“You know just what to say.”
We reach the dome, and I stare through the spell at the rebels lined up inside. Flabbergasted doesn’t begin to describe the expression on their faces. Damien forces his way toward me, his relief shining through the fatigue, blood, and sweat that cover him. He holds up a hand to me and then speaks quickly to Catarina. I can’t hear what they’re saying to each other, but one side of the dome lifts, and I’m able to carry Maeve inside. I set her on her feet and face Damien, his eyes drifting over me.
“We worried you were dead.”
“Not quite. Phantom is a pile of bones, though.”
His gaze focuses on my head. “You’ve been busy.”
I remember what he’s looking at and pull Entrydal’s crown off my head and hand it to him. “We’ve taken Blackspire. The dark elf king is dead.”
We’re surrounded now by black uniforms, vampires, Rivertoads, and shades from every territory in Tenebris. Damien rotates the crown between his fingers, and the way he looks at me is nothing short of reverent. His mouth spreads into a smile, and he thrusts the crown into the air.
“The elf king has fallen! Willowgulch is ours!” he howls.
The cheers that echo his words are deafening. Ourfriends and allies rush in, patting my back and shoulders and taking turns embracing us and each other. Cassius kisses the side of my head, Tempest hugs me as if she’s my own proud mother, Thane, Undaku, and Prandle bow with hands over their hearts. Jaqual meets my eyes, kisses his fingertips, and blows the kiss toward me.
Catarina gives me a proud nod, then goes straight to Maeve, who has found a boulder to sit on, and offers her canteen.
Everyone is still celebrating when Percy shoves his way through the crowd to reach Damien. Damien raises a hand to silence the crowd.
“We’ve isolated New Stygarde,” Percy says. “What are your orders?”
39
My Brother’s Keeper
Damien
Ultimately, it’s my decision. Our warriors are exhausted. Everyone needs food and rest.
But there can be no rest.
Catarina informs me that the shield holding off New Stygarde’s troops won’t last more than an hour. If we rest, we die. If we rest, we give the enemy time to regroup. In this war, there is no time for rest until it is done.
I turn to Jaqual. “It’s now or never.”
“I agree. We end this today.” The Rivertoad king looks to Maeve. “I don’t suppose you can manage another army on our behalf?”
Maeve shakes her head sleepily. “Not a chance. The only bones I’ll be animating tonight are my own.”
We both focus on Eloise. “Phantom?”
“I can reanimate the dragon, but it will take time and energy. Time I’m afraid we don’t have. For this fight, you can’t count on my magic, only my blades.”
I kiss her soundly on the lips. A hard, fast kiss. It’s all we can afford. “It’s enough,” I whisper.
I stride to the center of the crowd and climb atop one of the large rocks that peppers this part of the battlefield. The men and women around me are ready to fight, even though they can barely stand. I hold up Entrydal’s crown. “Tonight, we take back what is rightfully ours. We end the nightmare that has held all of us in its grasp for far too long, and we restore the kingdom—for each of you and each of your children. I know you want to stop. You need rest. But I must ask you to keep going until we reach the castle. There are two more crowns that must be collected tonight. Crowns that belong to you.” I swallow hard, and it’s so quiet, I can hear it. “And once we have those crowns, everything changes. For I will not be your king by blood any longer.” A murmur rises in the crowd. “The one who wears the next crown of Stygarde will be elected by you and will serve your will. We will create a government, not for the benefit of the kingdom, but for the benefit of the people!”
A cheer rises up around me, so loud and clear that it rings in my ears. Fists and swords and voices crescendo to a chorus of shouts. Somewhere, a horn blows. All around me, shades shift into their battle form, ready to fight.
I raise my own fist into the air. “For Stygarde!”
I nod at Catarina. She signals to the other witches to drop their shield.
And we fight.
I’m a warrior, but I don’t love war. No one does. Still, there’s a rhythm to it. A dance. A chorus of clashing swords. The flap of beastly wings. The slash of barbed tails. Shadows twisting in and out of existence as themoon rises, light pouring like spilled milk over trampled red wheat. The squish of boots in blood-soaked earth. The gnashing of teeth.
