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The ground rocked again. Ari tucked my head to his chest, his breaths harsh and swift, as though he could not fill his lungs before he needed to reach for another gasp of air.
When there came another pause in the shift, we wasted no time before we sprinted toward the trees again.
All around us folk abandoned the Borough walls. At the command of their king and queen we would head for Whisper Lake. It was the only flat ground close enough to the Court of Hearts where few trees could topple over us, where knolls wouldn’t give in.
“This . . . isn’t Valen,” Ari said through strained gasps as we ran.
At first, we’d thought—we’d hoped—the North had arrived to aid us in the rising battle. It would mean they were safe; it would mean the warning they’d lit on the torches had passed and they’d come to aid the isles.
There were no Ettan ships. Only shifting earth and a gold burst against the blood-red sky.
There was no Davorin.
Ari had not slept, he’d hardly eaten. Since the flame ignited as a warning, he’d traipsed the gates tirelessly, the heirloom blade in hand, waiting for Davorin’s strike. Only the essence of his glamour was here, but no true sign of the battle lord.
Lack of sightings of him meant little since Davorin took pleasure in the torment. He was here. Somewhere.
I could sense it to my very soul.
The thought added a burst of desperation to my pace, and I quickened each step until we reached the tree line.
I let out a strangled cry. “Ari, there. Gods, hurry.”
“Dammit.” Ari released my hand the instant he caught sight of Gorm sprawled on his belly, a hand down a wide hole. Magus and the Court of Serpent guards surrounded the blood lord, shouting commands and shielding their heads from falling branches.
In the trees, Gunnar Strom and other archers fired at the borders of the burrow when feral fae tried to rush against us.
Eryka’s eyes were white like the blaze of stars, her face pointed toward the sky, and she kept repeating the same words. “Back to the beginning fate will lead. Who rises in the end, is yet to be seen.”
I shook my head, peeling my attention off the star seer, and dropped in front of the entrance of the troll burrow.
“Gorm, where is she?” Ari skidded next to the blood lord.
“The troll folk are caved in on the opposite side,” Gorm said. “The princess is too deep to reach.”
“What!” I leaned over the edge. “Mira? Mira, speak to me.”
A whimper replied.
Ari mimicked Gorm and flattened on his belly. True enough, the troll burrow was deep. Magus hung a lantern over the king’s head to chase away the shadows of the opening. Perhaps a dozen paces down, Mira sobbed at the bottom of the burrow, surrounded by rocks and massive clods of dirt.
The trolls, Dunker and a few of his rowdy cousins, were tasked in watching the princess, tasked with hiding her from Davorin should he show his damn face. Rune kept to the trees, Gorm and Magus watched either entrance.
If the burrow did not cave in from the shudders, soon enough the wild fae would claim us all. The rancid tang of blood spilled over the area from the endless arrows slicing through flesh, through Gorm’s blood fae on foot, using their blades much the same.
Ari reached a hand into the tunnel. He grinned, wide and white. A forced grin, but to Mira it would be her familiar father who loved nothing more than to make her laugh with his jests and taunts.
“Come on, my girl,” Ari said. “Maj and I were having a race through the trees. Thought you might want to join.”
I bit down a cry when the ground shifted again. Mira sobbed. Ari’s jaw pulsed, but he returned the smile again.
“Mira,” he said, firmer. “Come on, now. Time to leave the burrow. You must stand, climb as high as you can, and reach for my hand. Look nowhere else but me. Maj will help you.”
I pressed my palm on the soil, urging the land to sprout roots, vines, anything of use for our daughter to take. Until my heart stilled at her words.
“I c-c-c-can’t,” Mira wailed. She screamed, a sound that shattered my soul into broken pieces when a violent roll of the soil cracked the distant windows in the Borough.
“Mira,” Ari said, voice rough. “Take my hand. Now.”
