Page 155

Ollie’s ice-blue wings fluttered as he lifted several feet into the air, eyes locked on Kinsgaith. “It’s hard to tell with all that red,” he grumbled. “But less than a hundred, to be sure.”

“Still nowhere near our numbers,” mused Tristan.

Elyria grinned. “So, there you have it. This should be simple enough. We do this the old-fashioned way.”

“I think I have something that might help with that.” Jocelyn broke through the group of soldiers standing to Elyria and Cedric’s back, her armor-clad arm extended. “Here, Elle.”

Elyria looked down to see a single seed lying in the palm of Jocelyn’s hand. She arched a quizzical brow at Jocelyn, whose lips curved up before she blew on the seed, sending it soaring onto—into—the frozen ground.

It didn’t stay that way for long.

The soldiers behind Elyria shifted in alarm as the ground cracked open, and out poked a tiny sapling. Well, tiny only for a moment. Because it was quickly growing, stretching, careening up in front of Elyria until, before she knew it, a goldwood sapling as tall as she was stood before her.

“Joss, you⁠—”

Elyria didn’t have time to finish the sentence before Jocelyn was slicing both hands through the air. The sapling broke at the root, the branches fell away, and then all that remained was its amber-barked trunk—about the width of Elyria’s wrist.

“It isn’t as fancy as the ones you typically wield,” Jocelyn said, placing the goldwood staff in Elyria’s hand. “Not quite fit for a queen. But it’ll do to teach these monsters a lesson.”

“Not fit for a queen?” Elyria repeated blankly, fingers flexing around this new staff—this gift. Shadows spilled from her hands, wrapping the shaft in ribbons of black. “You’re right. It’s better.”

Jocelyn was smiling as she slipped back into the line of soldiers.

“There!” Ollie had floated a few yards down and was pointing at the village. Elyria followed the path of his finger past the throngs of cultists cloistered at the entrance, to the chapel that sat atop the hill behind them. Or, rather, to the black-robed figure standing upon said hill, arms spread wide.

Between the lingering mist and the hood drawn low, Elyria couldn’t see their face.

But she knew.

Knew it had to be him.

“He’s mine,” Elyria growled, her wings flaring behind her. Let him try to take her power now. Let him try to hurt her. Hurt any of them.

“He’s ours,” Cedric said, the words piercing through her soul from where they echoed in her mind.

The man dropped his arms.

And the barrier fell.

49

STAND

CEDRIC

The sounds that came from the oncoming horde of cultists were not ones of fury or fear or defiance.

They were screams, cheers, cackles—mad, irrepressible, and unhinged.

The enemy began closing the distance between themselves, and the soldiers lined up in the field just beyond Kinsgaith. From the village road, they came—in a tumbling flood of red, boots crashing thunderously against the frozen ground.

Armor creaked as the soldiers behind Cedric braced themselves, shifting in place, wariness pulsing off them. He felt for these people. They’d been rerouted to this quiet village only to have the dark sorcerer of legend tear through them immediately after their arrival. And now scores of his blood mage followers were charging at them.

Still, they were men and women of Kingshelm. Cedric had trained with many of them. They had survived Lord Church’s betrayal, had rallied despite King Callum’s slow return to leadership. They were strong, and they could fight, and now was not the time to falter.

Not for them and not for him.

“Steady!” Cedric called. He locked eyes with Elyria, drinking in her emerald stare before she shot into the air, gripping her new staff tightly.