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“Of course she will,” Nox said.

Tenny bristled at the two of them. “I know perfectly well how to fight.” She gestured to Tristan and Ollie, who both immediately averted their gazes. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Training, Ten,” Tristan said with a groan. “You’ve been training.”

“Semantics,” she hissed. “Either way, I can fight.”

“It isn’t a question of whether you can, love,” Kit said, tucking a strawberry curl behind Tenny’s ear. “But healers are in far shorter supply than soldiers.”

Nox tilted their head at the exchange before shifting their gaze to the gathering forces. “Some of these men are bound to get hurt,” they said. “Conserve your mana, and be ready to put those saintly skills to good use, hmm?”

Tenny’s throat bobbed. “All right.”

Shep walked up and held out a slight green hand to her. “Come on, Tenny. We’ll set up a triage tent at the top of the hill. The perfect spot from which to watch their backs, yeah?”

Elyria didn’t hear her answer as the two of them walked away, moving to join the other sylvans and a few more saints who were waiting some yards back.

“Not going with them?” Kit asked Zephyr, who still lingered nearby.

“I think you’ll find I have more proactive ways of contributing.” There was a flash of green light and then a high-pitched shriek as a massive green-feathered eagle lifted into the air.

“Well, I’ll be,” Kit said, her head swiveling as she tracked Zephyr’s path, circling high overhead. “Really wishing she hadn’t hidden that talent of hers during the Crucible. Would’ve made things a whole lot easier.”

“It certainly might have made a difference when it came to that fyre wyrm, I will grant you that,” agreed Nox.

There was a tense moment of silence, and then, as a group, Elyria, Cedric, Kit, Nox, Tristan, and Ollie headed for the front of the line. The throngs of soldiers parted as they passed, their heads dipping in acknowledgment.

Not just acknowledgment, though. Deference. Respect. And though there was surprising acceptance in their gazes as they nodded at the Arcanians walking among them, the lion’s share of that respect was aimed, Elyria noted with pride, at Cedric.

To these men, he was still Sir Cedric Thorne, champion of Kingshelm, the Victor of Havensreach. A leader.

They finally reached their destination, and Cedric turned to Captain Gaius, standing at the front of the line. “Shield-bearers here, forming a wall,” he said. “Spears behind them, with archers at the back.”

“Very good, my lord. And the horses?” Gaius asked.

Cedric turned to his companions. “Should we mount up?”

“There are hardly enough of them to make for a cavalry,” Tristan said.

“And with what we know of sanguinagi magic, of how they fight, it will likely only endanger them,” Kit added.

“Agreed,” said Nox. “Leave the horses for Tenny, Shep, and the others to be able to provide quicker aid.”

Gaius nodded and immediately began shouting orders down the line. Minutes passed as the soldiers arranged themselves accordingly, quickly getting into position. They were well trained, Elyria thought. Prepared. Despite the fact that this was surely not what they’d expected to be doing when they departed Kingshelm. This company had been formed to secure a city, not face off with Malakar’s cultist army.

Then again, nothing that had happened since Elyria’s first glimpse of the morning star before the Crucible began had been as expected, had it?

And at least these men were here.

“No word from Aerithia, I take it,” she said to Kit. “From my father?”

Kit shook her head. “It’s only been a few days though. Perhaps⁠—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Elyria said quickly. Her eyes drifted to where Thraigg and his dwarven company stood in a tight formation at the edge of the line of soldiers. She wondered if her father had truly ever thought King Lachlandris would budge. Based on the fact that he had preemptively sent the dwarves, she didn’t think so. But that he went back to try again anyway . . .

Well, they would have much to talk about whenever they saw each other next, wouldn’t they?

“Besides,” Elyria said, cracking her knuckles as she returned her attention to the cultists still patiently waiting—and staring—from their village cage. “How many of them could there be? Fifty, sixty?”