“Keegan!” I screamed, twisting free and scrambling forward despite every instinct screaming at me to stop.
Another blast of light flared nearby.
It wasn’t from me, not from Nova. It came from above, angled wrong, wild, and cruel. It struck the ground near the shifter line, throwing bodies aside in a burst of white force.
“She’s still doing it!” I yelled. “She’s still using me, using my magic as cover!”
As if to mock me, my birthmark flared again, blazing so fiercely it stole my breath. Pain lanced through my hip and up my spine, dropping me to one knee.
“Maeve!” Keegan’s voice cut through the chaos as he barreled toward me, blood streaking one side of his temple. He skidded to a stop in front of me, planting himself like a wall.
“I’m fine,” I gasped, even as the world tilted. “She’s forcing my signature into it. I can feel it.”
His jaw clenched. “We need to end this fast before…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
An orc lunged, faster than I thought possible, his weapon arcing toward Keegan’s unprotected side. Keegan twisted at the last second, taking the blow across his shoulder instead of his chest, the impact sending him staggering.
Something inside me snapped.
It wasn’t power but resolve. I would not let the Priestess win.
I surged to my feet and shoved my hands into the frozen ground, Hedge Magic flooding outward, grasping peace and calm from the Maple Ward.
It wasn’t explosive or sharp, but deep and anchoring. Roots burst up through the ice, glowing faintly as they wrapped around legs and weapons alike, slowing the charge without breaking bones, without drawing blood.
“STOP!” I screamed, my voice tearing raw from my throat.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield faltered.
Roots glimmered beneath boots. Frosted vines crept up clubs and axes, holding without strangling. The Hollows responded instantly, the hum beneath us deepening, the ice walls stabilizing as if relieved by the pause.
The older orc stood frozen at the front, chest heaving, his gaze locked on me again—this time not with certainty, but with something fractured and desperate.
“Look at the shadows!” I shouted, pointing upward. “They’re not striking when we stop! They want motion, fear, and confusion!”
As if enraged by being noticed, the shadows shrieked and descended again in a furious swarm, no longer careful, no longer precise. They dove indiscriminately now, striking orcs and vampires alike, splashing across shifter fur and ice and stone.
The Priestess had lost her restraint entirely.
“The Priestess panicking,” Stella snarled, ripping a shadow creature apart with a snap of her fingers. “That’s new.”
“But dangerous,” Nova shouted back.
The sky darkened further, light thinning until everything took on a bruised, twilight hue. The Hollows shook violently, the ice walls cracking again as if pushed beyond their limit.
And then something changed.
The ground split open near the fallen orc leader.
A fissure of pale blue light tore through the ice, spreading outward like a lightning bolt frozen in place. From it rose a low, resonant sound—ancient, unmistakable.
A horn.
The orcs froze.
Every single one of them turned toward the sound, weapons lowering as recognition rippled through the ranks. Fear shifted, not toward us, not toward the shadows, but toward the fissure itself and the sound of the horn.
