Her silvery falcon’s wings wrangled the bitter wind, setting her soaring with a speed that shot liquid lightning through her heart. Beyond the ghost leopard, this form had become a favorite. Swift, sleek, vicious—this body had been built to ride the winds, to run down prey.

The snow had stopped, but the sky remained gray, not a hint of the sun to warm them. The cold was a secondary concern, made bearable by her layers of feathers.

For long miles, she flew and flew, scanning the empty terrain. Villages they had passed through during the summer had been emptied, their inhabitants fleeing north. She prayed they’d found safe harbor before the snows, that the magic-wielders within those villages got far from Morath’s nets. There had been a girl in one of the towns who had been blessed with a powerful water gift—had she and her family been taken in behind Orynth’s thick walls?

Lysandra caught an updraft and soared higher, the horizon revealing more of itself. The first of the foothills passed below, ridges of light and shadow under the cloudy sky. Getting the army over them would not be a simple task, but the Bane had fought near here before. They undoubtedly knew the path through, despite the snowdrifts piled high in the hollows.

The wind screamed, shoving northward. As if warding her from flying south. Begging her not to continue.

Hills crowned with stones appeared—the ancient border markings. She swept past them. A few hours lingered until darkness fell. She’d fly until night and cold rendered her unable, and find some tree to hunker down in until she could resume scouting at dawn.

She sailed farther south, the horizon bleak and empty.

Until it wasn’t.

Until she beheld what marched toward them and nearly tumbled from the sky.

Ren had taught her how to count soldiers, yet she lost track each time she attempted to get a number on the neat lines stomping across Adarlan’s northern plains. Right toward the foothills that spanned both territories.

Thousands. Five, ten, fifteen thousand. More.

Again and again, she stumbled on counting. Twenty, thirty.

Lysandra rose higher into the sky. Higher, because winged ilken flew with them, soaring low over the black-armored troops, monitoring all that passed below.

Forty. Fifty.

Fifty thousand troops, overseen by ilken.

And amongst them, on horseback, rode beautiful-faced young men. Black collars at their throats, above their armor.

Valg princes. Five in total, each commanding a legion.

Lysandra counted the force again. Thrice.

Fifty thousand troops. Against the twenty-five thousand they had gathered.

One of the ilken spotted her and flapped upward.

Lysandra banked hard and swept back north, wings beating like hell.

The two armies met in the snow-covered fields of southern Terrasen.

Terrasen’s general-prince had ordered them to wait, rather than rush to meet Morath’s legions. To let Erawan’s hordes exhaust themselves on the foothills, and to send an advance force of the Silent Assassins to pick off soldiers struggling amid the bumps and hollows.

Only some of the assassins returned.

The dark power of the Valg princes swept ahead, devouring all in their path.

And still, the Fire-Bringer did not blast the Valg to ash. Did nothing but ride at her cousin’s side.

Ilken descended upon their camp in the night, unleashing chaos and terror, shredding soldiers with their poison-slick claws before escaping to the skies.

They ripped the ancient border-stones from their grassy hilltops as they passed into Terrasen.

Barely winded, unfazed by the snow, and hardly thinned out, Morath’s army left the last of the foothills.

They rushed down the hillsides, a black wave breaking over the land. Right onto the spears and shields of the Bane, the magic of the Fae soldiers keeping the power of the Valg princes at bay.

It could not stand against the ilken, however. They swept through it like cobwebs in a doorway, some spewing their venom to melt the magic.

Then the ilken landed, or shattered through their defenses entirely. And even a shape-shifter in the form of a wyvern armed with poisoned spikes could not take them all down.

Even a general-prince with an ancient sword and Fae instincts could not slice through their necks fast enough.

In the chaos, no one noticed that the Fire-Bringer did not appear. That not an ember of her flame glowed in the screaming night.

Then the foot soldiers reached them.

And that cobbled-together army began to sunder.

The right flank broke first. A Valg prince unleashed his power, men lying dead in his wake. It took Ilias of the Silent Assassins sneaking behind enemy lines to decapitate him for the slaughter to staunch.

The Bane’s center lines held, yet they lost yard after yard to claws and fangs and sword and shield. So many of the enemy that the Fae royals and their kin couldn’t choke the air from their throats fast enough, widely enough. Whatever advances the Fae’s magic bought them did not slow Morath for long.

Morath’s beasts pushed them northward that first day. And into the night.

And at dawn the next day.

By nightfall on the second, even the Bane’s line had buckled.

Still Morath did not stop coming.

CHAPTER 23

Elide had never seen such a place as Doranelle.

The City of Rivers, they called it. She’d never imagined that a city could be built in the heart of several as they met and poured into a mighty basin.

She didn’t let the awe show on her face as she strode through the winding, neat streets.

Fear was another companion that she kept at bay. With the Fae’s heightened sense of smell, they could detect things like emotion. And though a good dose of fear would aid in her cover, too much would spell her doom.

Yet this place seemed like a paradise. Pink and blue flowers draped from windowsills; little canals wended between some of the streets, ferrying people in bright, long boats.

She’d never seen so many Fae, had never thought they’d be utterly normal. Well, as normal as possible, with their grace and those ears and canines. Along with the animals rushing around her, flitting past, so many forms she couldn’t keep track of them. All perfectly content to go about their daily business, buying everything from crusty loaves of bread to jugs of some sort of oil to vibrant swaths of fabric.

Yet ruling over everything, squatting in the palace on the eastern side of Doranelle, was Maeve. And this city, Rowan had told Elide, had been built from stone to keep Brannon or any of his descendants from razing it to the ground.

Elide fought the limp that grew with each step farther into the city—farther away from Gavriel’s magic. She’d left them in the forested foothills where they’d camped the night before, and Lorcan had again tried to argue against her going. But she’d rummaged through their various packs until she’d found what she needed: berries Gavriel had gathered yesterday, a spare belt and dark green cape from Rowan, a wrinkled white shirt from Lorcan, and a tiny mirror he used for shaving.

She hadn’t said anything when she’d found the white strips of linen at the bottom of Lorcan’s bag. Waiting for her next cycle. She hadn’t been able to find the words, anyway. Not with what it would crumple in her chest to even think them.

Elide kept her shoulders loose, though her face remained tight as she paused at the edge of a pretty little square around a burbling fountain. Vendors and shoppers milled about, chatting in the midmorning sunshine. Elide paused by the square’s arched entrance, putting her back to it, and fished the little mirror out of her cloak pocket, careful not to jostle the knives hidden there as well.