The click of Seraphina’s safety being disengaged was the loudest sound in Aethelgard. It cut through the howling wind and the ringing in Astra’s ears like a shard of glass.
"The problem with fairy tales, Astra," Seraphina purred, her finger tightening on the silver plated trigger, "is that the scavenger never realizes she’s just a plot device. You weren't meant to survive the fall. You were meant to be the tragic motivation for Dante’s next war."
Astra’s fingers dug into the cold marble of the balcony. Her body was screaming. Her shoulder was a mess of fire and bone, and the silver nitrate she’d absorbed from Dante was turning her veins into rivers of acid. But as she looked at Dante’s still, human face, a cold, Lunar rage eclipsed the pain.
"I’m not a plot device," Astra rasped, her si
