I feel Ash again. Something building. Something breaking.
“How?” I ask.
“Listen,” she taps my temple where the crown is settled against my scalp. Then my chest, “Flow.”
“Tiana,” I begin, because those are terrible instructions.
She’s backing away, toward the encampment.
“Tiana,” I hiss again.
She hits the encampment like a storm.
Tiana goes left, drawing attention with a blast of Seelie light that sends three mercenaries scrambling for cover.
Damnit it. I’m not about to get a single bit of advice. I blow out a breath and grimace as I pull the Crown forth. It sits on my scalp like a crown of thorns, blood slowly seeping down my face. Then I call to the Sword. Bright and gleaming in my right hand.
I go right, moving toward the cluster of humans near the command tent.
The first one sees me coming. Raises his weapon, some kind of modified crossbow, and fires.
The Crown pulses.
Left. Two inches.
I shift without thinking. The bolt passes close enough to ruffle my hair. My blade finds his throat before he can reload.
Behind. Low strike. Three seconds.
I spin. Block the knife aimed at my kidneys. Drive my elbow into the attacker’s temple.
This is...this is incredible.
The Crown doesn’t just show me possibilities. It shows me certainties. The exact angle of each attack, the precise timing, the specific counter needed. I’m not fighting. I’m executing a choreography that only I can see.
But there are too many of them.
For every one I drop, two more appear. The mercenaries have regrouped, coordinating their attacks, trying to overwhelm me with numbers. A blade catches my arm, shallow, but it bleeds. A boot connects with my ribs. I stumble.
Four converging. Eight seconds. No viable counter.
The Crown shows me my death. Four blades, four angles, no escape.
Tiana screams.
I turn, big mistake, and see her pinned against a tree. A Seelie warrior has her by the throat, lifting her off the ground, and her light is flickering, failing?—
The Summer Sword ignites.
Not the reluctant warmth I’ve felt when Amarantha calls. This is different. This is mine.
The warmth hits my sternum first, where the sword lives. Then it spreads. Up my spine. Down my arms. Into my fingers.
It doesn’t hurt.
It feels like waking up.
Golden light erupts from my chest, from my hands, from my eyes. And the Crown?—
