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“My lord,” one of the guards called.

“Report.”

“Outside, among the Lost . . .” he trailed off.

He couldn’t finish his thought. Adam saw why.

The campfires lit on shape after shape. Dozens of banshees. The Lost Ones were being slaughtered by the very things some of them called angels.

“Where is my sister?” Silver asked.

“Here.” Argent strode toward them. “I can lead the charge and save the Lost, or at least as many as we can.”

“We will lead the charge,” Silver said. He turned to the guard. “Bring everyone.”

“Where is the Knight of Swords?”

“We cannot find her.”

“My king,” Dautre said. Adam hadn’t seen him approach. “You should not⁠—”

Silver silenced him with a glare that would have turned Adam to snow.

“Get Adam home, Dautre. That is an order.”

The king drew his sword.

It shone almost white, like primal ice. In its blade, stars glittered.

Beneath him, beneath all of the elves, white strands of snow formed and swirled together. It was a delicate, beautiful bit of magic, conjured in service of war. The ice and snow shaped itself into horses. Mounted, with the King and Queen of Swords at the lead, the elves charged from the gates.

Adam watched them go.

“Dautre?”

“Yes.”

“You once told me that glamours are a reduction.”

“Yes. The king and his guard cannot be their full selves, use their full strength, without harming the Lost.”

“So they’re in danger, real danger.”

“Yes.”

Adam nodded. “I thought so.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“You heard the king. Drop me at home, in my apartment, if you can.”

The transition was instant.

“I must return to the fight,” Dautre said.

“I understand.” The elf vanished. “See you there.”

Adam lay down, fully dressed. He pulled his earbuds from his pocket and tucked them in before rising again to stand where he’d just been on the battlefield, arriving in spirit.