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Without hesitation, she turned—and ran for Taristan.

Ronin in his scarlet robes flashed in the corner of her eye, scurrying toward them. His fingers curled, reaching up to the dragon. Ronin gave a yell of frustration and the creature bellowed, almost knocking Corayne off her feet. Taristan stumbled too. The dragon flapped its wings again, kicking up a windstormover the city. The hounds roared in protest, some of them leaping at the dragon itself. They were all swatted away, landing hard in broken heaps of ash.

“Under my command—” Ronin shouted, knotting his hands in desperation.

Then Valtik leapt into his path, the old woman a wall between the dragon and the red wizard.

Her eyes flashed. “Undermycommand,” she echoed, twisting her fingers.

With an explosive crack, Ronin’s leg snapped beneath him and he howled, collapsing sideways, clutching at the broken bone.

“You meddling oldbitch!” the wizard screamed, his red eyes like living fire. His shriek carried between them, forceful as a blow.

But Valtik didn’t flinch, her bony fingers still clawed in the air. Her thin lips formed a devilish smirk. “Better bitch than wizard broken, the gods of the Ward have spoken.”

The dragon remained free, its scales black and glistening, set with countless precious stones. Jet, ruby, onyx, garnet. No better shield existed across the realms. Its eyes were black too, but its menacing teeth were white. It stared at Taristan and Taristan stared back, terrified.

“Under my command,” Taristan said, raising the Spindleblade. But he had no magic, not like Ronin. Corblood or not, he could not control the dragon as Ronin did the undead, or the corpse army of the Ashlands.

The dragon was its own monster, with no allegiance or loyalty. To anyone.

Its long, snaking throat seemed to glow, a fireball rising upfrom its belly. Smoke poured between its jaws as it rose up to its full menacing height, taller than the church steeple ever was.

Taristan raised his Spindleblade as Corayne ran. Her legs pumped beneath her with all speed as she aimed for her uncle.

And then an Amhara whip curled around his wrist, pulling hard.

From within the fray, Corayne heard Sorasa’s piercing laughter.

Taristan buckled in surprise, his grip on the sword failing. It clattered to the steps as Corayne reached him. She closed her hands on the hilt, never breaking stride.

Flames erupted behind her as she sprinted, disappearing into the battle beneath the church. She never looked back, but she felt the fireball’s heat, exploding over the spot where Taristan stood.

Sorasa was first to her side, coiling her whip as they ran, finding holes within the breaking tide of their own allies and the undead. Andry appeared next, holding off the undead with the skill of a knight. Dom ran close behind, Sigil under one arm, the pair of them spinning with greatsword and ax in some kind of hellish wheel.

“The Spindle!” Corayne shouted, but the dragon roared, spitting another burst of flame.

The garden went up before her eyes, consumed by fire, the gold of the Spindle still winking within. Even so, Corayne took a step toward it, only for Sorasa to grab her by the neck.

“It’s over—leave it,” she heard the assassin breathe, dragging her backward. Away from the church, away from the garden.

Away from the roses and the Spindle.

“Then this is all for nothing,” Corayne screamed back, theworld spinning again. But not from injury. It was failure that clutched her now.

Andry took her other side, pushing her along. “Not if youlive!”

Gidastern burned.

The way back to the main gates was destroyed, the streets swallowed up by fire and destruction. They could only stumble along, clutching each other, bleeding and scorched, their skin black with smoke.

What now?Corayne wanted to scream. She also wanted to lie down in the gutter, her body threatening to drop. Her fingers ached, clawed to Taristan’s Spindleblade, the leather beneath her skin burning hot. But she dared not let go.

She looked back down the street, toward the churchyard. The living army ran in every direction, most on foot, with the majority of Oscovko’s cavalry gone or dead. Through the buildings, the dragon screamed and tossed, fighting off the Infyrna hounds, monster against monster. With a snarl, the dragon took flight, bursting into the air with one beat of its black wings. To Corayne’s dismay, it seemed to be following their path.

The hounds kept up their hunt, leaping onto the collapsing rooftops and sprinting down the streets after the dragon. The undead moved with them, giving chase like children following an older sibling.

Andry swore loudly as they gained, forgetting his manners in the face of death.