Damaris’s warmth held steady.

Dorian swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “When the Wyrdgate is sealed, will I be able to open this sort of portal again?” Will I be able to see you, seek your counsel?

Gavin faded. “I don’t know.” He added quietly, “But I hope so.”

Dorian put a hand over his heart and bowed deeply.

And as Gavin disappeared into the snow and sun, Dorian could have sworn the king bowed back.

Minutes later, when wings blotted out the sun, no one noticed the lone wyvern that rose from Oakwald and fell into line with the teeming host.

CHAPTER 84

There was no armor left in the castle’s depleted arsenal. And none would have fit wyverns anyway.

What had survived Adarlan’s occupation or been acquired since its fall had been distributed, and though Prince Aedion had offered to have a blacksmith weld sheets of metal to form breastplates, Manon had taken one look at the repurposed doors they’d use and known they would be too heavy. Against the Ironteeth legion, speed and agility would be their greatest allies.

So they would head into battle as they always had: with nothing but their blades, their iron teeth and nails, and their cunning.

Standing on a large balcony atop the uppermost tower of the castle of Orynth, Morath’s army spread far below, Manon watched the rising sun and knew it could very well be her last.

But the Thirteen, many of them leaning against the balcony rail, did not look eastward.

No, their attention was on the enemy, stirring in the rising light. Or on the two Crochans who stood with Manon, brooms in hand and swords already strapped across their backs.

It had not been a shock to see Bronwen arrive this morning dressed for battle. But Manon had paused when Glennis emerged with a sword, hair braided back.

They had already gone over the details. And had done so thrice last night. And now, in the light of the breaking day, they lingered atop the ancient tower.

Far out, deep in Morath’s teeming ranks, a horn rang out.

Slowly, a great beast awakening from a deep sleep, Morath’s host began to move.

“It’s about time,” Asterin muttered beside Manon, her braided hair bound with a strip of leather across her brow.

Ironteeth wyverns became airborne, lumbering against the weight of their armor.

It wouldn’t win the day, though. No, the Ironteeth, after a heavy start, soon filled the skies. A thousand at least. Where the Ferian Gap host was, Manon didn’t want to know. Not yet.

On the towers of the castle, on the roofs of the city and along the battlement walls, the Crochan army straightened their brooms at their sides, ready for the signal to fly.

A signal from Bronwen, from the carved horn at her side. The horn was cracked and browned with age, the symbols carved into it so worn they were barely visible.

Noting Manon’s stare, Bronwen said, “A relic from the old kingdom. It belonged to Telyn Vanora, a young, untried warrior during the last days of the war, who was near the gates when Rhiannon fell. My ancestor.” She ran a hand over the horn. “She blew this horn to warn our people that Rhiannon had been killed, and to flee the city. Just after she got out the warning call, the Blueblood Matron slaughtered her. But it gave our people enough time to run. To survive.” Silver lined Bronwen’s dark eyes. “It is my honor to blow this horn again today. Not to warn our people, but to rally them.”

None of the Thirteen looked Bronwen’s way, but Manon knew they heard each word.

Bronwen put a hand on her leather breastplate. “Telyn is here today. In the hearts of every Crochan who got out, who made it this far. All of them who fell in the witch wars are with us, even if we cannot see them.”

Manon thought of those two presences she’d felt while fighting the Matrons and knew Bronwen’s words to be true.

“It is for them that we fight,” Bronwen said, her stare falling to the approaching army. “And for the future we stand to gain.”

“A future we all stand to gain,” Manon said, and met the eyes of the Thirteen. Though they did not smile, the fierceness in their faces spoke enough.

Manon turned to Glennis. “You truly intend to fight?”

Glennis nodded, firm and unyielding. “Five hundred years ago, my mother chose the future of the royal bloodline over fighting beside her loved ones. And though she never regretted her choice, the weight of what she left behind wore on her. I have carried her burden my entire life.” The crone gestured to Bronwen, then to Asterin. “All of us who fight here today do so with someone standing invisible behind us.”

Asterin’s gold-flecked black eyes softened a bit. “Yes,” was all Manon’s Second said as her hand drifted to her abdomen.

Not in memory of the hateful word branded there, of what had been done to her.

In memory of the stillborn witchling who had been thrown by Manon’s grandmother into the fire before Asterin had a chance to hold her.

In memory of the hunter whom Asterin had loved, as no Ironteeth ever had loved a man, and had never gone back to, for shame and fear. The hunter who had never stopped waiting for her to return, even when he was an old man.

For them, for the family she had lost, Manon knew her Second would fight today. So it might never happen again.

Manon would fight today to make sure it never did, too.

“So we come to it after five hundred years,” said Glennis, her voice unwavering yet distant, as if pulled into the depths of memory. The rising sun bathed the white walls of Orynth in gold. “The final stand of the Crochans.”

As if the words themselves were a signal, Bronwen lifted the horn of Telyn Vanora to her lips and blew.

Most believed the Florine River flowed down from the Staghorns, right past the western edge of Orynth before cutting across the lowlands.

But most didn’t know that the ancient Fae King had built his city wisely, digging sewers and subterranean streams that carried the fresh mountain water directly into the city itself. All the way beneath the castle.

A torch lifted high, Lysandra peered into one of those underground waterways, the dark water eddying as it flowed through the stone tunnel and out the city walls. Her breath curled in front of her as she said to the group of Bane soldiers who’d accompanied her, “Lock the grate once I’m out.”

A grunt was her only confirmation.

Lysandra frowned at the heavy iron grate across the subterranean river, the metal bands as thick as her forearm. It had been Lord Murtaugh who’d suggested this particular route of attack, his knowledge of the waterways beneath the city and castle beyond even Aedion’s awareness.

Lysandra braced herself for the plunge, knowing the water would be cold. Beyond cold.

But Morath was moving, and if she did not get into position soon, she might very well be too late.

“Gods be with you,” one of the Bane soldiers said.

Lysandra gave the man a tight smile. “And with you all.”

She didn’t let herself reconsider. She just walked right off the stone ledge.

The plunge was swift, bottomless. The cold ripped the air from her lungs, but she was already shifting, light and heat filling her body as her bones warped, as skin vanished. Her magic pulsed, draining quickly at the expenditure making this body required, but then it was done.

Distantly, above the surface, the Bane swore. Whether in fear or awe, she didn’t care.