Three others had been waiting, hiding in the horde below. An ambush.

She’d barely taken out two, snapping off their heads with her spiked tail, before their poisoned claws had forced her to flee. So she’d drawn the ilken back toward her own lines, right into the range of Ren’s archers.

They’d gotten the ilken down—barely. Shots to the wings that allowed Lysandra to rip their heads from their bodies.

As they’d fallen, she’d dove for the ground, shifting as she went. She landed as a ghost leopard, and unleashed herself upon the foot soldiers already pushing against Terrasen’s joined shields.

The skilled unity of the Bane was nothing against the sheer numbers forcing them back. The Fae warriors, the Silent Assassins—Ansel and Galan’s few remaining soldiers spread between them—neither of those lethal units could halt them, either.

So she clawed and tore and sundered, black bile burning her throat. Snow turned to mud beneath her paws. Corpses piled, men both human and Valg screamed.

Aedion’s voice shattered down the lines, “Hold that right flank!”

She dared a glance toward it. The ilken had concentrated their forces there, slamming into the men in a phalanx of death and poison.

Then another order from the prince, “Hold fast on the left!”

He’d repositioned the Bane amongst the right and left flanks to account for their wobbling on the southern plains, yet it was not enough.

Ilken tore into the cavalry, horses shrieking as poisoned talons ripped out their innards, riders crushed beneath falling bodies.

Aedion galloped toward the left flank, some of his Bane following.

Lysandra sliced through soldier after soldier, arrows flying from both armies.

Still Morath advanced. Onward and harder, driving the Bane back as if they were little more than a branch blocking their path.

Her breath burned in her lungs, her legs ached, yet she kept fighting.

There would be nothing left of them by sundown if they kept at it like this.

The other men seemed to realize it, too. Looked beyond the demons they fought to the tens of thousands still behind in orderly rows, waiting to kill and kill and kill.

Some of their soldiers began to turn. Fleeing the front lines.

Some outright hurled away their shields and sprinted out of the path of Morath.

Morath seized on it. A wave crashing to shore, they slammed into their front line. Right into the center, which had never broken, even when the others had wobbled.

They punched a hole right through it.

Chaos reigned.

Aedion roared from somewhere, from the heart of hell, “Re-form the lines!”

The order went ignored.

The Bane tried and failed to hold the line. Ansel of Briarcliff bellowed to her fleeing men to get back to the front, Galan Ashryver echoing her commands to his own soldiers. Ren shouted to his archers to remain, but they too abandoned their posts.

Lysandra slashed through the shins of one Morath soldier, then ripped the throat from another. None of Terrasen’s warriors remained a step behind her to decapitate the fallen bodies.

No one at all.

Over. It was over.

Useless, Aedion had called her.

Lysandra gazed toward the ilken feasting on the right flank and knew what she had to do.

CHAPTER 47

Aedion had imagined they’d all be killed where they stood, battling together until the end. Not picked off one by one as they fled.

He’d been forced far behind the lines when Morath plunged through, even the Bane having to peel away from the front. Soon, the rout would be complete.

Arrows still flew from deep behind their ranks, Ren having seized some order, if only to cover their retreat.

Not an orderly march to the north. No, soldiers ran, shoving past one another.

A disgraceful end, unworthy of a mention, unworthy of his kingdom.

He’d stand—he’d stay here until they cut him down.

Thousands of men charged past him, eyes wide with terror. Morath gave chase, their Valg princes smiling as they awaited the feasting sure to come.

Done. It was done, here on this unnamed field before Perranth.

Then a call went across the breaking lines.

The fleeing men began to pause. To turn toward the direction of the news.

Aedion skewered a Morath soldier on his sword before he fully understood the words.

The queen has come. The queen is at the front line.

For a foolish heartbeat, he scanned the sky for a blast of flame.

None came.

Dread settled into his heart, fear deeper than any he’d known.

The queen is at the front line—at the right flank.

Lysandra.

Lysandra had taken on Aelin’s skin.

He whirled toward the nonexistent right flank.

Just as the golden-haired queen in borrowed armor faced two ilken, a sword and shield in her hands.

No.

The word was a punch through his body, greater than any blow he’d felt.

Aedion began running, shoving through his own men. Toward the too-distant right flank. Toward the shape-shifter facing those ilken, no claws or fangs or anything to defend her beyond that sword and shield.

No.

He pushed men out of the way, the snow and mud hindering each step as the two ilken pressed closer to the shifter-queen.

Savoring the kill.

But the soldiers slowed their fleeing. Some even re-formed the lines when the call went out again. The queen is here. The queen fights at the front line.

Exactly why she had done it. Why she had donned the defenseless, human form.

No.

The ilken towered over her, grinning with their horrible, mangled faces.

Too far. He was still too damn far to do anything—

One of the ilken slashed with a long, clawed arm.

Her scream as poisoned talons ripped through her thigh sounded above the din of battle.

She went down, shield rising to cover herself.

He took it back.

He took back everything he had said to her, every moment of anger in his heart.

Aedion shoved through his own men, unable to breathe, to think.

He took it back; he hadn’t meant a word of it, not really.

Lysandra tried to rise on her injured leg. The ilken laughed.

“Please,” Aedion bellowed. The word was devoured by the screams of the dying. “Please!”

He’d make any bargain, he’d sell his soul to the dark god, if they spared her.

He hadn’t meant it. He took it back, all those words.

Useless. He’d called her useless. Had thrown her into the snow naked.

He took it back.

Aedion sobbed, flinging himself toward her as Lysandra tried again to rise, using her shield to balance her weight.

Men rallied behind her, waiting to see what the Fire-Bringer would do. How she’d burn the ilken.

There was nothing to see, nothing to witness. Nothing at all, but her death.

Yet Lysandra rose, Aelin’s golden hair falling in her face as she hefted her shield and pointed the sword between her and the ilken.

The queen has come; the queen fights alone.

Men ran back to the front line. Turned on their heels and raced for her.

Lysandra held her sword steady, kept it pointed at the ilken in defiance and rage.

Ready for the death soon to come.

She had been willing to give it up from the start. Had agreed to Aelin’s plans, knowing it might come to this.

One shift, one change into a wyvern’s form, and she’d destroy the ilken. But she remained in Aelin’s body. Held that sword, her only weapon, upraised.