A deep, thunderous bellow rolls over the plains—a sound I know too well. The open fields stretch toward the dark treeline, but even from here, I see the shadowed figures moving—too fast, too many.
The guard captain—an older man with greying hair beneath his helmet—calls out orders. His voice is clear, cutting through the din. “Archers, take position!”
Dante curses under his breath. “Let’s move.”
The horde descends, and the battlefield is chaos. Shadows twist through the moonlit fields, monstrous and fast. The shriek of a carnoraxis splits the night, sending a chill through my blood as I sprint toward the thick of the fight, my dagger already slick with blackened gore. The Ironshields are holding their line—rigid and precise, as expected—but the sheer number of beasts is threatening to break through.
I cut down one lunging for a wounded soldier, the blade slicing clean through its neck. My heart hammers in my chest as I scan the field. I’ve fought these creatures before—too many times—but this is different. I am not with my squad. With them at my side, our defense would be well coordinated, a dance so well-rehearsed, there would be no question of the steps we needed to take.
But these soldiers, to their credit, are disciplined, moving with impressive coordination. One to my left reloads his crossbow faster than I’ve ever seen—his aim nearly as sharp as Isaac’s—as he releases a bolt that takes down a beast mid-leap.
A shout pulls my attention across the battlefield. A Podrosan soldier, his leg pinned under the weight of a fallen carnoraxis, struggles against the creature’s last death throes. His sword lies inches beyond his reach, his face pale as the beast’s claws twitch closer to his throat. None of the other soldiers are close enough to help.
I don’t think. I move.
I dart across the blood-soaked ground, knees bending low as I drive my blade into the beast’s side. The creature howls in agony, but I twist the blade deeper, feeling the sickening give of its ribs before it collapses, still.
The soldier gasps, pulling his leg free with a wince. Blood streaks his cheek, but his eyes widen when he sees me. “Your Highness!” His breath stutters. “You… You saved me.”
“Get back to the line,” I order, keeping my tone firm as I offer him a hand. He grips it tightly, hauling himself upright with a hiss of pain. “And next time, don’t let them get that close.”
He nods quickly, still looking at me like I’ve sprouted wings. “Thank you,” he says, his voice raw.
“Go!” I bark, pushing him toward his comrades.
I pivot back to the battle, but his words linger in my mind. He’ll report what happened, I know it. And I almost wish I could see the look on the Podrosan king’s face when he learns that an outsider—a woman—was the one to save one of his men.
Another beast lurches toward me. I raise my dagger again, the blood pounding in my ears as I meet it head-on.
A final carnoraxis lunges from the treeline, its jagged teeth bared as it charges the remaining guards. One soldier is too slow to raise his sword. I sprint forward, and with a sharp twist, I drive my blade into the beast’s exposed throat. It collapses, twitching as black blood pools beneath its heavy frame. The guard stares at me in wide-eyed disbelief,his mouth opening and closing as if words have abandoned him.
“You’re welcome,” I say breathlessly, yanking my dagger free.
The air is thick with the acrid stench of blood and burnt flesh, but the sounds of snarls and screams have faded. All that remains are the distant crackles of dying fires and the sharp orders of Podrosan captains calling their soldiers to regroup.
I wipe my blade against my thigh, scanning the battlefield for any remaining threats. The ground is littered with carnoraxis corpses, their twisted forms steaming in the cool, night air. Bodies of soldiers—Podrosan and Hederan alike—are scattered between them. My pulse thunders in my ears, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins begins to ebb, leaving behind a sharp ache in my limbs.
I turn, searching, until finally I see him.
Dante’s hair falls messily across his brow, damp with sweat, but it’s his eyes—stormy and fierce—that hold me captive. His falchion hangs loosely at his side, the silver blade slick with carnoraxis blood.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The world narrows to the space between us—every breath we take and every bruise we’ll feel tomorrow.
ChApter
Twenty-Six
The audience chamber in Podrosa is as austere as the king himself—tall, grey columns carved with geometric precision, not a curve or flourish in sight. The ceiling looms high above, vaulted like a cathedral, but the windows are narrow, and the light that filters through them is cold. The scent of oil lamps and soap imbues the air, sharp and faintly metallic.
Ezra and I stand before the king, who scowls at us from his throne on a raised dais. He refused to hold an audience with anyone after the attacks, and it wasn’t until this afternoon that he agreed to a closed-door discussion with King Silas. I’m fully expecting Silas to reprimand me for stepping out of my mourning role and charging into battle, but even he can’t deny that my efforts helped save the people in the Ironshield Keep.
But I’m sure King Harold doesn’t want to acknowledge that fact. Especially because I’m a woman.
Ezra bows low beside me, his expression composed, as always, but I keep my spine straight. I won’t fucking grovel.
King Harold’s dark-grey robes pool around him, perfectly pleated, and his eyes—narrow, pale, and heavy-lidded—flick between us with evidentdisdain.
Beside him, Queen Agatha perches like a breath of silk in a room full of granite. She is still and quiet, her expression unreadable, though I feel her gaze settle on me now and then, thoughtful and lingering. Unlike her husband, she does not seem displeased by my presence.
