Ren gripped his arm, tugging him close. “There might be nothing left to defend, Aedion.”

“Send out the call anyway.” He jerked his chin to the lines they’d passed through. Ilias was polishing his blades amongst a cluster of his father’s assassins, his attention pinned on the enemy ahead. Preparing to make a final stand on this snowy plain so far from his warm desert. “You insist I’m still your general? Then here’s my final order. Call for aid.”

A muscle feathered in Ren’s jaw. But he said, “Consider it done.” Then he was gone.

They didn’t bother with good-byes. Their luck was bad enough.

So Aedion continued, alone, to the front lines. Two Bane soldiers stepped aside to make room, and Aedion hefted up his shield, seamlessly fitting it between their unified front. The metal wall against which Morath would strike first, and hardest.

The snows swirled, veiling all beyond a hundred or so feet.

Yet the bone drums pounded louder. Soon the earth shook beneath marching feet.

Their final stand, here on an unnamed field before the Florine. How had it come to this?

Aedion drew his sword, the other soldiers following suit, the cry of ringing metal cutting through the howling wind.

Morath appeared, a line of solid black emerging from the snow.

Each foot they gained, more appeared behind. How far back was that witch tower? How soon would its power be unleashed?

He prayed, for the sake of his soldiers, that it would be quick, and relatively painless. That they would not know much fear before they were blasted into ashes.

The Bane didn’t clash their swords on their shields this time.

There was only the marching of Morath, and the drums.

Had they gone to Orynth when Darrow demanded, they would have made it. Had time to cross the bridge, or take the northern route.

This defeat, these deaths, rested upon his shoulders alone.

Down the line, motion caught his eye—just as a fuzzy, massive head poked between Prince Galan and one of his remaining soldiers. A ghost leopard.

Green eyes slid toward him, drained and bleak.

Aedion looked away first. This would be bad enough without knowing she was here. That Lysandra would undoubtedly stay until she, too, fell.

He prayed he went first. So he wouldn’t witness it.

Morath drew close enough that Ren’s order to the archers rang out.

Arrows flew, fading into the snows.

Morath sent an answering volley that blotted out the watery light.

Aedion angled his shield, crouching low. Every impact reverberated through his bones.

Grunts and screams filled their side of the battlefield. When the volley stopped, when they straightened again, many men did not rise with them.

It was not arrows alone that had been fired, and now peppered the snow.

But heads. Human heads, many still in their helmets. Bearing Ansel of Briarcliff’s roaring wolf insignia.

The rest of the army that she’d promised. That they’d been waiting for.

They must have intercepted Morath—and been obliterated.

Shouts rose from the army behind him as the realization rippled through the ranks. One female voice in particular carried over the din, her mournful cry echoing through Aedion’s helmet.

The milky, wide eyes of the decapitated head that had landed near his boots stared skyward, the mouth still open in a scream of terror.

How many had Ansel known? How many friends had been amongst them?

It wasn’t the time to seek out the young queen, to offer his condolences. Not when neither of them would likely survive the day. Not when it might be the heads of his own soldiers that were launched at Orynth’s walls.

Ren ordered another volley, their arrows so few compared to what had been unleashed seconds before. A spattering of rain compared to a downpour. Many found their marks, soldiers in dark armor going down. But they were replaced by those behind them, mere cogs in some terrible machine.

“We fight as one,” Aedion called down the line, forcing himself to ignore the scattered heads. “We die as one.”

A horn blared from deep within the enemy ranks. Morath began its all-out run on their front line.

Aedion’s boots dug into the mud as he braced his shield arm. Like it could possibly hold back the tide stretching into the horizon.

He counted his breaths, knowing they were limited. A ghost leopard’s snarl ripped down the line, a challenge to the charging army.

Fifty feet. Ren’s archers still fired fewer and fewer arrows. Forty. Thirty.

The sword in his hand was no equal to the ancient blade he’d worn with such pride. But he’d make it work. Twenty. Ten.

Aedion sucked in a breath. The black, depthless eyes of the Morath soldiers became clear beneath their helmets.

Morath’s front line angled their swords, their spears—

Roaring fire blasted from the left flank.

His left flank.

Aedion didn’t dare take his focus off the enemy upon him, but several of the Morath soldiers did.

He slaughtered them for it. Slaughtered their stunned companions, too, as they whirled toward another blast of flame.

