“The Red is a meddling trickster, nothing more,” Cortael called without turning. “Ring the temple; keep your formation.” The Corblood was a born leader, well accustomed to command. “Taristan will try to slip through us and tear open a crossing before we can stop him.”

“He will fail,” Dom rumbled, drawing his greatsword from its sheath.

Okran thumped the butt of his spear on the ground in agreement, while the North cousins rattled their shields. Sir Grandel drew himself up, his jaw hard, his shoulder squared. The immortals fell in, their bows and blades in hand. The Companions were ready.

The skies finally opened, the cold, steady rain turning to downpour. Andry shivered as the wet worked down his spine, needling through the gaps in his clothing.

Cortael raised the Spindleblade to the road. Rain spattered the sword, obscuring the ancient design of the steel. Water ran down his face, but he was as stone, weathering the storm. Andry knew Cortael was mortal, but he seemed ageless in that instant. A piece of a realm lost, glimpsed only for a moment, as if through the crack in a closing door.

“Companions of the Realm,” Cortael said, his voice carrying.

Thunder rolled somewhere up the mountains. The gods of the Ward are watching, Andry thought. He felt their eyes.

The rain doubled its onslaught, falling in sheets, turning the grass to mud.

Cortael did not waver. “That bell has not tolled for a thousand years,” he said. “No one has set foot inside that temple or passed through the Spindle since. My brother intends to be the first. He will not. He will fail. What evil intent drove him here ends here.”

The sword flashed, reflecting a pulse of lightning. Cortael tightened his grip.

“There is power in Corblood and Spindleblade, enough to cut the Spindles through. It is our duty to stop my brother from this ruin, to save the realm, to save the Ward.” Cortael looked at the Companions in turn. Andry shivered when his gaze brushed over him. “Today, we fight for tomorrow.”

Cortael’s resolve did not quell the rising fear in Andry Trelland, but it gave him strength. Even if his duty was only to watch and wash away the blood, he would not flinch. He would serve the Companions and the Ward in whatever way he could. Even a squire could be strong.

“That bell has not tolled for a thousand years,” Cortael said again. He looked like a soldier, not a prince. A mortal man without a bloodline, only a duty. “It will not toll for a thousand more.”

Thunder sounded again, closer now.

And the bell tolled.

The Companions startled as one.

“Hold your ground,” Dom said. Wind tore at the golden curtain of his hair. “This is the Red’s doing. An illusion!”

The bell was both hollow and full, a call and a warning. Andry tasted its wrath and its sorrow. It seemed to echo backward and forward through the centuries, through the realms. Some part of Andry told him to put as much distance between himself and the bell as he could. But his feet stayed rooted, fists clenched. I will not flinch.

Sir Grandel bared his teeth and slapped his hand against his chest, steel ringing on steel. “With me!” he shouted, the old battle cry of the Lionguard. The Norths answered in kind.

Andry felt it in his chest.

From the hill, Andry glimpsed two figures walking steadily up the path, fading between the raindrops. The one called the Red was aptly named, swathed in a cloak the color of freshly spilled blood. He was hooded, but Andry could see his face. The wizard. He was young, clean-shaven, with pale white skin and hair like wheat. His eyes looked red, even from a distance. They quivered as he took in the Companions, scanning them all from head to toe. His mouth moved without sound, lips forming words no one could hear.

The other man stood not in armor but worn leathers and a cloak the color of mud. He was a rogue, the shadow to his brother’s sun. His helmet obscured his face, but it didn’t hide the curls of dark red hair beneath.

His blade, twin to Cortael’s own, was still in its sheath, jeweled with red and purple, a sunset between his fingers. The sword stealer.

So this is supposed to be the ruin of the realm, Andry thought, bewildered.

Cortael kept his sword raised. “You are a fool, Taristan.”

The bell tolled again, rolling back in the tower.

The other son of Old Cor stood quietly, listening to the temple bell. Then he smiled, his white-toothed grin evident even beneath his helmet.

“How long’s it been, Brother?”

Cortael was unmoved.

“Since birth,” Taristan finally offered, answering for him. “I bet you had a good time of it, growing up in Iona. Spindleblessed from your first heartbeat.” Though Taristan’s manner was light, his tone near jovial, the squire saw an edge to him. It was like watching a feral dog size up a trained hound. “And to your last.”

“I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, Brother,” Cortael said.

At his side, Dom glowered. “Return what you have taken, thief.”

With quick fingers, Taristan half drew the blade at his side, revealing inches of the sword. Even in the rain, the steel gleamed, the etched lines a spiderweb.

He twitched a smirk. “You’re welcome to try and take it back if you want, Domacridhan.” The Elder’s full name fell off his tongue awkwardly, not worth his effort. He wiggled the sword in its sheath, taunting them all. “If you’re anything like the vaults of your kin, you’ll fail. And who are you to keep my birthright from me? Even if I am the younger, the spare, it’s only fair we each hold a blade of our ancestors, of our lost realm.”

“This will end in ruin,” Cortael growled. “Surrender and I will not have to kill you.”

Taristan slid a foot, moving with the grace of a dancer, not a warrior. Cortael shifted to match, extending the blade to his brother’s throat.

“The Elders raised you as you are, Cortael,” he said. “A warrior, a scholar, a lord of men and immortals both. The heir to rebuild an empire long since lost. All to do exactly what I have done: Bring the Spindles back into crossing. Rejoin the realms. Allow their people to return to a home they have not seen in centuries.” He glanced at Dom. “Am I wrong, Elder?”

“To tear a Spindle open is to put all the realms in danger. You would destroy the world for your own ends,” Dom growled, his steady manner fading.

Taristan stepped, squelching in the mud. “Destruction for some. Glory for others.”

The mantle of the Elder’s stillness fell away with the ease of a discarded cloak. “Monster,” Dom raged, his own sword suddenly raised.

Taristan grinned again, taunting.

He’s enjoying this, Andry realized with disgust.

Dom snarled. “You cannot force a Spindle. The consequences—”

“Save your breath,” Cortael said. “His fate is chosen.”

Taristan halted in his tracks.

“My fate is chosen?” he hissed, his voice turning soft and dangerous, a blade beneath silk. Rage gathered in him as the storm gathered above.

On the hill, Andry felt his heartbeat quicken and his breath come fast.

“They took you and trained you and told you that you were something special, an emperor returned, Corblood and Spindleborn,” Taristan seethed. “The last of an ancient bloodline, meant for greatness. Old Cor was yours to claim and conquer, yours to rule. What a glorious destiny for the firstborn son of the parents we never knew.”