The Mycenians and their firelances made a quick retreat, hurrying for the longboats returning to shore.

Lysandra and Ansel ran with them, and Aedion followed suit. It was the longest sprint of his life.

But then he was at the gangplank of Rolfe’s ship, the river deep enough that they’d been able to pull up close to the shore. Lysandra, Galan, and Ansel were already past him, and Aedion had barely cleared the deck when the gangway was lifted. Below, around, the Mycenians leaped into their longboats and rowed like hell. Not a single soldier left behind. Only the dead.

Light flashed, and Aedion whirled toward the ship’s helm in time to see Lysandra shift from ghost leopard to woman, naked as the day she was born.

Rolfe, to his credit, only looked mildly surprised as she flung her arms around his neck. And to his credit once more, the Pirate Lord wrapped his cloak around her before he gripped her back.

Aedion reached them, panting and so relieved he might vomit upon the shining planks.

Rolfe let go of Lysandra, offering her his cloak completely. As the shifter wrapped it around herself, he said, “You looked like you were in need of a rescue.”

Aedion only embraced the man, then nodded toward Rolfe’s gloved hands. “I assume we have that map of yours to thank.”

“Turns out it’s good for something other than plundering.” Rolfe smirked. “Ravi and Sol of Suria intercepted us near the northern border,” he admitted. “They thought you might be in trouble—and sent us this way.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They remain with what’s left of your fleet, guarding the coast. If Morath attacks from the sea, they won’t have enough ships to stand a chance. I told them that, and they still ordered me here.” The Pirate Lord’s tan face tightened. “So here I am.”

Aedion hardly noticed the sailors and soldiers making the quick sailing to the other side of the river. “Thank you,” he breathed. And thank the gods for Ravi and Sol.

Rolfe shook his head, gazing toward the mass of Morath soldiers still retreating. “We surprised them, but it won’t hold them off for long.”

Lysandra stepped to Rolfe’s side. Aedion tried not to cringe at the sight of her bare feet and legs, her uncovered shoulders, as the bitter wind off the river bit at them. “We only need to get to Orynth and behind its walls. From there, we can regroup.”

“I can’t carry your entire army to Orynth,” Rolfe said, gesturing to the soldiers massed on the far shore. “But I can bear you there now, if you would like to arrive in advance to prepare.” The Pirate Lord studied the shore, as if looking for someone. “She’s not here, is she.”

Lysandra shook her head. “No.”

“Then we’ll make do,” was all Rolfe said, the portrait of cool command. His sea-green eyes slid to where Ansel of Briarcliff stood at the ship’s rail, staring toward the field of heads left in the snow.

None of them spoke as the young queen slid to her knees, armor thunking on the deck, and bowed her head.

Aedion murmured, “Let me send word to our troops to march to Orynth, and then we’ll sail for the city.”

“I’ll do it,” Lysandra said, not looking at him. She didn’t bother to say anything else. Cloak falling to the planks, she shifted into a falcon and aimed for where Kyllian now climbed out of a longboat. They exchanged only a few words before Kyllian turned toward Aedion and lifted a hand in farewell.

Aedion raised one in answer, and then Lysandra shifted again. When she landed on the ship, returning to her human form and snatching up the cloak, it was to Ansel that she walked.

In silence, the shifter laid a hand on the queen’s armored shoulder. Ansel didn’t so much as glance up.

Aedion asked Rolfe, “How many of those firelances do you have?”

The Pirate Lord drew his gaze from Ansel to the black mass fading behind them. His mouth tightened. “Not enough to outlast a siege.”

And even the firelances would do nothing, absolutely nothing, once the witch towers reached Orynth’s walls.

CHAPTER 64

Hours later, Yrene was still shaking.

At the disaster they’d narrowly avoided, at the deaths she’d witnessed before that wave had struck, at the power of the queen on the plain. The power of the prince who had prevented the ensuing steam from boiling alive any caught in its path.

Yrene had thrown herself back into healing during the chaos since. Had left the royals and their commanders to oversee the aftermath, and had returned to the Great Hall. Healers drifted onto the battlefield, searching for those in need of help.

All of them, every single person in the keep or the skies or on the battlefield, kept glancing toward the now-empty gap between two mountain peaks. Toward the flooded, decimated city, and the demarcation line between life and death. Water and debris had destroyed most of Anielle, the former now trickling toward the Silver Lake.

A vision of what would have been left of them, were it not for Aelin Galathynius.

Yrene knelt over a ruk rider, the woman’s chest slashed open from a sword blow, and held out her bloodied, glowing hands.

Magic, clean and bright, flowed from her into the woman, mending torn skin and muscle. The blood loss would take time to recover from—but the woman had not lost so much of it that Yrene needed to expend her energy on refilling its levels.

She needed to rest soon. For a few hours.

She’d been asked to inspect the queen when she’d been carried in to a private chamber by Prince Rowan, the two of them borne off the plain by Nesryn. Yrene hadn’t been able to stop her hands from shaking as she’d hovered them over Aelin’s unconscious body.

There had been no sign of harm beyond a few already-healing cuts and slices from the battle itself. Nothing at all beyond a sleeping, tired woman.

Who held the might of a god within her veins.

Yrene had then inspected Prince Rowan, who looked in far worse shape, a sizable gash snaking down his thigh. But he’d waved her off, claiming he’d come too near a burnout, and just needed to rest as well.

So Yrene had left them, only to tend to another.

To Lorcan, whose injuries … Yrene had needed to summon Hafiza to help her with some of it. To lend her power, since Yrene’s had been so depleted.

The unconscious warrior, who had apparently tumbled right off Farasha as he and Elide had passed through the gates, didn’t so much as stir while they worked on him.

That had been hours ago. Days ago, it felt.

Yes, she needed to rest.

Yrene aimed for the water station in the back of the hall, her mouth dry as paper. Some water, some food, and perhaps a nap. Then she’d be ready to work again.

But a horn, clear and bright, blared from outside.

Everyone halted—then rushed to the windows. Yrene’s smile grew as she, too, found a place to peek out over the battlefield.

To where the rest of the khagan’s army, Prince Kashin at its front, marched toward them.

Thank the gods. Everyone in the hall muttered similar words.

From the keep, an answering horn sang its welcome.

Not just one army had been spared here today, Yrene realized as she turned back to the water station. If that wave had reached Kashin …

Lucky. They had all been so, so very lucky.

Yet Yrene wondered how long that luck would last.