Overhead, a barrel launched from the siege tower, sailed over the fortress walls, and landed with a ground-shaking explosion. The impact rumbled through the ground and into her bones.
Her teeth ground against the too-rapid beat of her heart, and she reminded herself of all that was at stake. One step at a time, Saga skirted the edge of battle. Her progress was painstakingly slow, and twice she fell to her knees, certain she was drowning. But each time, she got back up. Put one foot in front of the other.
By the time she saw the warrior’s red beard, Saga could scarcely see through the lights dancing in her vision. The berserker warrior howled, a gleam of madness in his eye as he hefted his greataxe above her. But Saga was so startled by this warrior’s presence that she could not look away.
“Thorir?”
The warrior faltered, his mad blue eyes assessing her, and Saga still wasn’t certain it was actually Thorir until the man’s disbelief shifted to a cunning grin.
“Lady Saga.” Thorir hooked his axe into his belt.
“Thorir,” Saga panted. Her breaths were shallow, white dots looping in her vision, but she forced the next words past her teeth. “Take me to King Ivar. I surrender.”
As Thorir bundled her over his shoulder and carried her through the streets of Kovograd, Saga relented to her panic at long last. Her vision warped as she tried to breathe; her heart pounded so fiercely she was certain she’d perish before ever arriving at Ivar. Saga tried to relax into it. Tried to let it wash over her. But this disturbing procession through the streets made it impossible. Hands groped ather tunic and hair as more warriors joined the march. Berserkers tilted their heads to the skies, howling in victory as the lost princess of Íseldur was led to their king.
“Saga Volsik!” shouts rose up. “It’s her! We have her!”
She imagined Kassandr’s fingers on her shoulder, tapping gently, but her mind soon jumped to the words her sister had spoken in her mind so many weeks ago.This is only kindling, building me up.Saga’s hand closed around the flask in her pocket, ensuring that the stopper remained secure.And soon it will be timefor them to burn.
She was jostled about, burly warriors on either side of her ensuring she could not flee. They spoke foul words, hurled the most vulgar of insults, but Saga had found a strange sort of peace in what she was about to do. The fire flask rested inside her pocket, and soon she’d unleash it upon Íseldur’s king.
At some point, they reached the Urkan war camp, and Saga found herself standing before an enormous tent, Ivar’s berserkers flanking her on all sides. Saga stared, resigned, at the Urkan flag flying above the tent. The tent flap rippled.
And thenheemerged.
Ivar Ironheart wore a crown of steel on his silver-streaked head, his brown eyes just as hard as she remembered. But as Saga took in the glossy red burns covering half of King Ivar’s face and his once-long beard now singed short, she blinked at the realization—shehad done this to him during that explosion in Sunnavík. Morbid satisfaction pooled in her gut.
King Ivar’s scowl deepened at whatever he read in Saga’s expression. Then he strode forward and cracked his palm across her cheek. Saga’s head snapped to the side, and she stumbled to her knees.
“That,” snarled Ivar, “is for trying to kill me.”
Berserkers hauled her back to her feet, and Saga braced for a slap in Yrsa’s honor.
But Ivar only growled, “I’d have far worse for you, were it not for your mother.”
“Signe isnotmy mother!” Saga shouted, her anger a sudden blazing thing.
Ivar’s palm cracked across her other cheek, and Saga fell once more, tasting iron in her mouth. She chastised herself for goading the king when she needed to speak her piece. “It was me,” she croaked, standing yet again. “I tried to kill you. The Zagadkians had nothing to do with it.”
Ivar spat on the ground. “I do not believe you, girl, but it matters not. Their fate is set. We shall not rest until every one of them is dead or in chains.”
Saga blinked back tears. It was much as she’d expected, yet still, she’d held out hope. Her hand slipped into her pocket. Curled around the smooth surface of the fire flask.
It had come to this.
Saga would not return to Íseldur—would not fulfill her promise to Eisa—but at the very least, she would ensure King Ivar did not return, either. As Saga made to pull the fire flask from her pocket, she paused. Something white floated down on the breeze. At first she thought it snow, then perhaps a bird. But when she realized it was a single, iridescent feather, Saga’s mind went completely blank.
The sky above her darkened.
Thorir shouted his surprise, the other berserkers growling in warning. Saga gasped as an enormous white figure swooped down from above. It was a flurry of anger matching her own; a storm of lashing hooves and beating wings. The creature screamed, one of those lethal hooves crashing into Ivar’s back and sending him sprawling. Berserkers shouted as the horse struck warriors down and trampled those who were too slow to flee.
And Saga found herself face-to-face with Havoc.
Even through her shock, Saga recognized what this was—an alternative she could never have anticipated. Her mind’s eye showed her the book she’d found in her room—showed her that page depicting an aerial legion of archers riding on winged horses. The clans beyond the river. All it would require was climbing onto Havoc’s back and flying through wide-open skies.
So much open space. No exits. What if she fell apart? Lost her grip and plummeted to her death?
Then she thought of Kassandr, fighting tirelessly on the battlefield. Kassandr, who’d do anything to keep his people safe. Kassandr, who’d seen Saga’s potential all this time. With his help, she’d faced so much already.
