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“At best, we face an inferno,” he murmured. “The fire our only obstacle.”

Sorasa nodded once, all steel. Her hands tightened on the reins of her horse.

“At worst, we face the flames, Taristan, and whatever else he drew from the Spindle portal.” Dom set his teeth. “We face the unknown.”

If the prospect frightened Sorasa Sarn, she gave no indication. Instead she unclasped her cloak and folded it away, showing her old leathers beneath. They were still battered from the temple.

“I can guide us through the city,” she said.

Dom sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t need to know how many people you’ve killed here.”

“Fine, I won’t say,” she shot back. “So, we get through the gates. We close the Spindle. We get out alive.”

In Dom’s mind, the thread of a Spindle glowed, thin and golden, surrounded by roiling flame. A silhouette stood against the fires, his figure lean, his head bare. He wore Cortael’s face, but Dom knew better.Taristan.

“Domacridhan.”

Sorasa’s voice snapped, her tone and his full name jolting him back.

“Our goal is the Spindle. Protecting Corayne,” she said. Behind her, Corayne sat firmly in the saddle, her head bent with Charlie and Andry. “She is our first and only priority.”

Dom wanted to agree, but his tongue stuck in his mouth. He glared at the mane of his horse. It was coal black, the same color as Taristan’s eyes.

“If he dies, this ends,” he ground out.

He felt Sorasa’s furious, piercing stare but refused to meet it.

“What if she is the cost?” she asked coldly.

At that, his head snapped up. He looked her over with a flick of his eyes. She was the same as ever, a viper in a woman’s body. Her daggers were her fangs, her whip a lashing tail. She had her poisons still.

Sorasa tightened under his scrutiny but held her ground, unblinking as the horse trotted beneath her. The snow landed on her upturned face, white flakes clinging to dark lashes and black hair.

“Have you grown a heart, Amhara?” Dom said, incredulous.

She smirked.

“Never, Elder.”

Oscovko halted the march a mile from the Gidastern walls, ona rise above the windswept beach. From there, even the mortals could see the ruin of the city. The prince dismounted from his horse and stared, stone-faced. Flames consumed the streets and buildings, tracing an eerie red light. The roar filled the air, the smoke stinging Dom’s throat. Ash fell with the snow, coating them all in gray and white, until one rider was hardly distinguishable from another.

Murmurs ran through the war band. The Treckish language far escaped Dom, but a few spoke Paramount too, and that he understood too well.

“Where is everyone?” one whispered.

“Have the people all gone?” another asked.

Oscovko eyed his men once more and Dom understood his aim. He was taking their measure, balancing their strength against the obstacles ahead.

“You say another Spindle is open within the city, and that she must close it,” the prince barked, pointing to Corayne with his unsheathed sword.

“We’ve done it before,” Corayne called back, but she sounded small, unconvincing. She shuddered beneath her ashy cloak, a gray ghost. Only the Spindleblade gleamed, its red and purple jewels catching the firelight.

One of the prince’s lieutenants scoffed at her. “We should make camp. Wait for the fires to burn down, then mop up whatever’s left inside.”

“Or turn back,” another chimed in. He sported a fresh cut across his face. “Let the Gallish burn for all we care.”

Dom slid from the saddle, making for the prince. Bothlieutenants leapt aside to clear his path. They knew better than to get in the way of an immortal Veder.