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But the conflicting, clashing emotions swelling and waning repeatedly in her chest would have to wait, because time was one thing they were in short supply of.

Another scream echoed in the darkness, followed by shouts—of one, of many.

Magic flared beneath Cedric’s skin, his veins alight with power as he wrapped a hand around Ashrender. His burning stare met Elyria’s, and her fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger.

“Let’s go.”

Utter madness.

That was the only way to describe the sight before Elyria’s eyes as she and Cedric ran into the heart of the glade.

The chaotic, screaming, panicking glade.

Sylvans darted across the grass, blurs of green, sometimes carrying a crying child in their arms or dragging one behind them by the hand. Others bolted out from the doors of their huts, arms laden with precious things, only to drop them at the sight of the red-cloaked figures making their way down the entrance path.

Elyria and Cedric stopped in their tracks at the edge of the clearing, eyes fixed on the approaching enemy. There was no time to question why or how they were here. No point in contemplating how they had gotten past Elderglade’s protections.

Elyria already knew.

Cedric had been right.

They were here for her.

Worse still, they had gotten in because of her.

“Go now! Leave it! To the council chamber—hurry! Just go!”

Kit and Jocelyn were near the dining hut, the former standing atop a table, shouting instructions into the chaos. Elyria’s heart leapt in her chest at the sight of Kit’s silver-and-gold wings flared wide, at the determination on Jocelyn’s face as she directed the fleeing residents.

And still, ever closer drew Malakar’s cultists.

A dozen of them had come. The dark sorcerer did not appear to be among them, but the relief brought on by that realization was short-lived. So, too, was the fleeting thought that between Cedric, Kit, Jocelyn, and herself—let alone Thraigg and Young Shep, who were surely around here somewhere—this wasn’t that many cultists. They’d survived much worse odds, after all.

But no, that thought did not bring Elyria comfort.

Because it wasn’t the sanguinagi themselves that had the blood freezing in Elyria’s veins.

It was the row of dark beasts plodding along in front of them—blackened skin stretched tight over monstrous features, spittle dripping from snarling maws, claws digging into the dirt with every step.

A vague, hazy memory stirred, flashes from the night of her rescue. Cedric and Raefe fighting the cultists in Castle Lumin’s great hall. Cultists who turned feral, man into monster. The sounds of snapping bones and inhuman growls filled Elyria’s mind momentarily, and her stomach sank.

“What has he done?” The words were barely formed as they floated down the bond, so horrified was Elyria at the implications of what had likely been done to the beasts before them.

Cedric stepped up beside her, back straight and stiff, Ashrender gripped in both hands. “This is the world as he would have it remade.”

The enemy did not run. Did not rush. They were still only halfway down the long, tree-lined pathway. The monsters released the occasional snarl, their heads darting warily from side to side, but it was like they were leashed to the sanguinagi plodding evenly behind them, who seemed to be in no hurry at all.

And why would they be? They blocked the entrance—and the exit. They stood between all of Elderglade—healers and teachers and children—and the only way out.

They could take their time.

The cultists brandished no weapons aside from their guardian beasts, and a foolish spark of hope clawed its way up Elyria’s chest. Perhaps they had not come here with the intent to kill them all. Perhaps, along with recapturing Elyria, with regaining his final crumb of power, Malakar simply hoped to find more converts among the scared and unprotected.

They were only here because of her. If Elyria went with them, maybe they would leave this place. Maybe they would let its inhabitants continue living in peace.

His descendant had made such a bargain before. Varyth Malchior had agreed to leave Elderglade be in exchange for Zephyr’s help in getting Cedric to the crown during the Crucible. Would Malakar make the same trade? Or was it all too late? If Elyria was not here, could the protections that had kept out the darkness for centuries past be renewed, reforged?

“Don’t even fucking think about it.” Cedric’s words bounced around the inside of Elyria’s skull, and his gaze was dark when she glanced at him. He must have sensed her indecision, her wavering resolve. He was undoubtedly well versed with how their shared proclivity for self-sacrifice felt.