seem to wobble in my head, and a spark of panic sears into my gut.
All these people want to carve me up and rip me to shreds. Even Tinom hates me, even Baron Cyris.
I can’t trust any of them.
No. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, pushing back against the rush of paranoia as forcefully as I can manage.
