The second general lies about ten feet from the horses, body half on the road. She’s sprawled in such an awful manner that she must be dead. Her short sword is still strapped to her side, so I take it, along with her ring of keys, and meet up with Nephele and a handful of Witch Walkers. Together, we start toward Colden.
He’s at the wagon closest to camp, on his knees next to the Eastlanders trapped beneath their horses. It isn’t lost on me that—when he breaks the warriors’ necks—none of the Witch Walkers flinch. They keep striding toward him, as though all of this is perfectly normal.
Colden snatches a hatchet and uses Killian’s keys to unlock the rear of the last wagon. Seven Witch Walkers climb out, uninjured and primed to fight for freedom, but they look haggard, tired as Nephele, and I wonder if any of them—my sister included—can even wield magick right now.
I suppose I’m going to find out because minutes later, we’re running into the chilly night, through Frostwater Wood—me, my sister, the Frost King, and strangers I’ve never met—heading for the eastern side of the camp.
My blood pumps harder and faster the closer we get, our speed increasing. The unknown looms ahead, but I smell the scent of death. It makes my eyes water.
Warriors fight on the path, where the wounded waited for my healing. The torchlights that lit the area still burn, illuminating a couple dozen figures, lending an amber tint to the scene, a color I will forever associate with Neri’s eyes and the Stone of Ghent inside the God Knife.
The clash in the near distance looks like a painting—a war painting—but I can’t tell who the Eastlanders are fighting.
Until we break through the trees.
I stumble to a stop at the edge of the forest, heart hurtling into my throat, stealing my air. Colden and Nephele keep moving, straight into the bloodshed, but the weaponless Witch Walkers come to a standstill like me.
Colden slams his hatchet into a warrior’s neck and throws the man to the ground as though he is nothing. The body falls, landing amidst so many others, and Colden continues fighting.
I can’t begin to count the dead, the fetid aroma of fading life thick and too familiar. Eastlanders cover the snowy path, the white streak in the wood now marred with the red handprint of their deaths. Some of the wounded must have tried to fight.
Above, near the tops of the trees, dozens of silky, fibrous masses float, billowing in the wind. I’ve never seen anything like it, but I know what those masses are.
Souls. Lingering in this world.
Pulse thrumming, I take in the chaos on the path. Raging, the final wave of warriors closes in on Rhonin, Colden, Nephele, Hel, and—Alexus.
A jolting flush of shock tingles through me, sweeping violently from my head to my toes. My heart stops. I cannot break my stare. Surely I’ve slipped into a dream, some distortion of reality.
I saw Alexus die. Saw the God Knife enter his chest—the scarred chest now bared to me.
He wears no tunic.
No chains.
No death wound.
Neri. Neri is free. I hadn’t been sure what might become of him if something happened to Alexus, but the fact that the northern god stood a mere step from me means that Alexus let him go—in what I’d believed to be death’s release.
At the ravine, a mark painted Alexus’s chest in an angry, starburst welt—a mark that’s still imprinted in his skin and looks like Colden’s.
A kiss left behind from a removal of power. Alexus’s markhadto be caused by Neri’s exit. And yet…
The welt had been there before Alexus died. He freed NeribeforeVexx stabbed him—when his voice bellowed across the ravine, and the earth rumbled.
I will come for you,he’d said in the moments before I lost consciousness.Trust me.
Gods. I still don’t know how it’s possible that Alexus Thibault is here, alive, but my bloodsingsfor him.
Witch Walkers spread out along the roadside and chant a song of power, their magick scorching the air. Finally, shaking off my shock, I charge into the fray.
It’s like being back in the village all over again, only this time, my sister and Hel, the Frost King and Witch Collector, and this new person named Rhonin, whom I might call friend, are with me.
I face off with my first attacker, a warrior I vaguely recall from the ravine. He wields a longer sword, making it hard for me to measure my strikes.
With every twist, stab, and slice, the dark sky, flaming torches, and Elikesh song sends me back to that night, memories rising in a dark tide. My anger and pain build into true rage as I’m forced to remember the moments when I watched my life burn to ash.
But I’m not alone. On the periphery of my vision, my sister wields a spear and Hel her swords, both stabbing, ducking, and lunging with nimble motions. Rhonin is a beast with a dagger, and Colden is a violent force all his own with that hatchet. He and Alexus work off one another, and even though Alexus fights with a wounded knee, their movements still play out in artful form.
