Snow half blinded Nesryn, but Salkhi swept toward the peaks, staying high. Borte and Arcas came in from the north, little more than dark shadows amid the whipping white.

Far behind them, out in the valley plain beyond the Gap, one half of their army waited, the ruks with them. Waited for Nesryn and Borte, along with the other scouts who had gone out, to report back that the time was ripe to attack. They’d made the river crossing under cover of darkness last night, and those the ruks could not carry had been brought over on boats.

A precarious position to be in, on that plain before the Gap. The Avery forked at their backs, effectively hemming them in. Much of it had been frozen, but not nearly thick enough to risk crossing on foot. Should this battle go poorly, there would be nowhere to run.

Nesryn nudged Salkhi, coming around the Northern Fang from the southern side. Far below, the whirling snows cleared enough to reveal what seemed to be a back gate into the mountain. No sign of sentries or any wyverns.

Perhaps the weather had driven them all inside.

She glanced southward, into the Fangs. But there was no sign of the second half of their army, marching north through the peaks themselves to come at the Gap from the western entrance. A far more treacherous journey than the one they’d made.

But if they timed it right, if they drew out the host in the Gap onto the plain just before the others arrived from the west, they might crush Morath’s forces between them. And that was without the unleashed power of Aelin Galathynius. And her consort and court.

Salkhi arced around the Northern Fang. Distantly, Nesryn could make out Borte doing the same around the Omega. But there was no sign of their enemy.

And when Nesryn and Borte did another pass through the Ferian Gap, even going so far as to soar between the two peaks, they found no sign, either.

As if the enemy had vanished.

The White Fangs were utterly unforgiving.

The wild men who led them kept the mountains from being fatal, knowing which passes might be wiped out by snow, which might have an unsteady ice shelf, which were too open to any eyes flying overhead. Even with the army trailing behind, Chaol marveled at the speed of their travel, at how, after three days, they cleared the mountains themselves and stepped onto the flat, snow-blasted western plains beyond.

He’d never set foot in the territory, though it was technically his. The official border of Adarlan claimed the plains past the Fangs for a good distance before they yielded to the unnamed territories of the Wastes. But it still felt like the Wastes, eerily quiet and sprawling, a strange expanse that stretched, unbreaking, to the horizon.

Even the stoic khaganate warriors did not look too long toward the Wastes at their left as they rode northward. At night, they huddled closer to their fires.

All of them did. Yrene clung a bit tighter at night, whispering about the strangeness of the land, its hollow silence. As if the land itself does not sing, she’d said a few times now, shuddering as she did.

A far better place, Chaol thought as they rode northward, skirting the edge of the Fangs on their right, for Erawan to make his empire. Hell, they might have given it to him if he’d set up his fortress deep on the plain and kept to it.

“We’re a day out from the Gap,” one of the wild men—Kai—said to Chaol as they rode through an unusually sunny morning. “We’ll camp south of the Northern Fang tonight, and tomorrow morning’s march will take us into the Gap itself.”

There was another reason the wild men had allied with them, beyond the territory they stood to gain. Witches had hunted their kind this spring—entire clans and camps left in bloody ribbons. Many had been reduced to cinders, and the few survivors had whispered of a dark-haired woman with unholy power. Chaol was willing to bet it had been Kaltain, but had not told the wild men that particular threat, at least, had been erased. Or had incinerated herself in the end.

It wouldn’t matter to them anyway. Of the two hundred or so wild men who had joined their army since they’d left Anielle, all had come to the Ferian Gap to extract vengeance on the witches. On Morath. Chaol refrained from mentioning that he himself had killed one of their kind almost a year ago.

It might as well have been a decade ago, for all that had happened since he’d killed Cain during his duel with Aelin. Yulemas was still weeks away—if they survived long enough to celebrate it.

Chaol said to the slim, bearded man, who made up for his lack of his clansmen’s traditional bulk with quick wit and sharp eyes, “Is there a place that might hide an army this large tonight?”

Kai shook his head. “Not this close. Tonight will be the greatest risk.”

Chaol glanced to the distant healers’ wagons where Yrene rode, working on any soldiers who had fallen ill or injured on the trek. He hadn’t seen her since they’d awoken, but he’d known she’d spent their ride today healing—the tightness in his spine grew with each mile.

“We’ll just have to pray,” said Chaol, turning to the towering mountain taking shape before them.

“The gods don’t come to these lands,” was all Kai said before he fell back with a group of his own people.

A horse eased up beside his own, and he found Aelin bundled in a fur-lined cloak, a hand on Goldryn’s hilt. Gavriel rode behind her, Fenrys at his side. The former kept an eye upon the western plains; the latter monitoring the wall of peaks to their right. Both golden-haired Fae males remained silent, however, as Aelin frowned at Kai’s disappearing form. “That man has a flair for the dramatic that should have earned him a place on some of Rifthold’s finest stages.”

“Fine praise indeed, coming from you.”

She winked, patting Goldryn’s ruby pommel. The stone seemed to flare in response. “I know a kindred spirit when I see one.”

Despite the battle that waited ahead, Chaol chuckled.

But then Aelin said, “Rowan and the cadre have been tunneling into their power for the past few days.” She nodded over her shoulder to Fenrys and Gavriel, then to where Rowan rode at the head of the company, the Fae Prince’s silver hair bright as the sun-on-snow around them. “So have I. We’ll make sure nothing harms this army tonight.” A knowing glance toward the healers’ wagons. “Certain areas will be especially guarded.”

Chaol nodded his thanks. Having Aelin able to use her powers, having her companions wielding them, too, would make the battle far, far easier. Wyverns might not even be able to get close enough to touch their soldiers if Aelin could blast them from the skies, or Rowan could snap their wings with a gust of wind. Or just rip the air from their lungs.

He’d seen enough of Fenrys’s and Gavriel’s fighting in Anielle to know that even without as much magic, they’d be lethal. And Lorcan … Chaol didn’t look over his shoulder to where Lorcan and Elide rode. The dark warrior’s powers weren’t anything Chaol ever wished to face.

With an answering nod, Aelin trotted to Rowan’s side, the ruby in Goldryn’s hilt like a small sun. Fenrys followed, guarding the queen’s back even amongst allies. Yet Gavriel remained, guiding his horse beside Farasha. The black mare eyed the warrior’s roan gelding, but made no move to bite him. Thank the gods.

The Lion gave him a slight smile. “I did not have the chance to congratulate you on your happy news.”