The air leaves my body. The sounds of the fortress—the forge, the sparring, the laughter—fade to a dull roar. The world narrows until it is only Kael’s pale, frightened face.
And then I feel it.
The psychic scar, a wound that has lain dormant for five years, erupts in a sickening jolt of ice and fire. It is a phantom pain, a searing agony that rips through my mind with an intimate, soul-deep familiarity. A low, powerful hum vibrates against my skin, a thrum of immense power that I would know anywhere. The monster from my past. He has found me.
Lyren feels my sudden tension and clutches at my leg. “Mama? What is it?”
I cannot answer him. I am back in that lightless cell, chained to the wall, the void in his eyes promising nothing but a cold, empty eternity. My stomach plummets, a sickening lurch that leaves me hollow.
No.
I force the memory down, crushing it with the discipline of a queen who has faced down starvation, slavers, and the endless despair of her people. The terrified slave is a ghost. She does not rule here.
I rise to my full height, my voice cutting through the air, sharp and clear and utterly calm. The terror is a storm inside me, but my words are the eye of that storm.
“Kael, sound the alarm. Protocol Scythe.”
His eyes widen in understanding, a flicker of fear quickly replaced by grim resolve. Scythe. Not Shield Wall, our defense against a conventional army. Scythe was designed for a single, overwhelmingly powerful threat. It was designed forhim.
“Tarek!” I roar, my voice carrying across the courtyard. He freezes mid-spar, his head snapping in my direction. “Scythe! Get the civilians to the undercroft. Now!”
My people move. There is no panic, no hesitation. They have drilled this. They trust me. The courtyard becomes a whirlwind of organized, purposeful activity. Recruits become escorts, herding women and children towards the reinforced entrances to the tunnels beneath Haven. Archers appear on the battlements, their bows drawn, their faces set. Heavy, iron-bound gates slam shut, and the sound of massive, weighted nets being winched into place groans from the gatehouse towers.
We are not preparing for a battle. I know we cannot win a battle. We are preparing for a capture.
I lead Lyren to Tarek’s wife, herding them towards the safety of the undercroft.
“Stay with Elara,” I command, my voice softer but no less firm. “Be brave for me, my little lion.”
He looks up at me, his eyes wide with a fear that mirrors my own. “A monster is coming, isn’t it?”
I kiss his forehead, a desperate, loving gesture. “Monsters are only scary until you face them.” I pray to the gods I do not believe in that I am right.
I watch him go, my heart a leaden weight in my chest. Then I turn and stride back to the main battlement, my bow in hand, an arrow nocked. My personal guard falls into formation around me. Below, the courtyard is clear. The nets are in place. The traps are set. Haven is silent. A fortress holding its breath.
And then I see him.
He descends from the sky, a dark shape against the pale sun. His massive, leathery wings beat a slow, powerful rhythm, carrying him with an unnerving, predatory grace. The silver hair I see in my son every day streams behind him. He is just as Iremember: a beautiful, terrifying god of death carved from ice and starlight.
He does not attack. He simply lands, a soft thud of leather and bone, on the frozen earth just outside Haven’s main gate. He stands there, his sheer presence an act of aggression, and his massive wings cast a long, dark shadow that stretches across the courtyard, over the walls, and falls directly upon me.
He raises his head. Across the distance, through the swirling snow, his abyss-black eyes find mine. I see no fire, no chaos. Only the same cold, calculating focus I saw right before he woke up in that cell five years ago. He has not come for me. He has come for something I have.
8
EOIN
The fortress is a crude thing. A ruin crudely mended, a child’s stack of mismatched stones pretending to be a citadel. I stand on the ridge overlooking the valley, my assessment of the place called “Haven” swift and dismissive. Its walls are a patchwork of old granite and new mortar, its defenses reliant on predictable choke points and amateurish wooden battlements. It is a sanctuary of runaways, and it has the scent of desperation.
Beneath the odors of woodsmoke, livestock, and unwashed bodies, I can feel her. The Anomaly. Our psychic link, a scar I have learned to ignore for five years, now hums with a sharp, insistent vibration. It is a torrent of heightened emotion, a frantic energy that I logically identify as fear. It is the only appropriate response. She knows what I am. She knows why I am here. Her terror is a beacon, confirming my path.
I descend from the ridge, my movements silent. I do not take to the air; that would be a mercy, a swift approach. Instead, I walk the path to her gate, an inexorable predator, allowing her fear to build.
The territory is littered with primitive traps. A tripwire fashioned from gut is stretched between two pines. I step over it without breaking stride. A shallow pit covered with branches lies further on. I walk around its edge, my lips curling in a faint, humorless line. These are the defenses of a frightened slave, not a queen. My confidence is absolute. This will be a simple extraction.
The path leads me through an outer gate, left deliberately open. An invitation. It winds through a narrow passage between two tall rock faces before opening into the main courtyard. A kill-zone, by obvious design. She intends to funnel me here. I allow myself to be funneled. Let her believe her pathetic strategy is working.
And that is where I see it. The specimen.
