It had been a hard march from the Spire—seven days of biting frost and forced marches. But she had left the fortress in the capable hands of Reyla and Dame Florence—acting co-stewards—bypassing Master Finch entirely. The hermit would have prioritized his own comfort over the many refugees now filling the Dawnspire’s halls; Reyla would prioritize their lives.
But that felt like a world away now.
Yet one more life she had lived in the span of a single month.
Fallen leaves crunched underfoot as she slipped through the trees, passing through the camp. Life stirred in the gloom. Soldiers making ready. Horses snorting white plumes of breath into the frozen air. Varhounds silently padding between the tents like ghosts.
Cyneric held open the flap of the command tent for her as she stepped inside. The space was already crowded, smelling of wet dog, oiled steel, and cold earth.
Duke Percival and Duchess Edith stood near a table housing the crude map Knox and Slade had drawn of the terrain. Flanking them were her cousins, restless to a man, but none more so than Wulfston, his eyes bright with anticipation behind his leather varhound mask.
On the other side of the tent stood the remnants of the Sons, save for Kyn, who was busy ensuring the infirmary tent was sorted—just in case they needed it afterward.
Calix, his bronzed face unreadable, stood beside Rakon’s towering bulk. Leif kept himself busy doting over Soot, looking entirely too relaxed for a man about to sneak into a viper’s nest.
And then there was Sir Tristan. Quiet Sir Tristan, who stood with his arms folded, his jaw set, avoiding her gaze.
Seraphina forced her attention away from the knight and back to Cyneric. “Report, commander.”
Her auburn-haired cousin leaned over their crude map, his finger tracing the jagged contours of the valley. “Our scouts have confirmed the numbers, Your Majesty. We have the advantage, but the terrain certainly favors Arath should they manage to lure us into the ravine here.” He pointed to the narrow pass. “They will surely try to move the king into that ravine, using him as the lure. Perhaps they have a secondary force hidden somewhere, waiting to flank us should we bite.”
Slade was quick to point out, “Our scouts have found no evidence of a secondary force, though.” Knox nodded his agreement.
But Wulfston shook his head. “Doesn’t matter if you found it or not,” he rumbled. “A trap needs two jaws in order to snap shut.”
Seraphina drew in a deep breath, weighing their words. Her thoughts once again whirred with all the possibilities. But in the end, it did not matter which cards her enemies intended to play today.
She already had the winning hand.
“I will stand here,” she murmured, placing her finger atop the ridge forming the western wall of that deadly ravine. “I will be the bait.” She looked up, meeting the eyes of her cousins. “You all know your marks. Cyneric, your prong waits at the far end of the pass to catch them when I lead them through. Knox, Slade—you flush them into the ravine.”
“And we flank whatever force they try to bring out against you,” Wulfston finished.
“Precisely,” Seraphina said. She tapped the ridge again. “And the archers hold the high ground here. Rain death on them the moment they break cover.”
Duchess Edith frowned, worry etching itself between her eyebrows.
But Duke Percival had no trouble protesting, “Absolutely not.”
“All of this is for me,” Seraphina reasoned, meeting the gaze of each of her allies in turn. “They want to manipulate me into acting out of desperation so that I can be captured. They could have chosen a better fortified position. They could have fallen back to the Viscount of Arlund’s keep. They could have journeyed on to Goldreach and hidden behind those great walls. But they choseherebecause they think they can outmaneuver me.”
Lifting her chin, she promised, “But I will beat them at their own game.”
She still didn’t understand why the witches were going through all this trouble to lay this trap for her in the first place. All for Coreto? For some other purpose? For the connection she and her Crow shared?
Of course. The truth pulsed through her, as present as her heartbeat, as the bond now tethering her to her husband. Her connection to Aldric wasstrange. Unlike anything she had ever heard of before. All of this was utterly strange.
But the fact that the witch who had taken her Crow hostage had never bothered to reveal his location to her told her something important—that witch had understood she would simply know where to find him.
That witch had somehow known about their connection before she did.
Cyneric rubbed the back of his neck. “It is a bold plan, Your Majesty. But if we commit the archers to the western ridge to cover your retreat, we leave the eastern hill open. If the witches seize that high ground, you will be running a gauntlet of fire in that ravine.”
She had already thought about that, too. She nodded at Cyneric and announced to those gathered, “That is a risk I am willing to take.”
Her godfather pursed his lips, obviously on the verge of protesting yet again. But there was no time for further debate, not with the sun threatening to breach the horizon already.
Seraphina leveled her gaze on the Sons once more and hastily gave them the rest of their instructions. “Calix, Rakon, Leif—once you have my husband, fall back to the meeting place due west of here. As soon as I finish leading the witches through the pass, I will come to you.” She knew Aldric well enough to know he would never linger in a place of safety while she remained in harm’s way.
