Page 178 of Rule of Wolves

“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.

“Sënje!” This time from the Fjerdan side.

“Sankta Zoya of the Storms!”

One of the drüskelle threw down his gun. “Sënje Zoya daja Kerkenning!” 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?

But two Fjerdan soldiers stepped into the captain’s path, seizing his arms and snatching away his pistol. The drüskelle captain shouted, face red, spittle flying from his mouth. Blasphemy, heresy, treason, abomination. All words that had been used against Grisha before. If the Fjerdans had been winning this battle, maybe those charges would have held sway. But these men didn’t want to die. One by one, the drüskelle went to their knees. Zoya had bought their fealty with mercy.

Again, Nikolai looked to the Darkling. The Starless had surrounded him, praying. The field was full of kneeling soldiers, weeping troops, perplexed Grisha. From the north came the sound of a trumpet—the Fjerdans sounding retreat. The Darkling grinned at Nikolai as if he’d been the architect of it all.

Above them, the dragon flapped her vast wings and he saw someone on her back, though he couldn’t tell who. The great beast roared and the clouds around her pulsed with light. Thunder boomed, rolling over the mountains, and lightning forked through the sky, so bright he had to avert his gaze.

When he looked back, Zoya was gone.

43