2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

And rising up before me, merely a few blocks down, the Rainbow of Velaris was bathed
in blood.
The Attor and his ilk had converged there.
As if the queens had told him where to strike; where in Velaris would be the most
defenseless. The beating heart of the city.
Fire was rippling, black smoke staining the sky—
Where was Rhys, where was my mate—
Across the river, thunder boomed again.
And it was not Cassian, or Azriel, who held the other side of the river. But Amren.
Her slim hands had only to point, and soldiers would fall—fall as if their own wings
failed them. They slammed into the streets, thrashing, choking, clawing, shrieking, just as
the people of Velaris had shrieked.
I whipped my head to the Rainbow a few blocks away—left unprotected. Defenseless.
The street before me was clear, the lone safe passage through hell.
A female screamed inside the artists’ quarter. And I knew my path.
I flipped my Illyrian blade in my hand and winnowed into the burning and bloody
Rainbow.
This was my home. These were my people.
If I died defending them, defending that small place in the world where art thrived …
Then so be it.
And I became darkness, and shadow, and wind.
I winnowed into the edge of the Rainbow as the first of the Hybern soldiers rounded its
farthest corner, spilling onto the river avenue, shredding the cafés where I had lounged and
laughed. They did not see me until I was upon them.
Until my Illyrian blade cleaved through their heads, one after another.
Six went down in my wake, and as I halted at the foot of the Rainbow, staring up into
the fire and blood and death … Too many. Too many soldiers.
I’d never make it, never kill them all—
But there was a young female, green-skinned and lithe, an ancient, rusted bit of pipe
raised above her shoulder. Standing her ground in front of her storefront—a gallery.
People crouched inside the shop were sobbing.
Before them, laughing at the faerie, at her raised scrap of metal, circled five winged
soldiers. Playing with her, taunting her.
Still she held the line. Still her face did not crumple. Paintings and pottery were
shattered around her. And more soldiers were landing, spilling down, butchering—