“I have never been prone to long speeches.” I throw my words, pushing them to the back of the room in an attempt for everyoneto hear. “And there are more important things right now than the sound of my voice.”
A few hushed chuckles.
“The nursery is gone.” Silence. I stare down at my hands, and back up. “Today, we fight to give them the best chance we can. As much time as we can. And that is a victory that they cannot take from us. Today is not the end, but the start of a new journey.”
Murmured agreement.
“There are no differences between us. Not today.” I scan the crowd. I see Nythen, his face as pinched as always, but listening. Valcor, lingering close to Sera. And then I look at Lyra. “Today, we areallDarkwielders. We will walk onto that field together, and we will hold the line for as long as we can. Until we can hold it no more. For them.”
My voice cracks. “And know… this life, with all of you—it has been my greatest honor.”
They remain silent as I press my right fist over my chest, and lean forward. I hold the position for several seconds, my eyes squeezing closed, before I pull back.
But the tears come anyway.
All of them—every single one—is bowing back.
I swallow them down. Dash a hand over my eyes, and brace myself. “To the field, then. And may Erevan be with us all.”
Lyra
The first thing I see is the gold.
It flows through the narrow entrance of the Veilspire pass like blood. Bright, relentless, spilling down across the open space in front of us. Snow clings to the jagged peaks of the mountain range behind. For a single heartbeat, there is only cold, and light, and the distant, rhythmic flash of armor catching the bright sun above our heads. My breath makes small clouds of white as I keep my breathing steady.
Beside me, Darian shifts. Kaelen stands beside him, his jaw a solid line and his eyes like flint as he stares out toward the Lightbringer army that marches on Umbraxis.
Eres slips his hand into mine, squeezing it. Even his mouth is turned down, tight at the corners. He wears the same leather fighting uniform as the rest of us, though it looks wrong on him in a way that makes my chest ache. He should be in his worn,soft shirts, his belt wrapped around his waist. The sight of it there, pressed against dark leather, is still a comfort as I turn back to the advancing army.
There is no escaping this.
Then the sound reaches us. Not a single noise, but the cacophony of many, braided together into something that turns my stomach. The heavy, solid beat of boots against the packed ground. The clink and scrape of metal plates shifting. The low roar of voices carry on the breeze toward us, like an oncoming storm. A horn ripples across the sky, low, and loud, and everywhere at once.
“How many?” Eres says quietly.
On his other side, Eldritch clears his throat. His eyes scan the numbers, but they keep coming. “Two. Maybe three thousand.”
Against one hundred and sixty-eight. My breathing speeds up as Darian’s hand brushes my cheek. “It won’t be as fast as you think. We’re not powerless.”
But neither are they.
We watch in silence as the endless streams split. Between them, a mounted cluster rides forward, the breath of the horses steaming in the cold air. And in the center, framed by banners that glitter with the Solvandyr crest—three vertical lines, stark and clean and unmistakable—I see him.
My father sits atop his horse like he was born fused to it. Even at this distance, I recognize the set of his shoulders, the way he angles his head to the person riding beside him.
My eyes sweep the line, straining, but I recognize few others. Cindral is dead, and Iliria with him. The thought brings a sense of sick satisfaction to my stomach. At least he won’t be here to see this.
I can’t see Reena.
My pulse beats behind my ribs, something between grief and fury.
“Overcompensating,” Darian mutters. “Definitely overcompensating.”
Kaelen snorts, but says nothing. Compared to my father, he barely stands out. He wears nothing to mark him as anything other than a Darkwielder male. The wind tugs at his dark hair, and he turns, catching my eye. “It’s not too late.”
My feet stay where they are. “I’ve made my choice.”
And I have no regrets. Only a growing anger at my father’s desperate, endless need to demonstrate his power.
