the line, a challenge to the charging army. Fifty feet. Ren’s archers still fired fewer and fewer arrows. Forty. Thirty. The sword in his hand was no equal to the ancient blade he’d worn with such pride. But he’d make it work. Twenty. . Aedion sucked in a breath. The black, depthless eyes of the Morath soldiers became clear beneath their helmets. Morath’s front line angled their swords, their spears— Roaring fire blasted from the left flank. His left flank. Aedion didn’t dare take his focus off the enemy upon him, but several of the Morath soldiers did. He slaughtered them for it. Slaughtered their stunned companions, too, as they whirled toward another blast of flame. Aelin. Aelin—Soldiers behind him shouted. In triumph and relief. “Close the gap,” Aedion growled to the warriors on either side of him, and pulled back enough to see the source of their salvation, free and safe at last— It was not Aelin who unleswaned fire upon the left flank. It was not Aelin at all who had crept up through the snow-veiled river. Ships filled the Florine, near-ghosts in the swirling snows. Some bore the banners of their united fleet. But many, so many he couldn’t count, bore a cobalt flag adorned with a green sea dragon. Rolfe’s fleet. The Mycenians. Yet there was no sign of the ancient sea dragons who had once g into battle with them. Only human soldiers marched across the snow, each bearing a familiar-lookingcontraption, scarves over their mouths. Firelances. A horn blasted from the river. And then the firelances unleswaned white-hot flame into Morath’s ranks, as if they were plumes from hell. Dragons, all of them, spewing fire upon their enemy. Flame melted armor and flesh. And burned the demons that dreaded heat and light. As if they were farmers burning their reaped fields for the winter, Rolfe’s Mycenians marched onward, _firelances spewing, until they formed a line between Aedion and their enemy. Morath turned and ran. Outright sprinted, their warning cries rising above the bellowing flames. The Fire-Bringer has armed them! Her power burns anew! The fools did not realize that there was no magic—n beyond pure luck and goodTiken descended upon their camp in the night, unleswaning chaos and terror, shredding soldiers with their poison-slick claws before escaping to the skies. They ripped the ancient border-sts from their grassy hilltops as they passed into Terrasen. Barely winded, unfazed by the snow, and hardly thinned out, Morath’s army left the last of the foothills. They rushed down the hillsides, a black wave breaking over the land. Right onto the spears and shields of the Bane, the magic of the Fae soldiers keeping the power of the Valg princes at bay. It could not stand against the ilken, however. They swept through it like cobwebs in a doorway, some spewing their venom to melt the magic. Then the ilken landed, or shattered throughtheir defenses entirely. And even a shape- shifter in the form of a wyvern armed. with poisd spikes could not take them all down. Even a general-prince with an ancient sword and Fae instincts could not slice through their necks fast enough. In the chaos, no noticed that the Fire- Bringer did not appear. That not an ember of her flame glowed in the screaming night. Then the foot soldiers reached them. And that cobbled-together army began to sunder. The right flank broke first. A Valg prince unleswaned his power, men lying dead in his wake. It took Ilias of the Silent Assassins sneaking behind enemy lines to decapitate him for the slaughter to staunch. The Bane’s center lines held, yet they lost yard after yard to claws and fangs and sword and shield. So many of the enemy that the FaeYet this place seemed like a paradise. Pink and blue flowers draped from windowsills; little canals wended between some of the streets, ferrying people in bright, long boats. She’d never seen so many Fae, had never thought they’d be utterly normal. Well, as normal as possible, with their grace and those ears and cas. Along with the animals rushing around her, flitting past, so many forms she couldn’t keep track of them. All perfectly cont to go about their daily business, buying everything from crusty loaves of bread to jugs of some sort of oil to vibrant swaths of fabric. Yet ruling over everything, squatting in the palace on the eastern side of Doranelle, was Maeve. And this city, Rowan had told Elide, had been built from st to keep Brannon or any of his descendants from razing it to the ground.Elide fought the limp that grew with each step farther into the city—farther away from Gavriel’s magic. She’d left them in the forested foothills where they’d camped the night