My princes were loath to leave me, especially when I refused to stay in the castle barracks. But being close to Farron gives us both strength. I clutch the moonstone rose necklace; I promised them if things look bad, I’d use it to go back to Castletree. But how could I ever leave them?
And Keldarion… He has still not returned.
Nervousness etches the troops’ faces. Some fidget with their armor, adjusting straps and buckles, while others pace in place. Danger lies ahead for all of them. For all of us.
Despite their unease, the fae soldiers remain disciplined and focused, each one determined to defend their home and their people. I turn my attention toward the hill, steeling myself for the coming battle. All I can do now is watch and wait.
“Coppershire’s not built for war,” Padraig says, following my gaze. “Got stone walls, but they’re not that tall and not that strong. Best to meet the enemy on the open field.”
“Don’t let them breach the city,” I say, repeating what I’ve heard all morning.
The passing months have kindled within me a deep affection for Coppershire, Keep Oakheart, and the Autumn realmlands. I realize that like Castletree, the Autumn Realm is my home.
Despite the fact I’m only an observer for this battle, the High Prince has seen fit to dress me in armor—a combination of leather and metal that allows for ease of movement. The golden breastplate bears the ram horn emblem of Farron’s house, while the bright copper bracers taper like the points of floating leaves. My leggings are tight, and my boots sturdy. It makes me feel like part of this story, a warrior defending her home.
Though a warrior probably wouldn’t have packed an emotional support book in her battle satchel. I don’t suspect I’ll get much reading in, but I wanted to be prepared in case Perth decides not to show up.
“I wish there was more I could do to help,” I say softly. “I’m not a fighter or a mage. I’m just a human.”
Padraig’s massive hand rests on my shoulder. “A human who is mated to the High Prince. You brought my boy back.”
“Brought him back?” I say, surprised.
“Never thought I’d see Farron leading an army,” Padraig says. “Not all battles are won with the strike of a sword. Sometimes all it takes is an inspiring word, a little spark. You, Rosalina, are that spark.”
I flush, unsure of what to say. A battle horn bellows, and a deep chill passes over me. A warning.
The enemy has arrived.
Winter wraiths crest the golden hill, Perth Quellos at the helm. The eerie green light around his crown is visible even from here.
“Steady.” Farron’s voice rings out clear. “Hold!”
Perth points his hand. Thunder rumbles through the earth as his colossal force descends the rolling hill toward the city. Three thousand wraiths, that’s what they estimated. Three thousand to Coppershire’s five hundred.
But we have the High Princes.
The wraiths charge with an otherworldly grace, their movements almost liquid. Some still look like fae, with a sheen of frost over their armor. But the others—the long-dead fae and goblins who Perth rose from the grave—are nothing but skeletons strung together with ice.
Farron yells another command. The Autumn Guard stands steady.
I rush to the edge of the battlements, clutching the stone, as the wraiths draw close—
In awhoosh,the first line of wraiths fall, disappearing into a trench dug last night and hidden by leaves. Hundreds careen into the hole. The wraiths behind them try to stop, but there’s too many. They bump into each other, toppling down.
Farron spurs his elk forward, hooves thundering to the crevasse. With a sweep of his hand, fire bursts forth from the trench, igniting the tinder and oil placed at the bottom. Sizzling shrieks and pops reverberate in the air. A wall of fire now stands between Coppershire and the hill.
Magic burns tight in my chest as I feel Farron’s power through the bond. He raises his chin, glare shooting out to Perth Quellos, who awaits at the top of the hill with the rest of his host.
“The Autumn Realm will not stand for your betrayal.” Farron’s voice is formidable, booming across the field. “Nor will we fall prey to your twisted magic. Surrender and I may consider mercy.” He looks beautiful and deadly, his ram’s crown glittering like melting gold in the flaming light.
Silence. Silence except for the wraiths burning and sizzling.
Perth raises his hands high into the air, and his voice carries unnaturally, as if on the wind itself. “You have much to learn, young Prince, on magic beyond the Vale.”
Terrible, keening death cries fill the air. Then a flaming skeletal hand claws from the trench. Farron’s elk bucks, and he grips the reins. More hands, arms, and legs grasp the lip of the trench. Then full skeletons emerge, writhed in fire, the twisted magic turning the flames an unnatural green.
“He’s raising the dead again,” I gasp.
