Through the downpour, a shadow emerged. Large. Hulking. Black.
Mourn.
She stared up at the great destrier, hardly daring to believe it as he slowly approached, his reins dragging in the mud. Coat slick withrain. Fresh wounds littering his pelt. And yet he was here. He had returned.
The stallion lowered his head and huffed at his fallen master’s hair.
An idea seized her. Hand shaking, Seraphina reached up, straining to tap the heavy muscles of the destrier’s shoulder as she had seen Aldric do back in the courtyard at Goldreach.
The warhorse didn’t hesitate. With a snort, he buckled his front knees, lowering his massive frame into the mud until he was level with them.
“Thank you,” she whispered aloud, easing herself away from Aldric just long enough to clamber into the saddle first. Leaning over, she seized him beneath the arms and hauled him upward with all her strength. A scream of effort tore at her throat.
Perhaps her Crow understood what was happening, or perhaps it was just instinct; either way, his legs scrabbled weakly against the ground, giving her just enough leverage to get him into the saddle.
“I have you,” she murmured, pulling Aldric’s limp weight against her chest so he sat upright, facing her. His head lolled onto her shoulder, fingers twitching with a single spark of life. She wrapped her arms around his waist, locking her hands together, binding him to her. “I have you.”
She kicked Mourn into a hard gallop, driving into the blinding rain.
But they didn’t get far before the stallion slid to a stop once more.
Twenty yards ahead, blocking the exit of the pass, stood the witch. Unbothered by Cyneric’s approaching forces. Unbothered by the arrows still raining down upon her from the western ridge.
Steam curled off the drenched stones around her, rising in ghostly ribbons. Her dark hair lay slick against her face. Her robes hung from her in heavy sheets. But still she peeled back her lips in a snarl and shrieked, voice cutting across a fresh peal of thunder, “You cannot escape, Lightbearer!”
Seraphina tightened her grip on Aldric, her heart hammering against her ribs. Beneath her, Mourn pawed the ground and tossed his head.
She had no weapon. She had no plan. She only had a dying husband in her arms. Chaos swirling all around. A prayer in her heart.
And then, she heard it. Not the roar of battle. Nor the clash of steel.
It was the sound of bells.
Soft, melodious, bells. Tinkling like music. Chiming like a memory.
She had only heard bells like that once before.
The sound drifted on the wind, impossible yet clear, rising above the storm.
Deep drums soon joined them, vibrating through Seraphina’s chest, pounding in time with her pulse.
The witch faltered. Her head slowly turned.
Through the curtain of rain, banners appeared, a legion of knights marching beneath it. Seraphina blinked, sure she washallucinating. Sure that grief had finally snapped her mind. Above them, two familiar winged shapes wheeled through the storm—Alyx and Soot, circling with fierce cries as if guiding the army into the pass.
An army marching beneath the golden lion of the Holy Lothmeeran Empire.
But that was impossible. Lothmeer had never joined a battle before. They always remained neutral. Apart. Beside the lion of Lothmeer flew a banner of pure white silk, bearing a golden sun overlaid upon a flaming sword.
The High Shepherd’s own standard.
Seraphina’s heart stilled. The world grew quiet, the fighting seeming to pause as all eyes turned to witness this new force flooding into the pass like a divine tide. And at the center of it all, floating through the mud and blood as if walking on air—the source of the tinkling bells.
Oracle Tsukiko.
The witch stepped back, fear flickering across her face for the first time as the prophetess draped in silver continued to advance. Surrounded by her seven Redguard. Oblivious to the rain.
Seraphina…