before, and Lorcan had again tried to argue against her going. But she’d rummaged through their various packs until she’d found what she needed: berries Gavriel had gathered yesterday, a spare belt and dark green cape from Rowan, a wrinkled white shirt from Lorcan, and a tiny mirror he used for shaving. She hadn’t said anything when she’d found the white strips of linen at the bottom of Lorcan’s bag. Waiting for her next cycle. She hadn’t been able to find the words, anyway. Not with what it would crumple in her chest to even think them. Elide kept her shoulders loose, though her face remained tight as she paused at the edge of a pretty little square around a burblingthe horses they’d spent precious coin to purchase because Elide wouldn’t stand a chance of keeping up with them on foot, ankle or no. And for the times when they had to lead their horses over rough terrain, Gavriel had even braced her leg with his magic, his power a warm summer breeze against her skin. She certainly wasn’t allowing Lorcan to do so for her. She would never forget the sight of him crawling after Maeve once the queen had severed the blood oath. Crawling after Maeve like a shunned lover, like a broken dog desperate for its master. Aelin had been brutalized, their very location betrayed by Lorcan to Maeve, and still he tried to follow. Right through the sand still wet with Aelin’s blood. Gavriel ate half the apple and offered Elide the rest. “You should eat, too.”As he had not detected Dorian earlier. Perhaps the raw magic in him also erased any traceable scent. Dorian bowed his head. “I had returned to my chambers, but I realized I had a lingering question, milord.” He prayed Erawan didn’t notice the different clothes. The sword that he kept half- hidden beneath his cloak. Prayed Erawan decided that Vernon had g back to his room, changed, and returned. And prayed that he spoke enough like the Lord of Perranth to be convincing. A sniveling, groveling man—the sort who’d sell his own niece to a demon king. “What is it.” Erawan stalked down the hall to his tower, a nightmare wrapped in a beautiful body. Strike him now. Kill him. And yet Dorian knew he hadn’t come herefor that. Not at all. He kept his head down, voice low. “Why?” Erawan slid golden, glowing eyes toward him. Manon’s eyes. “Why what?” “You might have made yourself lord of a dozen other territories, and yet you graced us with this . I have long wondered why.” Erawan’s eyes narrowed to slits, and Dorian kept his face the portrait of groveling curiosity. Had Vernon asked this before? A stupid gamble. If Erawan noticed the sword at his side— “My brothers and I planned to conquer this world, to add it to the trove that we'd already taken.” Erawan’s golden hair danced with the light of the torches as he walked the long hall. Dorian had a feeling that when they reached the tower at the far end, the conversation would be through. “We arrived at this encountered a surprising amount of resistance, >and they were banished back. I could do nothing less while trapped here than to repay this world for the blow they dealt us. So I will make this world into a mirror of our homeland —to honor my brothers, and to prepare it for their return.” Dorian sifted through countless lessons on the royal houses of their lands and said, “I, too, know what it is to have a brotherly rivalry.” He gave the king a simpering smile. “You killed yours,” Erawan said, bored already. “I love my brothers dearly.” The idea was laughable. Half the hallway remained until the tower door. “Will you truly decimate this world, then? All who dwell in it?” “Those who do not kneel.” Maeve, at least, wished to preserve it. To rule, but to preserve it. “Would they receive collars and rings, or athe heavens and set to shine along the simple silver band. The crown’s light danced over Manon’s face as she lifted it above her head and set it upon her unbound white hair. Even the mountain wind stopped. Yet a phantom breeze shifted the strands of Manon’s hair as the crown glowed bright, the white stars shining with cores of cobalt and ruby and amethyst. As if it had been asleep for a long, long time. And now awoke. That phantom wind pulled Manon’s hair to the side, silver strands brushing across her face. And beside him, around him, the Thirteen touched fingers to their brow in deference. In allegiance to the queen who stared down the remaining High Witches.The Crochan Queen, crowned anew. The sacred fire leaped and danced, as if in joyous welcome. Manon scooped up Bronwen’s sword, lifting it and Wind-Cleaver, and said to the Blueblood Matron, the witch appearing barely a few years older than