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A small force was heading towards them, a shining white figure at the head.
Miriam. Miriam was coming, and one of the soldiers behind her carried a rocket in his arms.
But overhead, the sluaghs were gathering again.
No.
Ladrien shot through the rock, slicing away the path in front of her. He trailed up the mountainside and then sagged like a weighted feather, dribbling down the slopes.
Her way up was completely destroyed.
Before she could panic—or think of a solution—a vine wrapped around her middle and flung her ahead. All around her, vines launched from the stone, closing gaps, offering her platforms, helping her up.
Ladrien landed on a rocky ledge, barring her path, wings cutting through the air.
“Juliana Ardencourt…” he snarled again, like her name was the gravest of insults. “Yield, and I may yet let your comrades live.”
“Like I believe that,” she said, gripping her sword tighter.
Hawthorn’s vines sprung towards him, but she could see they were losing their strength, buckling under the cold like everyone else. Ladrien cut through them with a single swipe.
She could no longer see Miriam or any of the others, and it was growing dark.
Snow glistened atop the mountain as she slid under Ladrien’s body. So close, too far.
“Hawthorn,” she whispered, hoping he could hear her, “can you reach the top?”
The vines trembled in response. She took that to be a yes.
“Get up there,” she said. “Set it off.”
The vines shook and trembled. Ladrien reeled, shaking and unsteady. Juliana slashed his paw, but one of his claws caught her shoulder. She hissed, low and painful, stabbing him in the knuckle and diving into a crevice out of reach. Just. Not for long.
“Do it!” she screamed, clutching her shoulder.
She could almost see him shaking his head, almost hear his voice, like he was trying to burst through the dream to get to her. She knew why. She was in the direct path of the avalanche.
“Hawthorn, I’m not going to die,” she whispered.And even if I was, this would be worth it.If she could take out Ladrien, Faerie would be safe. Someone else could break the curse. It didn’t have to be her.
It seemed a poor end to the tale, crushed to death beneath the ice, Hawthorn alone, marrying Serena—
But Faerie would survive.Hawthornwould.
Aoife could spin the tale better.
And she would.
“Do it,” she told Hawthorn, as Ladrien’s claws streaked past her face. “Do it!”
The vines trembled again, but this time, it was like they were gathering energy, or sucking in a breath before a scream. They sprung together, racing up the mountainside, and ripped away a chunk of snow.
It was like pulling a plug on an overflowing dam. Snow churned over the edge, gushing like water, a cascade of ice. Ladrien glanced upwards and tried to launch out of the way, but Juliana leapt from her spot and vaultedonto his back.
Oh no. You don’t get away from this.
She sprinted along his spine, drove her sword into his membranous wing, and sliced it through.
Ladrien began to sink, screaming and cursing.
