Instead I drop the spike and kick it away from me. Then I grab Os’s shoulders.

“What gives you the right—”

“What gives you the right?” he asks, shoving me away. “We’ve sacrificed everything to protect you and train you and make you a king worth serving—a king who will lead our people out of these treacherous times. And what has it gotten us?”

He turns to the wounded Gales again, and the reminder stings worse than if he’d smacked me.

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re destroying the wind,” I say when my voice is working again.

“Raiden’s left us no choice! We wouldn’t be here right now if I hadn’t broken the drafts in your worthless weapons.”

I want to argue, but I remember the battle all too well.

My spikes bounced off Raiden’s Living Storms like we were pelting them with giant Q-tips.

“In war,” Os whispers, “sacrifices have to be made.”

He retrieves his yellowed spike, running a trembling hand over the edge and examining his creation with a look that’s part horror, part fear, but mostly a whole lot of something else. It takes me a second to figure out that it’s awe.

Audra warned him that the power of pain is like a drug—a craving that feeds on itself, getting worse every time anyone harnesses it.

“You have to stop, Os,” I say. “You’re deluding yourself if you think the power isn’t corrupting you.”

Os’s laugh sounds like thunder. “The only one deluding himself here is you, if you really think I’m going to let our future king run off on a suicide mission.”

“Is that a threat?” I ask, not missing the way he’s lowered the ruined wind spike so it’s aimed right for my chest.

“Think of it as an order.”

I glance at Solana, who looks about as dangerous as a hissing kitten. And Arella’s still on the ground, clawing at her skin, crippled by the wind’s pain. So . . . Os may have a point about my backup.

But I’m still going.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I tell him, calling the nearest Westerly to my side.

“You’re also not nearly as strong as you think,” he warns.

“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

His fist tightens around his spike, and I brace for him to throw it. So I’m completely caught off guard when he ruins another draft and sends it crashing into me like a semi.

I skid across the grass, careful to shield my injured arm as I beg my instincts for a command I can use to retaliate.

Another shattered draft slams into me first, pinning me to the ground and pressing on my chest and throat, closing off my windpipe.

Voices scream around me—Solana? Arella? I can’t tell. The roaring winds sweep them away as the world turns to a mushy haze.

Just before the darkness swallows me, the pressure eases enough for me to roll to my side and cough and hack until I’m pretty sure I’m bruised both inside and out.

Os leans over me as I lie in the dirt like a Vane-crumble.

“It’s time to admit that your powers are useless, Vane. Dust yourself off and rest up for a long day of training. Every Gale—including you—is going to learn to harness the power of pain.”

CHAPTER 4

AUDRA

The Easterly winds surrounding me have carried a steady stream of whispered assurances.

Stay calm.

Have hope.

Believe.

But as the final strands of darkness fade to morning gray, their songs change to a verse that chills me far worse than the frigid air.

He’s coming.

I barely have time to process the words before the drafts whisk away, vanishing through the invisible cracks they came from and leaving me with nothing but the echoey thud of footfalls climbing the tower stairs.

I pull myself to my feet, determined to face Raiden from a position of strength and confidence. But I can’t help falling back a step when his tall form appears through the darkness.

The majority of the tower is taken up by my cell, but there’s enough space beyond the bars for Raiden to stand in his fur-lined white cloak, his long blond hair whipping in the ruined winds, his figure silhouetted by the dawn light as he studies me with an expression that’s more curious than menacing.

He’s brought no guard and carries no weapon—but he doesn’t need them. One carefully chosen word can make his winds beat me, break me, ruin me a million unimaginable ways.

I’ve seen the effects of his methods firsthand, and the memory alone of the thousands of holes bored through Aston’s body is enough to make my knees shake so hard I have to steady myself against the icy wall.

And Aston was simply a captured Gale, not someone Raiden suspected of speaking Westerly.

I’m stronger than this.

I am.

“You look cold,” Raiden says, a hint of a smile playing across his lips. “I can’t say I blame you. You’ve spent how long sweating away in that dusty desert?”

“Almost ten years.”

I feel a hint of pride when his smile fades. He must’ve thought we kept Vane on the move, constantly running to stay undetected. But placing Vane with groundlings hid him so well that we never had to take such extreme measures. And Raiden fell for my mother’s trick and believed Vane died in the attack. He only learned the truth four years ago when he broke Aston and Normand during his interrogations.