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Her Spindleblade sang from its sheath, its steel bared to the flame and roses. Taristan’s fingers wrapped around the hilt, white against the leather. Corayne saw death in the edge of the blade,thin as the Spindle. Without thought, she reached for it but fell over on the grass, her head still spinning.

Her vision cleared long enough to see Taristan’s wicked smile, two blades in his hands. The Spindle burned behind him, its golden light reflected in the swords. Though identical to his own, Corayne’s blade looked wrong in his grasp. Its jewels seemed to glow, pulsing with her own rage and sorrow.

“Don’t—” she heard herself scream as he raised her Spindleblade high.

Will I feel it?she thought dimly, bracing for the sharp bite of steel at her neck.

Instead he brought the sword crashing down on the bench.

The stone broke in two.

And the Spindleblade shattered with it, shards of steel exploding across the garden.

Corayne felt each one pierce her living heart.

Despite the battle rolling across the graves, despite Dom and the Companions fighting their way toward her, despite the inferno, the smoke, the snowstorm—Corayne’s world fell away. All went slow and silent, frozen before her eyes. She heard nothing, felt nothing. Her body dragged itself through the dirt, hands scrabbling for the fragments of her Spindleblade.

A boot stomped down on her hand and everything returned with blistering speed. Corayne cried out in pain, rolling onto her back.

“Now, where were we?” Taristan said, tossing the ruined hilt into the roses. The light of the jewels guttered and died, Cortael’ssword a ruin in the dirt.

Just like my father,Corayne thought, cradling her hand.Broken and gone.

Taristan’s shadow fell over her and she recoiled. Bleary-eyed, she raised her Dragonclaws to her uncle, the vambraces her only weapon against a man turned to monster. He batted them away with ease and seized her by the collar, using the neck of her tunic to drag her across the garden.

She tried to struggle but he was far stronger than she was. No amount of hacking could break his grip, even as her vambraces drew blood.

The Companions ran for her but Taristan pulled her upright and put his Spindleblade to her throat. Corayne swallowed against cold steel, the world spinning around her. She saw Andry in the spiral, his brown eyes rimmed with red. She tried to hold on to the sight, but Taristan dragged her away, her body flailing over dirt and then stone.

The steps of the ruined church dragged beneath her, every inch forward another inch away from the Spindle. And still she fought, limbs flailing.

Satisfied, Taristan halted and pulled her straight, forcing her flagging body to stand before the decimated churchyard and the streets beyond. Above them, the carcass of the church loomed, its columns and archways like exposed ribs, a single stained-glass window looking down like a great eye. Corayne squinted, trying to see straight, trying to find something to hold on to. Noise and color seemed to blend, inscrutable. Her heart beat too quickly inher chest, her stomach churning with sickness. The broken shards of Cortael’s blade rose up before her eyes, still filled with red-and-gold light. She reached for them, but her hands touched only air.

“I am Taristan of Old Cor, blood of the Spindles!” her captor shouted, still holding the blade to her throat. Corayne could barely stand, her head swimming. “The last of my kind.”

The shards remained, turning slowly before Corayne’s eyes, losing their glow. They changed to mirrors, each one holding a different face. Andry, Sorasa, Dom, Charlie, Sigil, Valtik. She wanted to weep but had no more tears left to give. The faces looked back from the reflecting steel, waiting for her. Then one more face appeared, and Corayne went rigid, a sob in her throat.

I will never see my mother again,she knew, looking into Meliz’s eyes. The captain of theTempestbornglanced back, smiling, bronzed and bold as Corayne remembered. Again, Corayne reached out, and again felt nothing there.

The sword at her neck bit against her flesh, drawing blood. Corayne hissed and smashed back her head, trying to butt against Taristan. He laughed over her, his chest trembling against her shoulders.

“You have the Cor spirit, that much is true,” he said, his voice going oddly gentle. “This death is well earned.”

“And blessed are the burned,” said a crowing voice, the familiar cackle of an old woman.

Out of the corner of her eye, Valtik’s face wavered—and became real. The witch ascended the steps of the church, still astride her strange horse. Her blue eyes seemed to burn hotterthan any flame, bright as lightning.

Then a black shadow fell over them, a hot wind bearing down, sudden and strong as a hurricane. Behind her, Taristan jolted, his grip on Corayne loosening a little.

Many things happened all at once.

The cathedral window exploded outward in a hail of colored glass as the dragon landed, its four-legged body as big as the skeletal ruins, its wings as wide as the churchyard. Its deafening roar shook everything in an earthquake. Corayne fell to her knees, clutching her ears, as Taristan whirled, the dragon’s head bobbing high above him.

Valtik’s hands were cold on Corayne’s face, her whisper going through her like winter wind.

The spinning stopped. Her eyes sharpened. All nausea and dizziness disappeared and Corayne jumped to her feet, single-minded. Below the steps, the living army surged in all directions, some scattering from the dragon, some running right for it. Corayne could no longer tell one soldier from the other. They were all covered in blood now.

No matter their heritage, Elder or mortal, mercenary or raider, each one of them bled the same.