When I told him it was a worthy measure, he dismissed me easily. “There's not enough room in there, and I won't be separating women and children for fear of a greater mess to clean up at the end. If the witches take the outer wall, they'll die together as families and reunite in Elysium. A cold comfort but the only I can offer.”
Mercer’s apathy for the fae folk only spurs me on.
Moving the soldiers around, I weave my own forces in with Mercer’s to be sure my commands are followed. Without need for my direction, centuries of battles fought together, Roan takes over command of the outer wall. The commander mutters indignantly at the shift in leadership but no one questions the Snowsong heir. To do so now, on the precipice of Yrell’s darkest hour, would be treason and there’s never been any doubt of my merciless approach, or my most loyal support. Whether they like it or not, Roan’s word is final.
There’s no time to dwell on thoughts of the Unseelie Court’s prejudice, Mercer’s cruelty, or even the reproachful gleam in far too many high-fae eyes around me. Kharl’s forces will use our division to tear down Yrell’s walls and take the city from us, a future I cannot allow to happen.
The dread lingers, images of Rooke’s burned flesh assaulting me with every blink and her screams raking at my mind with cruel talons until the driving need for victory consumes me. There are no other options for Yrell; we will defend, we will win, and I’ll get my Fates-blessed mate out of this weed-soaked nightmare.
The rhythmic sound of the soldiers marching toward us grows louder with every breath, building until it echoes through the empty streets, and as the first rays of the morning light peek over the horizon, they finally come to a halt beforethe witcheswane lines. The loss of the rhythmic beat of their footsteps can barely be heard over their snarls and manic grunts, the writhing sea of bodies darkening the already desolate outlook.
I look closer at them now than I ever have before, picking over each of the faces on the front line, but where there was once a seething rage inside me at the animalistic madness etched into their features, there now lies a cold, furious clarity. These creatures deserve death as an act of vengeance and mercy, to end the suffering at Kharl Balzog’s bidding.
The generals who ride alongside them deserve pain and suffering before their demise. Their compliance is in their clear eyes, their chins free of the black spittle the soldiers all ooze out, the bright white colors of their witch markings glowing against their skin like markers in the early morning light. They chose this war.
They abandoned their forests.
Shouts of alarm ring out before they abruptly stop, Mercer’s soldiers panicking as bursts of white light begin breaking through the dark masses. Magic crackles through the air as balls of power spring to life in the hands of the raving masses, the shrill squeals of a war cry deafening as they rally. One of the soldiers flings their magic toward the stone wall, and then hundreds of the projectiles rain down on the ancient stones uselessly and bounce off.
The strength of their magic was stolen by their High Witch, and yet they still try to wield it as though compelled.
The generals move to the front line, fanning out as they overtake the perimeter, stopping only as they reach the eastern side of the wall where the forest grows thick. The male who stops at the edge stares into the tree line before calling out orders, a small band of the soldiers breaking off from the battalions to delve within Elms Walk without second thought.Mournful silence takes over the wall, Mercer’s soldiers unaware of the sacrifice that was given and Rooke’s insistent pleas for protection. The unease that has the males here shifting on their feet gives me hope that perhaps while Mercer is a self-serving, weak excuse of a male, his soldiers might be of a different ilk.
I meet Roan’s gaze across the battlement with a curt nod, and he follows me toward the staircase as the soldiers stand at the ready under Tyton’s command. Yregar almost fell because I didn’t trust the Fates and the path they laid out before me; Yrell won’t suffer the same treatment.
The only true way to defend the wall is to decimate the sieging army. Rooke has woken the forest, the soldiers here are ready to pick off as many of the raving masses as they can before they can cross the witcheswane, but I won’t be trapped behind a shield this time.
Before my boots hit the steps, screams rend the air, stopping me in my tracks. It’s like nothing I’ve heard before, not their frantic war cries or the manic screeching of their deaths at the end of my blade. This is terror, blood-curdling hysteria that blocks out every other sense in its totality. The horror befalling the soldiers is going to be spoken about in the halls of Yrell for generations, the tale growing only more fabled as the screams die out all at once and the silence settles once more.
The trees heeded Rooke’s call, their vengeance after centuries of neglect swift and brutal.