Aelin. Aelin—

Soldiers behind him shouted. In triumph and relief.

“Close the gap,” Aedion growled to the warriors on either side of him, and pulled back enough to see the source of their salvation, free and safe at last—

It was not Aelin who unleashed fire upon the left flank.

It was not Aelin at all who had crept up through the snow-veiled river.

Ships filled the Florine, near-ghosts in the swirling snows. Some bore the banners of their united fleet.

But many, so many he couldn’t count, bore a cobalt flag adorned with a green sea dragon.

Rolfe’s fleet. The Mycenians.

Yet there was no sign of the ancient sea dragons who had once gone into battle with them. Only human soldiers marched across the snow, each bearing a familiar-looking contraption, scarves over their mouths.

Firelances.

A horn blasted from the river. And then the firelances unleashed white-hot flame into Morath’s ranks, as if they were plumes from hell. Dragons, all of them, spewing fire upon their enemy.

Flame melted armor and flesh. And burned the demons that dreaded heat and light.

As if they were farmers burning their reaped fields for the winter, Rolfe’s Mycenians marched onward, firelances spewing, until they formed a line between Aedion and their enemy.

Morath turned and ran.

Outright sprinted, their warning cries rising above the bellowing flames. The Fire-Bringer has armed them! Her power burns anew!

The fools did not realize that there was no magic—none beyond pure luck and good timing.

Then a familiar voice rang out. “Quickly! On board, all of you!” Rolfe.

For the ships in the river had pulled up, gangways lowered and rowboats already at the shore.

Aedion wasted no time. “To the river! To the fleet!”

Their soldiers didn’t hesitate. They sprinted for the awaiting armada, onto any ship they could reach, leaping into the longboats. Chaotic and messy, but with Morath on retreat for only the gods knew how long, he didn’t care.

Aedion kept his position at the front line, ensuring no soldier lagged behind.

Down the line, Prince Galan and a spotted, furry form did the same. Beside them, red hair waving in the wind, Ansel of Briarcliff held her sword pointed at their enemy. Tears slid down her freckled cheeks. The heads of her men lay scattered in the snow around her.

And ahead of them, still unleashing flame, Rolfe’s Mycenians bought them the time to retreat.

Each second dripped by, but slowly, those boats filled. Slowly, their army left the shore, every boat that departed was replaced by another. Many Fae shifted, birds of prey filling the gray sky as they soared over the river.

And when there were none left but a few boats, among them a beautiful ship with a mast carved after an attacking sea dragon, Rolfe roared from the helm, “Fall back, all of you!”

The Mycenians and their firelances made a quick retreat, hurrying for the longboats returning to shore.

Lysandra and Ansel ran with them, and Aedion followed suit. It was the longest sprint of his life.

But then he was at the gangplank of Rolfe’s ship, the river deep enough that they’d been able to pull up close to the shore. Lysandra, Galan, and Ansel were already past him, and Aedion had barely cleared the deck when the gangway was lifted. Below, around, the Mycenians leaped into their longboats and rowed like hell. Not a single soldier left behind. Only the dead.

Light flashed, and Aedion whirled toward the ship’s helm in time to see Lysandra shift from ghost leopard to woman, naked as the day she was born.

Rolfe, to his credit, only looked mildly surprised as she flung her arms around his neck. And to his credit once more, the Pirate Lord wrapped his cloak around her before he gripped her back.

Aedion reached them, panting and so relieved he might vomit upon the shining planks.

Rolfe let go of Lysandra, offering her his cloak completely. As the shifter wrapped it around herself, he said, “You looked like you were in need of a rescue.”

Aedion only embraced the man, then nodded toward Rolfe’s gloved hands. “I assume we have that map of yours to thank.”

“Turns out it’s good for something other than plundering.” Rolfe smirked. “Ravi and Sol of Suria intercepted us near the northern border,” he admitted. “They thought you might be in trouble—and sent us this way.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They remain with what’s left of your fleet, guarding the coast. If Morath attacks from the sea, they won’t have enough ships to stand a chance. I told them that, and they still ordered me here.” The Pirate Lord’s tan face tightened. “So here I am.”

Aedion hardly noticed the sailors and soldiers making the quick sailing to the other side of the river. “Thank you,” he breathed. And thank the gods for Ravi and Sol.