The Rebels of Gold (Loom Saga #3)(40)

It was madness. The world could be moments from ending, and Florence wore a smile at the gesture of her teacher and friend.

“Let’s go fight some Dragons.” Florence began moving again.

“Let’s hope we don’t have to.” Arianna murmured under her breath. And, just like that, Florence was once more confused by the woman. Did she want to protect Dragons now? What had happened on Nova?

They emerged from the doors of the five-towered hall and into the rubble and chaos of the ground below. Men and women scampered to find places to hide. Revolvers held their backs against stones and beams of steel, loaded guns in hand. Florence looked up behind her at the tower, seeing the glint of gun barrels sticking from windows.

The Vicar Revolver stood atop the sloping road that led into the Hall of Ter.0. His arms folded across his chest and his eyes squinted at the sky. He was not the same man who had occupied the tribunal. Gregory was gone, and only the vicar remained in his place.

“You don’t listen, do you?” The man glanced over his shoulder at her.

“I think my petulance is endearing.” Florence grinned, selecting a few canisters she had made that morning.

“At least someone does.” Gregory frowned disapprovingly. “Get back inside. I can’t have you being a liability.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m only here to help.” Florence drew her gun. She knew she was pushing the limits. But she wasn’t about to be ordered away and pushed around. She squinted up at the whitewashed sky, speaking before the vicar could. “What’re they doing?”

“Flying out of range,” Arianna responded, sparing Florence from having to endure another response from Gregory.

One glider broke away from the other two, veering down and away from the wide loop it had been making. The vicar rose a hand as it descended about halfway, just within range. The world was suddenly so heavy with silence that she could hear the collective chorus of guns cocking.

“Listen to me, girl,” the vicar muttered. “Don’t get us all killed now.”

Florence barely refrained from pointing out that she may have been the one who saved Loom by uniting them all. It was a hard line to walk, being a nobody but aspiring to be a someone.

The Rider looped around a few times, looking down at the terrain, each time a little lower. It started its final descent on a trajectory that had them landing with an explosion of color on the dusty ground as the glider touched down lightly. The Dragon didn’t move. She stayed exactly where she was, hands on the golden handles of the glider.

It was those handles that funneled magic strategically through and around the Dragon’s body, into her feet, and the gold platform on which she stood. A shimmer of gold, like the scales of one of the great southeastern sea snakes, lit up across the Rider’s body, forming a corona. It was only the second time Florence had ever seen one, the first being the last time Riders had descended on Mercury Town and brought chaos with them.

It was a field metal and bullets could not penetrate—a field only broken by the strongest of magic, more than any Fenthri had ever mustered. And just like that, it made them all helpless before the Rider.

Arianna took a half-step closer in her direction. Florence watched with equal parts fascination and discomfort as claws grew from her fingertips. The skin of the Dragon hands she had acquired on Nova was so pale that it could almost be mistaken for gray, and there was a sort of willing blindness Florence had mustered toward them.

She couldn’t determine if the blue was identical to Cvareh’s color or not.

“Arianna,” the Rider finally said. The Dragon did not call for a vicar or the leader. She called for Arianna. “Our king wishes to speak with you.”

“Yveun is here?” Arianna’s voice was nothing more than a whisper. A whisper that could well be the voice of death.

“Yveun’Dono, knave.”

“He is not our king.” Florence raised her gun. She didn’t care if her shot would be pointless. She would distract the woman while Arianna attacked. She would catch the corona the second it exhausted. She would have the satisfaction of finally pulling the trigger on a Dragon, if nothing else. “He is yours. And he is not welcome on Loom.”

“Florence,” the vicar hissed. “Do not act out of turn.”

Florence didn’t move, keeping her stance. Someone had to threaten the Dragons, had to show Loom’s claws.

The woman tilted her head with an unnerving jilt to sweep her eyes from Arianna to Florence. Her mouth spread wide, like a crescent moon, and gleamed with razor-sharp teeth. “What a bold child.”

“I am not a child,” Florence insisted.

“Spoken like a child.” The Rider scoffed and looked back to Arianna. “Tell your warriors to put down their weapons.”

“Not my call.” Arianna still held up her hand, claws out.

“Interesting . . .” The Rider’s attention turned back to Florence, rather than the vicar at her side. “Is it yours?”

“It’s mine.” Vicar Gregory took a step. Sure, now he wanted to be threatening.

The Rider tilted their head in the other direction and made a noise that could be interpreted as a snort at the vicar. “What is your name, girl?”

“Florence.” She hated answering to “girl” but the sooner she gave the Rider a name, the sooner she could hope for her to use it.