“What in the fires wasthat,” one of the soldiers murmurs, leaning forward on the turret and breaking formation as he tries to see into the thick woods and the darkness within.
“That was the first act of war that Rooke laid for Yrell—a gift of protection for all that walk within the trees. The High Witch’s armies can't take the perimeter of Yrell if they can't enter the forest, and your future queen ensured no safe passage for any who answer that Fates-cursed bastard’s call.”
A stunned silence follows Roan's words, a smugness rolling off him as he studies the lines of witches before us. Orders are called out, the words indistinguishable from here, but a group twice the number of the last ventures into the trees. There’s no delay this time, screams filling the air once more and dozens more soldiers sent into the forest to die. The general commanding that battalion seems eager to sacrifice his soldiers just to test how many lives the forest will take at Rooke’s command.
The Fates begin singing in my chest, the lullaby of sweet death handed out to those who seek to destroy my kingdom and all those within. The raving masses writhe and squirm before breaking apart, the generals moving their forces, and a break in their lines solidifies before us, a feat we’ve never achieved before. The first signs of victory solidify before us.
Meeting Roan’s triumphant gaze with a cold smile of satisfaction of my own, we descend the stairs two at a time only to find Prince Mercer scowling in the courtyard. The sounds of the witches being torn apart by the old gods who live amongst the trees has drawn him out of the safety of the great hall, the color leached from his face as the soldiers guarding him murmur their concerns at his presence. A handful of his household huddle by the door, all of them watching my movements with evident desperation.
“I sent my people in there; hundreds are taking refuge away from the battle. Are they dead already?”
The prince’s voice is terrified, but only for his own wellbeing, and my mouth firms into a vicious line. Calling my own soldiers to my side, I’m distracted from my fury at him as the first sprays of arrows from the outer walls begin to fall. The screeching of the witches waiting at the witcheswane line competes with the dying screams of those within Elms Walk as the archers hit true to their targets. Every arrow is coated in poison, thousands soakingat every battlement, and with every true shot we claw back the safety of the city.
As I stride past the castle steps, Mercer calls out to me, a shrill tone trembling his hasty words, “Prince Soren, are my people dead? What creature hunts within the forest?”
Swinging into my saddle without sparing him a glance I snap back at him, “It doesn’t matter what lurks within Elms Walk. The people you sent in there were nothing more than bait to distract the witches and give yourself more time to prepare the troops. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Every eye that followed me now quickly averts, the household who follow this male shying away from the horrifying truth of his tactics. Color blooms at the tops of Mercer’s cheeks, impotent fury igniting in his eyes as his cruelty is laid bare.
I dismiss him with a shrug. “Without securing a perimeter, Kharl’s forces are at a disadvantage. No matter how much stronger we are, the high fae have never been able to compete with the vastness of their armies or the reckless abandon with which Kharl will sacrifice his soldiers. My Fates-blessed mate couldn’t give us more soldiers, but she could weaponize the very land our enemy seeks to take from us. The fae folk of Yrell are underherprotection now. The High Witch and his raving armies have nothing on the power of the Ravenswyrd Mother and the trees of our kingdom who sing to her. The high fae forgot, but that ignorance ends here.”
With the soundsof the troops above us loud in our ears, I spur Nightspark on and lead my soldiers through the tunnel. At the backside of the castle, in the depths of the garden andobscured by bracken and debris, hides the entrance to Yrell’s greatest weapon and safety measure. The tomb in the garden has an opening barely wide enough for the horses to get through, but the tunnel is wider, easily accommodating our height and numbers even on horseback.
The pressure of the hot air around us threatens to be a distraction, but as the path slowly begins to curve upwards, the screams of the witches grow louder around us. Centuries of battle make it easy to distinguish the sounds of them breaching the witcheswane line and advancing to the wall. We listen as the crawlers begin their ascent, more arrows fired as commands are called out. Hundreds of sacrifices the generals willingly make to take the city.
I soak it all in, every scrap of information I can absorb, even as we ride hard through the tunnel, battle after battle of lessons culminating until we reach the opening, the light ahead filtering through until we step out at the side of Elms Walk behind the witches and the general sacrificing his people to test the old gods.
