From the southern crags of the Razorback, the Imperial City of Val-Khor looked like an empire carved from pearl and foolishness.
Tiered marble ramparts stepped down from the cliffs of the High Citadel toward the churning, deep-water bay of the Western Reach. Beyond the sea-walls, eighty ironclad war-galleys of the Sunken Syndicate lay anchored in a double crescent, their black cannons yawning toward the empty horizon, waiting for a fleet that would never come by sea.
Down upon the landward approaches, the massive iron-bound gates of the Bull-Horn Redoubt were sealed, but the watchtowers burned with lazy, undisciplined lanterns. Cassian’s garrison had not posted sentries in the snowfields; to them, winter in the Razorback was a wall that no mortal army could cross.
"They feast in the lower wards," Lady Vespera observed, lowering her brass spyglass as she knelt beside Aurelia in the snow. "The harbor markets are lit with festival lanterns. Cassian has declared a week of jubilation to celebrate his coronation."
"He celebrates his funeral," Malakor growled from Aurelia’s other side.
He was sharpening the edge of his combat dagger with methodical, scraping strokes against a black whetstone. The sound was rhythmic, harsh, and utterly devoid of mercy. He wore his heavy black mail beneath a dark mantle, his broad shoulders dusted with the vapor of Aurelia’s melting wake.
"The Bull-Horn Gate is reinforced with dwarven counter-weights and triple portcullises," Lord Boros pointed out, his breath pluming in the freezing dusk. "Even with six thousand veterans, an assault on the landward wall will take days to breach. It will give the Syndicate time to haul their deck-cannons inland."
"It will not take days," Aurelia said softly, rising to her full height upon the ridge.
The wind caught her silver cloak, whipping it around her like the wings of a predatory raptor. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, extending her awareness down the mountainside.
With the Six Shards singing in harmony around her heart, the earth was no longer an obstacle; it was an open conduit. She could feel the subterranean sewers carved beneath Val-Khor, the aqueducts that funneled mountain runoff into the High Citadel’s cisterns, and the deep granite foundations supporting the massive gatehouse.
"Malakor," she said, her voice dropping into a quiet murmur that commanded his instant, undivided focus.
He paused his whetstone, lifting his gaze to hers. The dark affection burning in his amber eyes was edged with the razor focus of a hunting hound.
"Take two hundred vanguard shock-troops," Aurelia commanded. "Enter through the Old Sluice beneath the western crags. The aqueduct leads directly under the lower bailey’s winching house. When I strike the gate, the garrison’s eyes will be on the heavens. Sever the counter-weights and open the inner bailey from within."
Malakor stood, towering over her, sheathing the dagger with a sharp, definitive click.
Instead of turning to assemble his men, he closed the distance between them, his heavy, gloved hand reaching up to cradle the nape of her neck. He pulled her against him, ignoring the gaze of Boros and the captains, until her brow rested against the cold steel of his gorget.
"You're making yourself the anvil," he rasped into her hair, his thumb stroking behind her ear, firm and possessive. "You're going to draw every arrow, every spell, and every cannon on that wall directly to your chest."
"I am the Empress," she whispered, her hands sliding over his broad ribs, feeling the violent, steady beat of his heart through the leather and steel. "I take the blows so my vanguard can carve out their throats."
"You take nothing alone," he growled, tilting her chin up with a rough finger until her silver-violet eyes met his. His mouth came down on hers—hard, hungry, and unhurried, a brutal claim staked before the entire host. It was a kiss that smelled of smoke, winter, and the dark promise of survival.
When he finally pulled away, his breath was hot against her flushed skin.
"Break their gate, Aurelia," he muttered, his eyes alight with savage fire. "And leave the Regent for me."
"Go," she commanded softly, her pulse racing.
Malakor turned on his heel, gesturing with a single raised fist. Two hundred of the most lethal shadow-marines detached from the main column like oil sliding over water, following their warlord down into the blackened fissures of the aqueduct path.
Aurelia watched him vanish into the jagged mist, drawing a deep, icy breath into her lungs.
She stepped to the edge of the cliff, drawing the ancestral blade from its scabbard with a sound like ringing silver.
"Vanguard!" she called, her voice echoing with the resonance of the Six Shards across the waiting thousands. "Form ranks! To the gates!"
She leapt from the ridge, a descending comet of starlight and wrath, leading her legion down upon the dreaming city.