“Can you get yourself up?” I ask Ptolemus, reaching for Wren as I speak.

With a groan, he swings off the stretcher, forcing himself onto unsteady feet. “I’m not a child, Eve; I can cover thirty feet.” To prove his point, the black steel re-forms to his body in sleek scales.

If we had more time, I would point out the weaknesses in his usually perfect armor. Holes at the sides, thinning across the back. Instead, I only nod. “You first.”

He lifts a corner of his mouth, trying to smirk, trying to lessen my concern. I exhale in relief as he rises into the air, rocketing up to the ramparts of the wall. Our cousins above catch him deftly, drawing him in with their own ability.

“Our turn.”

Wren clings to my side, safe beneath my arm. I haul in a breath, holding on to the feel of the rhodium metal curving beneath my toes, up my legs, over my shoulders. Rise, I tell my armor.

Pop.

The first sensation my father made me memorize was a bullet. I slept with one around my neck for two years. Until it became as familiar to me as my colors. I can name rounds from a hundred yards. Know their weight, their shape, their composition. Such a small piece of metal is the difference between another person’s life and my death. It could be my killer, or my savior.

Pop, pop, pop. The bullets exploding in their chambers feel like needles, sharp, impossible to ignore. They’re coming from behind. My toes hit the ground again as my focus narrows, my hands flying up to shield against the sudden onslaught.

Armor-piercing rounds, fat copper jackets with brutal tungsten cores and tapered tips, arc before my eyes, flying backward to land harmlessly in the grass. Another volley comes from at least a dozen guns, and I throw out an arm, protecting myself. The thunder of automatic gunfire drowns out Tolly shouting above me.

Each bullet ripples against my ability, taking another piece of it, of me. Some halt midair; some crumple. I throw everything I can to create a cocoon of safety. From the wall, Tolly and my cousins do the same. They lift the weight enough to actually let me figure out who is shooting at me.

Red rags, hard eyes. Scarlet Guard.

I grit my teeth. The bullets in the grass would be easy to toss back into their skulls. Instead, I rip apart the tungsten like wool, spinning it into glinting thread as fast as I can. Tungsten is incredibly heavy and strong. It takes more energy to work. Another bead of sweat rolls along my spine.

The threads splay out in a web, hitting the twelve rebels head-on. In the same motion, I wrench the guns from their hands, shredding them to pieces. Wren clings to me, holding tightly, and I feel myself pulled back and up, sliding along perfect diamondglass.

Tolly catches me, as he always does.

“And down again,” he mutters. His grip on my arm is crushing.

Wren gulps, leaning to look. Her eyes widen. “Bit farther this time.”

I know. It’s a hundred feet down sheer cliff, and then another two hundred over sloping rock to twist around to the river’s edge. In the shadow of the bridge, Father said.

In the garden, the rebels struggle, straining against my net. I feel them push and pull it, as the metal itself strains to break apart. It eats at my focus. Tungsten, I curse to myself. I need more practice.

“Let’s go,” I tell them all.

Behind me, the tungsten cracks apart into dust. A strong, heavy thing, but brittle. Without a magnetron’s hand, it breaks before it bends.

House Samos is done with both.

We will not break, and we will no longer bend.

The boats cut soundlessly through the water, gliding across the surface. We make good time. Our only obstacle is the pollution of Gray Town. The stink of it clings to my hair, still foul in my body even as we break through the second ring of barrier trees. Wren senses my discomfort and puts a hand on my bare wrist. Her healing touch clears my lungs and chases away my exhaustion. Pushing steel through water becomes tiring after a while.

Mother leans over the sleek side of my boat, trailing one hand in the flowing Capital. A few catfish rise to her touch, their whiskers twining with her fingers. The slimy beasts don’t bother her, but I shudder with disgust. She isn’t concerned by whatever they tell her, meaning they can’t sense anyone pursuing us. Her falcon overhead keeps watch as well. When the sun sets, Mother will replace him with bats. As expected, not a scratch on her, or Father. He stands at the prow of the lead boat, setting our path. A black silhouette against the blue river and green hills. His presence calms me more than the peaceful valley.

No one speaks for many miles. Not even the cousins, who I can usually count on for nonsense chatter. Instead, they focus on discarding their Security uniforms. Emblems of Norta float in our wake, while the jewel-bright medals and badges sink into darkness. Hard earned with Samos blood, marks of our allegiance and loyalty. Now lost to the depths of the river and the past.

We are not Nortans anymore.

“So it’s decided,” I murmur.

Behind me, Tolly straightens up. His ruined arm is still bandaged. Wren won’t risk regrowing an entire hand on the river. “Was there ever any doubt?”

“Was there ever a choice?” Mother turns to look over her shoulder. She moves with the lean grace of a cat, stretching out in her bright green gown. The butterflies are long gone. “A weak king we could control, but there’s no handling madness. As soon as Iral decided to oppose him outright, our play was decided for us. And choosing the Lakelander”—she rolls her eyes—“Maven cut the last bonds between our houses himself.”

I almost scoff in her face. No one decides anything for my father. But laughing at Mother is not a mistake I’m stupid enough to make. “Will the other houses back us, then? I know Father was negotiating.” Leaving his children alone, at the mercy of Maven’s increasingly volatile court. More words I would never dare say aloud to either of my parents.