The Sun Soldiers flooded the empty fields of Arkesk with sunlight. Nikolai squinted at the brightness, at the blighted field, at the pocked earth in the distance where a forest had once stood. He could only imagine the Fjerdans were doing the same, wondering what strange sun rose in the south. They wouldn’t have long to wonder.

“Squallers prepare!” cried Nadia to her deployment of Etherealki.

“First volley!” Leoni yelled to her Fabrikators. “Deploy!”

The sound was like a crackle, followed by a low whistle as the rockets ignited, their titanium shells glinting dully in the false sunlight. They arced into the sky, silver darts shooting toward the horizon, as the Squallers held the wind from the west at bay and guided the rockets to their targets—Fjerdan tanks, Fjerdan troops.

When they struck, the sounds of impact rent the air, a staccato rhythm that shook the earth, the drumbeat relentless. Nikolai climbed a rickety staircase to the lookout tower they’d erected and peered through a double long glass. Smoke and fire rose from the Fjerdan lines. Men ran to put out the flames, to help their fallen comrades, to pull bodies from the wreckage. It was like looking out over Os Alta on the night of the bombing. From this distance, those soldiers might be Ravkans, friends, his own subjects scrambling to make sense of this sudden strike. The land was pitted by smoking black craters. How many dead in a single blow? In a matter of moments?

A game of range. The Fjerdans had thought they could ground Ravka’s flyers, and they’d largely succeeded. But they hadn’t counted on Ravka’s titanium missiles. If they wanted to use their guns and artillery, they would have to push closer and put their troops and tanks into the line of fire. The Fjerdans had given them a very big target to aim at. Their war chests were full. Their army hadn’t been battered by years of fighting on two fronts. It showed.

Nikolai had no intention of letting them recover from the first strike. He signaled his forces on the ground, and General Pensky ordered his tank battalion forward, followed by infantry and Grisha, with Adrik at the lead. This was their chance to seize the advantage and force their enemy into a hasty retreat.

“Is it too much to hope that they’ll just pack up and go home?” Nadia asked as Nikolai descended to the field.

“They won’t,” Tolya said, slinging his rifle onto his broad back. “Not with Brum in charge.”

Nikolai believed it. Brum’s political future was tied to the success of this campaign—a brutal and decisive victory that would grant Fjerda most of western Ravka and put the east within their grasp. With enough titanium, Ravka could have simply stood back and fired on the Fjerdan forces until they were too weakened to advance. But they couldn’t build a house from bricks they didn’t have.

Nikolai was more tired and more afraid for his people than he’d ever been, but he could sense the hope in them. The night before, he had walked the camp, talking to his troops and his commanders, stopping to share a drink or play a game of cards. He had tried not to think of how many of them might not survive this battle.

“We’re ready with the second volley?” he asked.

“On your order,” said Nadia.

“And the Starless?”

Tolya bobbed his head toward the east. “They’re encamped on the periphery of the fighting.”

“No engagement?”

“None.”

“Are they armed?”

“Hard to tell,” said Tolya. “For better or worse, they’re people of faith. They’ll fight with fists and sticks if they have to.”

“Maybe someone will shoot the Darkling,” Nadia suggested.

“Then I’ll have to send Jarl Brum a nice thank-you note.” Nikolai didn’t know what the Darkling intended, but the Sun Soldiers would be ready.

Leoni appeared, her purple kefta already thick with dust and soot. “The Fjerdan lines are forming up again.”

“Second volley,” said Nikolai.

She nodded, her face grim, as she and Nadia returned to their positions. Nikolai knew neither of them would forget what they’d witnessed today. They were fighters, soldiers; they’d both seen combat and worse. But this was a different kind of bloodshed, murder at a distance, final and swift. David had warned them it would change everything. Bigger rockets, with longer range, would mean they could fire on much larger targets from afar. Where does it end? Tolya had asked. And Nikolai didn’t know. They couldn’t just push the Fjerdans back today. They had to somehow beat them badly enough to make them question war with Ravka entirely.

“Tolya—”

“No word from Zoya and Genya yet.”

Had they succeeded? His troops were counting on reinforcements from the Grisha and First Army in the south. And he needed to know she was all right.

Shouts rang out down the Ravkan line, and a moment later the second volley of missiles flew, lobbed even farther into the Fjerdan ranks. But this time the Fjerdans were ready. Their tanks rolled over the smoldering bodies of their own troops and their infantry surged forward.

That was it: two volleys, the last of their missiles. In the trenches, he saw Leoni’s troops reloading, but he knew those shells were steel, not titanium, and empty of explosives. If any Fjerdan scouts were watching, Nikolai didn’t want them to know just how vulnerable Ravka was.

Most battles were waged over weeks, long slogs through bullets and blood. But Ravka couldn’t fight that kind of war. They didn’t have the funds, the flyers, the bodies to sacrifice. So this would be their stand. If the Saints were watching, he hoped they were on Ravka’s side. He hoped that they had protected Zoya in the south. He hoped they’d fight beside him now.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” said Tolya. “Put down that gun.”

Nikolai checked the sights on his rifle. “I can’t very well plunge heroically into battle unarmed.”

“We need you alive to issue commands, not blown apart by Fjerdan repeaters.”

“I have officers to issue commands. This is our last chance to make a real charge. If we lose, Ravka won’t need a king anyway.”

Tolya sighed. “Then I suppose you won’t need bodyguards. We go together.”

As they drew closer to the front lines, the noise was overwhelming, the thunder of tanks and artillery like a hammer to the head. They pushed forward through the ranks, past the injured and those preparing to be called into battle.