I don’t put my mother's scepter away until the last of the bodies and the blackened blood are ash. I untie the ribbon, a creation of centuries of my own handiwork, and slip it into the inner pocket of my dress, then the light of my magic pops as the scepter returns to where I store it, the small pin point on my other inner elbow glowing for a moment with power before it disappears. There’s no other sign of the magic there, nothing but a light freckle easily missed in every search of my body so far.
I turn to face the inner wall of Yregar, the lines and lines of soldiers staring down at me with their weapons still in hand but no longer pointed. Their eyes are too far away for me to see them, but we all watch as the enemy we faced drifts toward the sky as nothing more than ash and smoke.
I take a deep breath, and I let the shield for the Battle of Yregar go once more, its job well done.
CHAPTERFORTY-FOUR
Soren
As the arcs of light burst out of the witch’s scepter, the soldiers around the wall take cover, bows still in hand as they duck under their shields and the large stone battlements, but her power isn’t aimed toward us. No matter how far the dying hordes of witches are flung by that power, none of them cross the shield.
I stand in the safety of that shield and watch as my Fates-cursed mate decimates the army that was so close to victory. With a sword in one hand and her scepter in the other, she spins and swipes as she fights with the skill and grace of a seasoned warrior. She swings the blade with ease, cutting through the witches who approach her as the steel sings through the air in a song I know well.
Though my heart clenches in my chest at first, the mate I waited centuries for fighting alone down there, as she moves confidently cleaving through our enemies, my throat closes over at the sight. Something close to awe begins to bloom in my gut, warmth spreading through my limbs with every passing moment of the display before me. She is a sight to behold.
I was expecting a fumbling technique from her at best, the skill level of a healer forced to pick up a sword only by the devastation of the war she faced in the Northern Lands. That motivation to learn is all wrong and usually cultivates a poor swordsman, but even as she uses her magic to kill dozens of the raving witches in a single blow, her technique with the sword is nothing short of perfect.
The witches quickly become nothing more than piles of dead, their poison leaching into the ground as their screams slowly peter out. The witch glows with the power of the earth, a glorious dance of death as she defends the castle. I’ve fought two-handed and it’s tiring, your body using twice the energy and burning out faster, but she doesn’t falter once as she decimates them.
The wall is silent as we stare, the shock at her skill and defense palpable amongst the ranks. Even Tauron has nothing to say as he gapes at the scene before us, and when the anticipation becomes too much for Roan, still in the saddle keeping command over the soldiers in the courtyard, he sends Reed up to see what's happening.
The Outland soldier is quiet as he approaches me, but his apprehension melts away as he sees the flare of her robes and watches her turning to slash and hack with each pulse of magic she sends out. Roan's agitation only worsens at our silence, but Reed can’t find any words to describe the witch as she cleaves through the battlefield and leaves piles of her dead kinsman as she goes.
I turn back to him. “Come and see for yourself, there’s no enemy left for you to defend against down there.”
Roan’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead, but he dismounts from his horse and hands the reins to another of the soldiers, then takes the steps up the inner wall to my section three at a time, the only sound on our side of the shield the clink of his armor. When he comes to a halt at my side, standing between Reed and I, all the confusion melts from his face, leaving behind awe. The same emotion is in the expressions of all the soldiers as they stare down, a reprieve taking over the ranks as we forget that the battle could change at a moment's notice.
“Why didn't the witch just tell you her fate,” Roan mutters.
Reed doesn't say anything in reply to his prince, but his jaw tightens and his chin lifts just a fraction, a reaction that speaks loudly enough.
There’s no point in lying, the truth undeniable as the witch fights before us. “We wouldn't have believed her. We barely believed that she was fated to me.”
Roan’s eyes widen at my honesty, but the scene before us can’t be argued with. If I tried, I'd be no better than the Unseelie Court, basking in my uncle's presence and hanging on to his every honeyed word as the castles around me wither, clinging to his lies for the sake of nothing but comfort.
The witch will kill Kharl and restore the land. If nothing else, I’m sure of that.
Reed’s eyes narrow as he watches the witch walk through the village, ensuring none of the enemy have been missed in her efforts, and when he speaks, it's with a carefully neutral tone. “Maybe you should start making your peace with her by calling her by her name. Perhaps then she won’t keep her word and force you to beg her to marry you.”
Roan turns to look at him, censure in his eyes at his soldier’s impertinence, but the lull in the battle is broken before he can form words.
“Riders approach!”
The sentries from Tauron’s section of the wall cluster as they call out to us, their position having a better viewpoint of the fae door and, after a moment, they begin to call out to the witch too, warning her of the danger approaching. Tauron leans forward on the battlement stones, cursing under his breath at the scene.
“The fae fucking door, they're still crossing over from the Witch Ward. Kharl’s fled, but he's sending more of his kind to kill the witch.”
Her words to Kharl ring in my mind once more—her fate is to kill Kharl and hold him to justice for the hundreds of thousands of lives lost in the Southern Lands at his command. Her coven was just a drop in the ocean of his evil, but it’s the drop that spilled the bucket of his death. The witch fated to me will kill our greatest enemy and free Southern Lands from his reign of terror.
I’m only furious that she’ll take his death from me.
Reed steps away from us, ducking down to open one of the hatches the soldiers used to pour the witcheswane over the stones and then dropping down to the outer staircase there. It’s encased in iron, but he doesn’t let its effect hinder him as he calls out to the witch, “Let us through the shield! We’re ready to help you, Rooke, you can’t fight them off alone forever!”
She ignores us all, her steps even as she walks toward the advancing horses. We hear the hooves as they bolt toward her, witches of power on their backs sending small balls of magic sparking through the air only to stop at the shield, testing its strength. One, two, three…we count until six of them have ridden out, and the witch walks out to meet them, sword in one hand and scepter in the other.
She holds them both comfortably, the ribbon tied to the end of the scepter dancing in the breeze and the raw emerald held within the clutches of the wood glowing bright across the smoky battlefield-turned-massacre. Her posture is still perfect, no signs of injury or fatigue, and yet my skin crawls with the uselessness of standing here and watching her.
The soldiers try calling out to her again, but as she faces her enemy, Roan puts a stop to that potential distraction.
