The demon-fire flows around their defenses like they're not even there and devours them anyway.
The screaming is everywhere now. Ten thousand voices raised in terror and agony. I watch men claw at their own faces as the flames take them. Watch officers try to rally troops that are already gone. Watch horses bolt with riders who are burning, burning, gone.
Two minutes. Maybe less.
Then silence.
Ash drifts down from the ridge. Soft. Gentle. A grey snow falling on the battlefield. That's all that remains of ten thousand soldiers. Ash and the faint smell of burnt metal.
Yasar lowers his hands. The shadow-fire around his arms dims but doesn't go out. He's still smiling that too-wide smile.
"Excessive," Kaan says quietly. There's something in his voice I've never heard before. Not fear—Kaan doesn't fear anything. But close. Wariness, maybe. Recognition of something that might be beyond even his control.
"Efficient." Yasar turns those black, empty eyes toward us. "And I'm just getting started."
I believe him. That's the worst part. Looking at this thing Kaan’s cousin has become, I believe every word.
The battle breaks.
Not a retreat—a rout. Light Court soldiers throw down weapons and run. Golden banners fall into the mud and are trampled by fleeing boots. Officers scream orders no one obeys. The Fae hunt them through the valley, picking off runners with terrible patience.
I don't watch the fleeing soldiers. My eyes are fixed on the command pavilion at the valley's center, where golden standards still fly. A knot of fighters in elaborate armor has formed a defensive circle there.
Father's personal guard. They won't run.
And somewhere among them?—
"There." I point with my sword. "That's where we need to go."
Kaan follows my gaze. His shadows coil tighter. "His guard won't break easily."
"I know."
The fighting has become too dense for mounted combat. I dismount, letting my horse bolt toward the rear lines. We push forward through the chaos on foot. A straggler lunges at me from behind a fallen horse—I spin, open his belly, keep moving before he hits the ground. Another comes at Kaan with a spear—his shadows catch the shaft, snap it, catch the man, snap him too. We move together without speaking, covering each other's blind spots, our rhythms matched from months of fighting side by side.
Near a collapsed supply wagon, I see Zoran.
He's fighting someone in gold commander's armor. Their blades meet, separate, meet again. Light magic flares with each strike. I know the way Zoran moves—I taught him half those forms. But the man he's fighting?—
General Altin.
My chest seizes. Altin taught us swordplay when we were children. He brought sweets after difficult lessons.
He disowned my brother the day Zoran chose the Shadow Court.
"Traitor!" Altin's voice carries over the noise of battle. His blade weaves complex patterns—technical, precise, the forms he taught us. "Betrayer of everything your family stands for!"
"I chose my family." Zoran deflects a strike that should have killed him. His technique has changed—fluid now, unpredictable. "You chose your illusions."
They circle each other. Altin's armor shows deep cuts. Blood soaks Zoran's left sleeve, dripping from his fingertips.
I start toward them.
Kaan's hand closes on my wrist. "Don't."
"He's hurt?—"
"It's his fight. Interfering dishonors them both."
