No one’s listening to me.
Doesn’t matter.
Because Farron’s roaring across the battlefield, flames coiled tight around him, and he’s still going at Sira with everything he’s got. But she’s not slowing down.
He stabs his lance, and she disappears in a puff of smoke, reappearing behind him, shadows extending from her hands. He barely ducks in time.
I try to move, to help, but my limbs are sluggish. I grunt, pushing to my knees.
Light flares to my left.
Ezryn isglowing.
His fist is extended before him, and he unfurls his palm.
The air tastes sweet. Like the first breath of spring after a bitter winter.
Armor blooms over him in shimmering plates, starlight silver, edged in pink and green vines. A faint shimmer of petals bursts around him like confetti from the gods. His pauldrons are new buds curling open but with steel instead of petals. Unlike Keldarion, his helm covers his entire face, his T-shaped vizor edged with silver.
I blink.
“Okay,” I whisper, grinning. “That’s pretty.”
I rise to all fours, and it feels heavy against my neck—the queen’s token, that little shell nestled among all the normal ones and the piece of red sea glass that Farron strung for me.
Kel, shining like a glacier, and Ezryn, blooming like dawn, move against the Prince of Thorns and the Baron. Farron holds back Sira’s blades, but his movements are slowing. She’s too fast.
And he’s too focused on her. Has he realized what’s happened to Kel and Ez?
I know what I have to do.
I push to my feet, every muscle shrieking in protest. My hand rises, slow but sure. I press it to my chest, right over the token.What did they do again?
But I know. Know it in my bones, in my blood. Magic sings beneath my skin, and I don’t think I could move any other way.
One breath.
I lift my hand and unfurl my palm.
The world ignites.
Light bursts around me, not soft like Ezryn’s or sharp like Kel’s but hot and fierce and full of life. Water and sun. Laughter and battle cries.
Armor slams into place, piece by piece, stunning teal and gold, edged with curling wave motifs. Coral embossing twists down my gauntlets. My shoulders flare with sunbursts, a swirling cloak trailing behind me, frothy as sea foam. Then the helm settles onto my head. Curved cheek guards, a sharp nose ridge, and, rising from the crest, a plume of shimmering gold and teal feathers.
I catch my reflection in the obelisks. I look like a prince carved from sunlight and summer storms.
And damn if I don’t feel like one too.
I grin, wide and wicked.One last fight.
“Well,” I say, summoning the Trident of Honor to my hand with a satisfying snap, “someone had to bring the flair.”
Then I leap.
Sira’s already mid-swing when I crash between her and Farron, trident meeting her shadow blade in a shower of sparks.
She snarls. I don’t flinch.