Manon herself, “Go.” The Blueblood witch blinked, eyes wide with what could only be fear and dread. Manon jerked her chin toward the wyvern waiting behind the witch. “Tell your daughter all debts between us are paid. And she may decide what to do with you. Take that other wyvern out of here.” Manon’s grandmother bristled, iron teeth flswaning as if she’d bark a counter-command to the Blueblood Matron, but the witch was already running for her wyvern. Spared by the Crochan Queen on behalf of the daughter who had given Manon the gift ofspeaking to the Ironteeth. Within seconds, the Blueblood Matron was in the skies, the Yellowlegs witch’s wyvern soaring beside her. Leaving Manon’s grandmother al. Leaving Manon with swords raised and a crown of stars glowing upon her brow. Manon was glowing, as if the stars atop her head pulsed through her body. A wondrous and mighty beauty, like no other in the world. Like no had ever been, or would be again. And slowly, as if savoring each step, Manon stalked toward her grandmother. ea) Manon’s lips curved into a small smile while she advanced on her grandmother. Warm, dancing light flowed through her, as unfaltering as what had poured into her heart these past few bloody minutes. She did not balk. Did not fear.The crown’s w was slight, like it had been crafted of moonlight. Yet its joyous strength was a song, undimming before the sole High Witch left standing. So Manon kept walking. She left Bronwen’s sword a few feet away. Left Wind-Cleaver several feet past that. Iron nails out, teeth ready, Manon paused barely steps from her grandmother. A hateful, wasted scrap of exisce. That’s what her grandmother was. She had never realized how much shorter the Matron stood. How narrow her shoulders were, or how the years of rage and hate had withered her. Manon’s smile grew. And she could have sworn she felt people standing at her shoulder. She knew no would be there if she looked. Knew no else could see them,level, where the battering rams might come flying through if Morath got desperate enough. On the level above them, Chaol sat astride his magnificent black horse, the mare’s breath curling from her nostrils. Rowan lifted a hand in greeting, and Chaol saluted back before gazing toward the enemy army. The khaganate would make the first maneuver, the initial push to get Morath moving. “T always forget how much I hate this , Fenrys muttered. “The waiting before it begins.” Rowan grunted his agreement. Gavriel prowled up to them, Lorcan a dark storm behind him. Rowan wordlessly handed the latter the armor he’d gathered. “Courtesy of the Lord of Anielle.” Lorcan gave him a look that said he knew ”Rowan was full of shit, but began efficiently donning the armor, Gavriel doing the same. Whether the soldiers around them marked that armor, whether Chaol recognized it, no said a word. Far out, the gray sky lighing further, Morath stirred to discover the khaganate’s golden army already in place. And as a | ruk screeched its challenge, the khaganate advanced. Foot soldiers in perfect lines marched, spears out, shields locked rim to rim. The Darghan cavalry flanked either side, a force of nature ready to herd Morath to where they wanted them. And above, flapping into the skies, the rukhin readied their bows and marked their targets. “Ready now,” Chaol called out to the men of his keep. Armor clanked as men shifted, their fearstuffing itself up Rowan’s nose. This would be it—today. Whether that hope remained or fractured. Already, the awakening sky revealed siege towers being hauled toward them. Right to the wall. Far closer than Rowan had last noted when flying overhead last night. Morath, it seemed, had not been sleeping, either. The ruks would remain back with their own army, driving Morath to the keep. To be picked off here, by. “We have minutes until that first tower makes contact with the wall,” Gavriel observed. A scan of the battlements, the soldiers atop them, revealed no sign of Aelin. Lorcan indeed muttered, “Some better tell her to stop primping and get here.” Rowan snarled in warning.The clswan of armored feet and shields was as familiar as any song. Morath’s foot soldiers aimed for the keep walls, spears at the ready. At the other end of the host, soldiers faced away, spears and pikes angled to intercept the khaganate’s army. A horn blasted from deep in the khaganate ranks, and arrows flew. The mass of Morath soldiers didn’t so much as flinch or look behind to see what became of their rear lines. “Ladders,” Fenrys murmured, pointing with his chin toward the ripple through the lines. Massive siege ladders of iron ed the crowd. “They’re making this their all-out assault, then,” Lorcan said with equal quiet. All of them careful not to let the nearby men hear. “They’ll try to break into the keep before the khaganate can break them.”