I drag my knees to my chest and try to breathe.
But the way he touched me, the way he looked at me, just before he pulled away… Hewasin there.
One thing is clear. I am the only person in the Enchanted Vale capable of breaking the Prince of Thorns.
And if I can break him, I can put him back together again.
The door opens and he steps out, looking immaculate. He snatches the cloak from my hands and fastens it around his neck. “You think my mother didn’t feel the rose as soon as I brought it to the Below? She commanded me to hand it over.”
My stomach drops. Sira has the rose? No. No, it can’t end like this… “Why hasn’t she used it then?”
He huffs a breath. “Controlling the will of all her creations is a monumental task. It takes a great deal of magic, even for my mother.”
“It’s why she’s been getting you to gather her creations here,” I say. “Everyone she got you to barter with to come toCryptgarden under the promise of an alliance. She’s luring them here to take control.”
“Exactly. She’s making them promises of creating more of their kind, more riches, more power. She’s holding a gala soon where all may gaze upon the rose’s splendor. But it’s all a front to have them in one place.”
The pit in my stomach grows wider. She’ll steal their wills in one sweep. We don’t have much time.
The Prince of Thorns grips my jaw before dragging me into a kiss. “Don’t leave this room. I have to go. One of your mates is causing trouble.”
And with that, briars spring from the floor and carry him away.
25
Farron
My realm stretches out before me, a quilt of purple heatherhills, golden and red groves, and bright gray sky, the clouds thick but still bursting with a chilly light.
I wonder how we’d appear if one was looking down upon us, the way the gods supposedly looked down at the fae of the Above. Or how the fae of the Above would have looked down on the surface if any had been able to remain in their home. I imagine we could spur fear even in the hearts of such so-called gods.
Every battalion in Coppershire and the surrounding forts under my command has rallied to my side. We march as a united front, armed with lances, spears, bows, and fire. Most of all, fire. Magic wielders line the perimeter of our ranks, and those who can’t spark a flame wield torches and carry canisters of oil.
Our enemy lies before us, a deep violet scar across the horizon. The Briar.
My steed, a pure black mare except for one white sock, is uneasy but stays the course. Never in my time have I known the cavalry of Autumn to be so jumpy. This must be a bad apple. I’ll switch her out upon our return to Coppershire.
Normally, I ride Thrand, the great elk. But he’s gone rogue of late. As unpredictable and changeable as a storm. He won’t come close to Coppershire anymore, instead wandering the woods nearby like a ghost from some legend of old. I don’t understand it. Perhaps the horrors of battle changed his disposition. Regardless, he’s no more than a wild animal now.
My hand stiffens on the reins. My palm is still covered in ash from the burned remainders of the letter I received this morning. Sealed with Tilla’s signet and written in George’s handwriting, it is unfortunately no hoax. The rose is in Caspian’s possession. George didn’t go into detail of how it was stolen, but it doesn’t matter.
That path is lost to us.
No more waiting. While we’ve been milling about on the surface, Rosalina has been in Caspian’s hands. Now he has claimed our one hope of securing her freedom. I will not stand by while the Prince of Thorns weaves his many webs around the Vale.
I’ll throw an entire sea of Autumn soldiers upon the Briar. Burn it to ash. Smoke Caspian out, then kill him myself.
Flanking me, Dominic and Billagin, dressed in golden armor, ride matching gray mares. With Dom wielding a hand axe and Billy a falchion, no one would know they have not yet passed the cusp of manhood. My father begged me not to take them, to leave them with him in Coppershire. But the twins are sons of Autumn. They must witness our glorious victory. Besides, they’re safe with me.
The Briar looms ahead, a vast, writhing expanse of dark purple thorns stretching across the land. It shimmers in the cold light, bristling and alive. The air near it tastes of copper and rot, and even the wind dares not pass through.
The earth trembles beneath us, a slow and pulsing beat—doom, doom, doom. It’s as if thousands of war drums are pounding below the surface.
Then the first gate blooms.
It erupts from the ground ahead, a tangle of blackened thorns arching and knotting into a circular gate. Thorns like claws. Vines like veins. At its center yawns a swirling black void.
A second gate blooms. Then a third. A fourth.
