Page 289 of The Edge of Darkness

the fate of all to the fate of one.

A flame of light, a flame of dark,

a golden shroud brought from a spark.

A piece is lost, and then its worn,

stars and ash bring forth the storm.

Two great powers to bring the change,

the gods will rise upon a new age.

First light broke the horizon with a flood of red.

We stood beyond The Veil, staring out across the barren land that was pocked with craters and strewn with crumbling boulders. In the distance, thousands upon thousands of sinister creatures waited. They gnashed their teeth and claws against the invisible line that held their ranks in place. Shrieks and ear-splitting howls rang throughout the expanse like a death chime.

At our backs, legions of soldiers from every fae territory stood together as one, lining the foothills of the mountains like an extension of Calledan itself. Their presence was an electric force of strength and power that could be felt through the stone at my feet.

Every one of them was adorned in wartime attire befitting their court. The Calledanian soldiers donned sleek helms, form-fitting black leathers, and pristine, black armor with the territory’s gold sigil emblazoned over their chests. The Elandrians wore silver armor and dark green cloaks, their skilled archers sporting intricately carved breastplates and vambraces. Silver armor was also worn by the Drastians, whose crisp, white cloaks hung at various lengths, signifying their ranks, the head of a wolf embossed on the fabric.

Benmoor and Vahrenhall’s attire was truly unique. The Benmoori soldiers were dressed not in armor, but in fitted leather vests and loose pants, which were strategically tucked into calf-high boots and cinched at the waist with orange and gold sashes. Sheets of gold chain mail hung from their pointed helmets, guarding the soldiers’ faces. The Vahrish wore tailored brigandines over simple, sleeveless tunics, with heavy leather belts carrying multiple weapons. Their thick wooden shields, painted with gray and blue runes, acted as a source of protection and as a war drum. Both territories favored bare arms and the ancient ways, and that didn’t change just because they were going to war.

I looked past Calledan’s archers to the front lines of Vanir’s troops, all of whom bore faces with painted runes. Somewhere in their ranks, a war drum began beating. The soldiers struck their blades against their shields in time with the beat.

Every territory’s banners snapped in the wind, a flicker of color against a field of gray, a flash of hope to beat back the darkness.

We were all running on little sleep, but the adrenaline was enough to fuel us ten times over.

Aremis had been right. There was no rest before war.

I glanced back at the statues of the brother warriors carved into the mountains of Calledan. Their bodies were poised to launch, as if they would break away from the stone and drive their blades into the hearts of our enemies. It was a fitting backdrop to our final stand against Lyceius.

Niall’s shadows pulsed around us, bringing my attention back to him. He stood at my left, with Aremis at his other side, both of them tense and focused.

Roirdan, who stood firm at my right, flanked by Remic, was practically chomping at the bit beneath the helm he wore. He was more than ready to unleash hell upon our enemies. When a figure stepped past the front lines across the field, he honed in on it like a hawk. “He’s here,” he said, voice rough.

I squinted at the figure dressed in black. Lyceius. His pointed pauldrons rose from his shoulders like spikes, and his silver hair rustled in the wind as he stared at us, surveying the breadth of our armies. I couldn’t make out his expression, but I had a feeling he was smirking.

Surprisingly, Skadi was nowhere to be seen.

I wasn’t entirely sure what was supposed to happen next, so I waited, willing my nerves to settle as I stared out at countless beings, all of whom were my opponents.

I’d expected to feel an adrenaline rush similar to the ones I would get before a sword fight. But this felt . . . strange. It felt like a story I should be reading in a book, or a memory that some old, wise warrior should be telling around a fire. The fluttering inside me wasn’t from the excitement of a challenge. This time, it was from knowing that what was about to unfold was history in the making, and how it would be written was all up to me.

My power rose to the surface, a rush of starlight, a cold burn—alert and attentive—recognizing that something of significance was about to unfold.

A call to attention carried through the air from Lyceius’s forces, and the creatures shifted on their feet, eager to launch.

This was it. This was really happening.

Guilt tugged at my chest as I heard the calls of our own warriors echo down the lines to my right and left. Part of me felt like if I had just accepted Lyceius’s terms and given myself over to him, these fae wouldn’t need to risk their lives. There would be no war. But I had to remind myself that if Lyceius had his way, if he had me, there would be no one capable of taking him down. The fae would still end up fighting against him, but they would be fighting a lost cause.

It would cost lives, yes. But this was the only way to truly defeat him and rid the realms of his corruption.

As long as I prevailed.

I grazed the pommel of my sword with my hand. Considering where I was standing now, it might as well have been a different lifetime when my father gave me this weapon. It had seen plenty of sword fights, countless training sessions, and a king’s competition. It had sliced open enemies, vile creatures, and even a High Lord. Now, it hung steady at my hip, ready for war.