Page 138 of Facade

Thaddeus’s allies were a horde of Werewolves who hated the Fae. They refused to serve and were banished to a small island just off the coast of the Eastern Realm. A prison in all but name. Werewolves needed space to run. To be free. The island had been small, and the food had run out in less than a month.

That’s when Thaddeus found them.

Freesia said he’d been sailing past when he spotted them. Curious, he went ashore where he learned of their hatred for the Fae. Befriended them. Kept them alive by supplying food and essentials. The payment? They answered when he called.

And now—they had.

They fought with everything they had, tearing into the Fae soldiers and fellow wolves. The King was forced to retreat with a fraction of his army already lost to the latrines.

Freesia hovered above, her gray, unmatched color blending into the storm-choked sky. Each arrow she loosed struck true.

The wind died, the snow turning to freezing rain as a group of forty Werewolves attacked the enemy with relentless ferocity. Growls, snarls, curses—the symphony of battle.

It became impossible to tell ally from enemy as wolves collided, a cacophony of snapping jaws reaching us here, deep in the tree line. Some of the Fae soldiers quickly retreated to a large hill, back toward the castle, presumably to let the beasts kill one another first.

My steps dragged to the edge of the trees, gaze locked on a flash of silver in the field.

The King stood there, a spear in his hand, a cruel smile spreading.

He drew his arm back.

My gaze tracked the aim—

“Freesia!”

Too late.

King Raul’s spear punched straight through her heart.

Her eyes flashed bright lilac—then dulled. Blood sprayed over the wolves as her body fell into the chaos below.

“No…”

Bark bit into my fingertips as I fell against a tree, vision blurring. I hadn’t known her. Didn’t know her story. But it felt like I’d thrown the spear myself.

“What is that?” Lyra squinted toward a hill on the other side of the battle.

“Skurs,” Malachai spat, a string of profanity following.

Blood drained from my face—no time for tears. The dead would be there to mourn later.

“There are at least several hundred,” I breathed. “Why are they just standing there?”

“Waiting for their orders. They’re not as mindless as everyone believes. They take orders from Cressida. They’ll slaughter everyone.” Malachai hit the rough bark beside him.

I reached for my Gargoyle. The connection was still fuzzy from that damn concoction Aiden gave me.

A Werewolf bolted for us, hackles raised, lip curled.

Instinctively, I reached for the weapon at my back—it wasn’t there. My teeth ground together.

Twenty feet.

Ten.

I steeled myself—

An arrow whistled past my head, striking the wolf between the eyes. I snapped around as Malachai lowered a bow, Lyra wide-eyed beside him with a quiver.