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Instead, it stilled, ears flicking back, as if waiting for a command.

Ailsa leaned forward. “To Kayla.”

The clag-doo snarled, its muscular body coiling. And then it leaped, cleaving a path through the chaos.

Bent low over his horse’s neck, Gil urged the gelding faster.

He heard the battle long before he caught sight of it: a dull roar that split the crisp morning air and made the ground shake.

Curse it.

He’d hoped he’d reach them in time, but maybe he was too late. Too slow.

His poor horse was lathered, for he’d pushed it too hard. Likewise, sweat poured down his back, and his thigh muscles screamed.

But he wouldn’t give up—he had to reach Lara.

He had to tell her.

Cresting a rise, he caught sight of the queen’s encampment ahead. Clusters of hide tents surrounded by a perimeter of guards greeted him.

Some of them drew weapons as Gil thundered toward them.

“Let me through!” he bellowed. “I have news for the queen. Let me through!”

And they did.

He galloped through the camp, past cold and smoking cook fires and empty enclosures where the horses had rested overnight, and then he made his way up another hill.

There, at the top of it—looking down upon the road below where two armies surged against each other like storm-blown waves—was Lara.

For an instant, he cut his gaze away from the queen, watching as the enemy line bent slightly, giving ground.

A black shape bounded through the fray.

Bodies lay everywhere.

Fuck. Gil tore his attention away from the fighting. Ahead, the ring of riders protecting the queen opened up to let him through.

Panting, he hauled his horse up next to the queen.

Bree was there, astride her cob, and she reined her horse around, hazel eyes flying wide at the sight of him. “Gil,” she began. “What the fuck—”

“I figured it out,” he cut her off, his gaze snapping to Lara. Beneath his exhaustion, he felt almost giddy—the satisfaction of a riddle finally solved. “I know how the binding sigil really works.”

The noise of the battle below made his ears ache. His throat hurt from shouting, but that wouldn’t stop him.

“Go on,” Lara yelled back. Her face was drawn and pale. Even the briefest glance earlier had told him that things weren’t going well.

The howling and the screams made it hard to focus.

Maybe he was too late, but Lara needed to know.

“Niall thinks he bears the tattoo that controls them … but he doesn’t,” Gil shouted above the din. “Gregor has it tattooed somewhere on his body. He’s the one in charge.”

The queen frowned, confusion clouding her green eyes. “How do you know this?”

“I found an old sacrificer’s scroll deep in the vaults.” He paused, gasping for breath. “It’s an ancient mark … but in order to wield earth magic this powerful, the tattooist of the others must bear the master tattoo.”