Page 116

My words are accompanied by powerful hoofbeats as I gallop back the other way.

“It is in our strength when we sacrifice whatever we must to protect that which is worth protecting. And it is in our hearts when we allow redemption to flow through us like a river carving down a mountain. That is magic, and Sira can never take it from us. For when we stand together, it blooms within us in all its radiance.”

I inhale, eyes searching the ranks. Seeing, truly seeing, the brave men and women willing to die with me today.

“And tonight, we will show Sira just how brightly we shine.”

A voice cries out, followed by another, then another, until it is as if all the voices of Winter are calling out together. Spears quake, shields rattle, and we are as thunderous and terrible as any tempest. Rosalina’s voice rings out as she thrusts her bow in the air, light catching and twinkling around her like starfall.

I draw the Sword of the Protector, reforged by my brother, and hold it up to the emerging moonlight. And with a crack of the reins, I roar, “For the Vale!”

My steed takes off down the sloped ridge as if he were a comet. We race out before the soldiers, but I hear the crashing sound of the Kryodian Riders behind me and the clank of soldiers farther back.

An owl screeches. Above me, Rosalina sails past, her golden wings fluttering. She’s flanked by a flock of snowy owls: Deep Guard and Tundrafolk who have retained the ability to shift after Rosalina rescued them with her powers on Voidseal Bridge.

I feel as if I am wind itself, my heart thundering in time with the hoofbeats. Sira’s forces have formed ranks, sheltering her behind the empty moat and amid the remains of Castletree. There are thousands of them: goblin squadrons, troll and ogre ranks, gargoyle and harpy aerial units. Their hideous faces contort as I get closer, my forces erupting over the ruins of the Briar like a storm rolling across the tundra. The air grows cool around me. Do they feel it? Does their blood turn to ice as their death approaches?

The first enemy line falls to their knees and holds up bows. A barrage of arrows—goblin kind, with wayward fletching—shoots into the air. I tear my gaze skyward. Rosalina and her owl guard…

Rosalina doesn’t slow. An arrow strikes one of the snowy owls. Rosalina’s lip curls into a sneer as she claws her arm upward. A forest of briars erupts straight out of the ground, curling over her. The arrows lodge harmlessly in the briars, then Rosalina and her owls burst out of them, continuing their flight. There’s a flash of gold as an arrow materializes in her hand. She draws it back in her bow.

Now they’ll learn what happens when they piss off my wife.

Rosalina’s golden arrow flies forward into the quadrant of archers. An explosion of white fire erupts. Goblin bodies are flung into the air.

That white fire feels as if it’s erupting in my heart. A frenzy sends my pulse rushing, my head spinning, and I crack the reins again, urging my steed faster, harder. My sword craves blood, and I will honor its request. I will cut a line through these ranks like a blade through the snow, straight to Sira. Then she will answer for what she did to my parents. To my uncle. To her son, the mate of my mate and the love of my life. She will answer for what she has done to me.

Mud sprays up with each hoofbeat. The fading red light and growing shine of the moon reflect in the enemy’s eyes as I get closer. They lower their shields and hold out spears, preparing for my assault.

But they are not prepared.

I crash upon them like an avalanche down a mountain. The Sword of the Protector glints with deadly purpose as I break their shields, slice their spears, and remove their heads. My reindeer rears, then strikes, crushing their skulls beneath his hoofs. The smell of blood whips into my nose, only making the battle lust within my heart rage all the louder.

A clatter sounds as the Kryodian Riders enter the fray, followed by the rest of Winter’s army. An ogre lumbers toward me, wielding a net filled with rocks as a club. Startled, Arktos bellows and rears. I clutch the reins, tensing for the blow as the ogre winds his arm⁠—

Dirt and mud spray up as an enormous mole erupts out of the ground. The Elderblood upon its back gives a cry and lunges, spearing the ogre. The ogre’s eyes roll up, and it falls with a seismic thud. I nod to the Elderblood, then swivel to relieve a host of goblins of their heads.

All around me, more and more mole riders spring from the earth, Faustrius’s people truthful to their word.

Light flashes in the distance, and I know it’s a blast from Rosalina and her radiant bow. I catch sight of her swooping above, golden briars curling into the air at her command as they entangle gargoyles and harpies. One by one, her snowy owls change form, descending from the sky as Deep Guard and Tundrafolk fae. Two of them land on the shoulders of a troll pushing a giant trebuchet, stabbing directly into its neck. My heart beats with extra courage. My uncle trained many of these fighters. It’s as if he’s fighting at my side.

“Watch out for the war machines!” a high-pitched voice cries, and I see Aquila nearby, her spear already dripping with blood.

I peer through the chaos of battle, where hosts of grinjaws and ogres pull catapults and ballistae forward. They’re coming from the outskirts of the battlefield, trying to pin our soldiers in. A few hits of those and our own ranks would be decimated⁠—

“Rosalina!” I scream, looking skyward. “Take the machines down!”

She flutters closer. A briar whips out at my side, stabbing through the skull of an approaching goblin. “I can’t! The mole riders are too close. I could hit them.”

I swear, then pull on the reins, spinning my steed. There. A trail of ice follows behind me as I cut my way to Eirik Vargsaxa, my steward and the leader of the Kryodian Riders. His blond hair is streaked with blood, matching his moose’s antlers.

“Eirik!” I roar. “Take your riders! Bring those machines down!”

Eirik whistles, and Winter’s elite force surges to his side. They stampede in the opposite direction from me.

I return to fighting inward. Toward Sira. She’s somewhere amid the rubble of Castletree⁠—

A yawning scream sounds through the air. I look over my shoulder. One of the ogres has let the catapult loose, but it’s not rocks or stone within. It’s dark pools of nothingness. Cannonballs made of the void. Sira’s shadows.