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“We can fight. We can help.” The boy clutched a small paring knife in one hand, the kind used to crush herbs, shell nuts. The young sylvan woman next to him tapped a flipball bat against her boot, while the mixedborn girl on her other side had what looked like a snapped billiard cue, the jagged halves held in front of her like batons.

“Guards and soldiers are in short supply here, I’m afraid,” Elder Larkess had said.

No, they weren’t soldiers. But they were ready to fight.

They were ready to protect the most precious part of this place, the true purpose of the sanctuary.

“This is helping,” Elyria said softly. “Is there a back door?”

The mixedborn girl nodded. “Yes, my lady.”

“Good. Then go, all of you. Protect them, so we can protect you.”

There was a moment of hesitation, but eventually, with a few low murmurs of assent, the trio ran inside.

Elyria turned. Took in the stern set of Jocelyn’s and Kit’s expressions, their curt nods. Streams of water swirled up Kit’s arms, snaking around her wrists, her forearms—ready and waiting. Jocelyn tipped the contents of a small pouch tied to her belt into the palm of one hand, then pulled her short sword free with the other. But where was⁠—

Red light flared from the entrance path, another shudder rocking the entire glade. Those luminous rosebuds turned into bolts of crimson lightning flaring out from within the cage of brambles, blasting it into smithereens.

Elyria’s stomach churned as some of those bolts shot into the surrounding trees, not only splintering bark and felling branches but leaving sparks in their wake. Embers smoked at the edges of the charred wood, and Elyria exhaled a relieved breath as they faded away. They hadn’t caught, hadn’t bloomed into an outright flame.

Not that there would have been time to do anything about it if they had.

The enemy was upon them.

They came in a maelstrom of snarls and curses. The glow cast by Elderglade’s luminescent flora glinted eerily off the bloodred crystal swords and scythes and daggers the cultists held as they charged into the clearing, red eyes searching, mouths curving up into wicked grins as they landed on Elyria, Kit, and Jocelyn. Blood dripped from palms and wrists and fingers, filling the air with a sour, copper-laced tang.

Elyria couldn’t focus on the sight for long though. Not as she realized that the creatures had been unleashed, racing ahead of their masters like a herd of wildebeests being chased through a canyon.

Not as she saw the way every single one of them was barreling toward Cedric.

Cedric, who had not, in fact, followed her over to the schoolhouse.

Cedric, who was still standing over by the dining hut, his shoulders rolled back, his head held high.

Elyria met his gold-ringed eyes for a single second before he turned and drew Ashrender up with two hands. The sword lit up with blazing sunfyre, and the horde of beasts sped up.

For a moment Elyria could only stare—at Cedric, at the monsters closing in on him like a dark tide, at the dozen cultists carving their own crimson path across the glade toward her, Kit, and Jocelyn.

No.

Elyria clenched her fists, and the ground rumbled. Her wild magic screamed in her veins, hot and then cold—too cold, burning cold—as she pulled more and more of it to the surface. It was too soon, and she was using too much. But there were so many, and she needed to buy them all a little bit of time. She just needed to slow them down, to give the children the opportunity to get away, to give them all a fighting chance to⁠—

The ground cracked open. A rift cleaved through the dirt, grass and fallen leaves tumbling into it as it widened, then ripped along the ground, rushing toward the horde of beasts. Several of them fell in, limbs flailing, to a chorus of unearthly screams.

Jocelyn and Kit startled, their attention torn for a moment from the oncoming wave of cultists. But then it was back again, their magic launching skillfully to keep the enemy at bay. Bolts of ice collided with blood-magic shields. Jocelyn tossed a handful of seeds into the air, where they transformed into massive thorns that shot at the enemy.

Elyria clung to Cedric’s focus through the bond—an eerie, razor-sharp calm that felt distinctly at odds with the surrounding chaos. He had his feet planted in the grass by the dining hut, his stance wide. Ashrender burned in his hands, a vertical slice of the sun spearing through the night.

It was calling to them.

The beasts’ heads snapped toward the light like rabid wolves scenting fresh meat. Their jaws stretched too wide, spittle glistening on teeth that looked all wrong—too long, too many, but still, somehow, grotesquely familiar.

Elyria’s rift had swallowed a handful of them.

The rest had skidded to a stop right at the edge, their claws digging into the dirt. Their bodies moved with a loping, jerking gait—all muscle and hunger and twisted magic. One let out a bone-shaking howl before hauling itself forward with a strength that made Elyria’s stomach turn, launching across the open chasm.

The rest followed.