“Archers!” Chaol’s bellow rang out. Behind them, down the battlements, bows groaned. Fenrys unslung the bow across his back and nocked an arrow into place. Rowan kept his own bow strapped across his back, the quiver untouched, Gavriel and Lorcan doing the same. No need to waste them on a few soldiers when their aim might be needed with far worse targets later in the day. But of them had to be noted felling soldiers. For whatever it would do to rally their spirits. And Fenrys, as fine an archer as Rowan, he’d admit, would do just fine. Rowan followed the line of Fenrys’s arrowhead to where he’d marked of the bearers of a siege ladder. “Make it impressive,” he muttered. “Mind your own business,” Fenrysmuttered back, tracking his target with the tip of his arrow as he awaited Chaol’s order. If Aelin didn’t arrive within another moment, he’d have to leave the battlements to find her. What in hell had held her up? Lorcan drew his ancient blade, which Rowan had witnessed felling soldiers in states far from here, in wars far longer than this . “They’ll head for the gates when that siege tower docks,” Lorcan said, glancing from the battlements to the gate a level below, the small bastion of men in front of it. Trees had been felled to prop up the metal doors, but should a solid enough group of enemy soldiers swarm it, they might get those supports and the heavy locks down within minutes. And open the gates to the hordes beyond. “We don’t let them get that far,” Rowan said, eyeing up the massive tower lumberingcloser. Soldiers teemed behind it, waiting to scale its interior. “Chaol brought the tower down the other day without our help. It can happen again.” “Volley!” Chaol’s roar echoed off the sts, and arrows sang. Like a swarm of locusts, they swept upon the soldiers marching below. Fenrys’s arrow found its mark with lethal precision. Within a heartbeat, another was on its tail. A second soldier at the siege ladder fell. Where the hell was Aelin— Morath didn’t halt. Marched right over the soldiers who fell on their front lines. The pulse of human fear down the battlements rippled against his skin. The cadre would have to strike fast, and strike well, to shake it away. The siege tower lumbered closer. glance from Rowan had him and his friendsmoving toward the spot it would now undeniably strike upon the battlements. Close enough to the stairs down to the gate. Morath had chosen the location well. Some of the soldiers they passed were praying, a shuddering push of words into the frigid morning air. Lorcan said to of them, “Save your breath for the battle, not the gods.” Rowan shot him a look, but the man, gaping at Lorcan, quieted. Chaol ordered another volley, and arrows flew, Fenrys firing as he walked. As if he were barely bothered. Still, the whispered prayers continued down the line, swords shaking along with them. Up by Chaol, the soldiers held firm, faces solid. But here, on this level of the battlements... those faces were pale. Wide-eyed. “Some better say something inspiring,” Fenrys said through gritted teeth, firing another arrow. “Or these men are going to piss themselves in a minute.” For a minute was all they had left, as the first siege tower inched closer. “You’ve got the pretty face,’ Lorcan retorted. “You'd do a better job of it.” “Tt’s too late for speeches,” Rowan cut in before Fenrys could reply. “Better to show them what we can do.” They positid themselves on the wall. Right in the path of the bridge that would snap down over the battlement. He drew his sword, then thumbed free the hatchet at his side. Gavriel unsheathed twin blades from across his back, falling into flanking position at Rowan’s right. Lorcan planted himself on his left. Fenrys took therear, to catch any who got through their net. The mortal men clustered behind them. The gates shuddered under the impact of Morath at last. Rowan steadied his breathing, readying his magic to rip through Valg lungs. He’d fell a few with his blades first. To show how easily it could be d, that Morath was desperate and victory would be near. The magic would come later. The siege tower groaned as it slowed to a stop. Just as the wall under them shuddered at its impact, Fenrys whispered, “Holy gods.” Not at the bridge that snapped down, soldiers teeming in the dark depths inside. But at who emerged from the keep archway behind them. What emerged. Rowan didn’t know where to look. At the soldiers pouring out of the siege tower,