The first horntears through the dawn, and my horse sidesteps beneath me, muscles bunching. I grip tighter with my thighs. Steady. Breathe.
Below us, the Light Court camp erupts. Tents collapse as soldiers scramble for weapons. Golden banners whip in the wind. Officers scream orders that no one follows. I watch a cavalry unit try to wheel into formation, three riders turn the wrong direction, crashing into their own line. Horses scream. Men curse.
Good. Chaos is good.
The Fae don't wait.
Twenty thousand of them crest the eastern ridge and pour downward. No formations. No lines. They move wrong—too fast, too fluid, bodies bending at angles that make my eyes ache. Their war cries hit my ears and I flinch. Not human sounds. Shrieks that belong to hunting animals, to wind tearing through dead trees, to something dying in the dark.
Morwenna's commander leads them on a butterfly the size of a dragon. Its wings catch the early light—silver, then purple, then colors I don't have words for. Each wingbeat ripples the air. The commander armor writhes, woven from living vines and something that looks like captured moonlight. Wild magic pours off the Fae commander in waves that distort everything nearby, bending light until looking directly at the figure makes my temples throb.
The Light Court's eastern flank doesn't retreat. It simply stops existing.
I watch a knight raise his shield against a Fae blade. The weapon flows around the barrier, actually flows, reshaping itself , and takes his throat from behind. He drops. The Fae warrior is already gone, already killing the next soldier, weapon shifting from sword to something with claws.
"Beautiful." Kaan's voice is low, rough. His shadows coil around his shoulders, straining toward the valley. "Morwenna's warriors fight like a storm itself."
I glance at him. His eyes are fixed on the carnage below, and something in his expression makes my chest tight. Not horror. Appreciation. He sees art in destruction.
Behind us, five thousand shadow warriors wait in absolute stillness. No fidgeting. No restless horses. The air around them feels heavy, cold, as if their presence drinks the warmth from the morning. They've been trained for this, the waiting, the discipline, the single perfect moment.
That moment is now.
"Now," Kaan says, and raises his sword.
No battle cry. No horns. Five thousand warriors surge forward in silence, and the only sound is hooves pounding earth and steel sliding from sheaths. My horse lunges with them. Wind tears at my face, cold and sharp, carrying the smell of churned earth and something metallic. The valley rushes up to meet us.
I stay close to Kaan. My thighs burn from gripping the saddle. My sword, shadow-steel and light-crystal fused together—vibrates in my hand, humming a note I feel in my teeth. The twilight magic builds in my chest, pressure pushing against my ribs, light and shadow twisting together beneath my skin.
The Light Court cavalry sees us. They try to turn, to meet our charge. Too slow. Far too slow.
We hit them.
The impact jolts through my spine, my shoulders, my teeth. A horse goes down screaming somewhere to my right. Golden armor crumples under shadow-steel. A soldier's face appears in front of me, young, terrified, mouth open to say something, and then my blade takes him across the throat and he's falling away, blood spraying hot across my cheek, my neck, soaking into my collar.
No time to think. A Light Court captain swings at my head. I see the arc of his blade, the light magic crackling along its edge. I duck. The sword whispers past my hair, close enough that I feel the displaced air. My body moves without conscious thought, driving my blade up under his arm where the armor gaps.
The twilight magic surges through the steel. His golden plate splits apart with a shriek of tearing metal. Light-crystal burns. Shadow-steel cuts. I feel the resistance as the blade finds flesh, then bone, then slides through. He makes a sound—wet, surprised, and slides sideways off his horse. His boot catches in the stirrup. The horse drags him away, leaving a dark smear across the trampled grass.
First kill. The thought flickers and vanishes. There's no room for it.
Everything narrows. The next sword. The next threat. The next heartbeat.
A blade comes from my left—I parry, feel the impact shudder up my arm, twist my wrist and open the soldier's throat. Bloodgushes. Another attack from the right, Kaan's shadows snatch the man before I can react, tendrils of darkness wrapping around his chest, his arms, his face. He screams once. Then the shadows drag him somewhere else, somewhere the screaming stops, and his armor clatters empty to the ground.
The noise is unbearable. Steel on steel, a constant ringing that sets my teeth on edge. Screaming—pain, fear, fury, I can't tell them apart anymore. Horses shrieking. The wet thud of bodies hitting the ground. Someone is sobbing nearby, broken and hopeless. I don't know which side they're on. It doesn't matter.
My arms are aching. My shoulders burn. Sweat stings my eyes. I blink it away and kill another soldier who gets too close, blade punching through his chest guard, and I'm moving before he finishes falling.
The shadow warriors around us move with terrifying efficiency. When one falls, two others fill the gap before the body stops twitching. When a Light Court soldier breaks through their line, shadows close around him from every direction. The screaming never lasts long.
But Kaan?—
I've never seen him fight like this.
His shadows don't support him. They are him. They pour from his body in endless waves, tendrils lashing out in every direction. They wrap around soldiers—around their weapons, their limbs, their throats—and drag them into darkness. Into nothing. Golden armor collapses empty to the mud. No bodies inside. Just empty shells where men used to be.
Six soldiers form up against him, shields locked, blades ready. Professional. Coordinated. It doesn't matter. His sword takes the first through the eye. Shadows take the rest—three heartbeats and they're gone, all of them, armor clattering to the ground in a circle around him.
