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He met her questioning stare.

“Rouleine will be broken by dawn,” he said.

“Dawn?” Erida echoed. The warm air of the tent went thick on her skin, a blanket wrapped too tightly. Her throat worked, trying to swallow back the odd sensation. “What is happening tonight, Taristan?Whois coming?”

Taristan reached through open air, white palm up and out. His hands were long clean of Orleon, but Erida could still see the prince’s blood all over them.

Again he smiled.

“Come and see.”

At Castle Lotha, she had not known what she walked toward. It was foolish faith that had sent her into the ruined castle, tracking her new husband without even a single Lionguard to protecther. It was the first time they’d been alone since their wedding, an afternoon that had left Erida fuming and her sheets ruined in the least satisfactory way. She had been eager to see him again, horribly so, and eager to see exactlywhatgreat power he commanded, the kind that he’d promised would win her control of the entirety of Allward. She was not disappointed. The Spindleblade had cut through the air, slicing a portal between the realms, bringing Taristan one step closer to his god. And Erida one step closer to the ultimate throne.

She left the Lionguard behind again. She was growing accustomed to the absence of their sphere of protection. Taristan was her shield too, a better one. Knights could be bribed or blackmailed. But not Taristan. He would not betray her.Could not,she thought.He is nothing without me, and he knows it.

She followed Taristan and Ronin through the night, hoods drawn as they rode through the great siege camp. After two long weeks, the camp looked years old, the tents streaked in dirt and pit-fire smoke, the roads rutted or churned up by thundering horses. Mud splattered the hem of her gown and cloak, but Erida barely noticed.What is a ruined dress against the surrender of a city?She urged her palfrey on, the soft gray mare fighting to keep up with Taristan’s charging destrier.

Taristan sat easy in the saddle, not like the lords and knights who bounced around on their poor horses. He rode with singular focus and perfect form, his long red cloak billowing out behind him like a flag. If the soldiers in their tents noticed the prince consort, they did not say so. Whispers of his exploits on the Rouleine bridge were well known by now, and none would dare stand in hisway, even to gawk. As for Erida, she drew deeper into her hood, hidden in a plain wool cloak, with only the golden edges of her gown visible.

Thornwall will scold me for this,she thought. Even though these were her own soldiers, riding through them alone was a dangerous prospect. There could be any number of spies among the legions, or, worse, assassins. Like most monarchs of the Ward, Erida knew of the Amhara and their skill. But she did not fear them. They, at least, understood the language of coin.

The palisade wall at the edge of the camp rose, gray and jagged against the moonless sky. There was a gate, reinforced on one side by an old farmhouse. Erida made to slow her horse, but the wardens jumped to attention at the sight of Taristan and Ronin.This is not the first time they’ve done this,Erida mused, following them through the hastily constructed barricade.

After the council tent, Erida relished the cool night air as it whipped over her face. But as the gate closed behind them, a chill went down her spine. They were out of the siege camp now, past her walls, beyond her Lionguard. It startled Erida to see the open world yawn around her, its jaws wide. She faltered in the saddle, catching her breath.

Is this what everyone else feels like?

The river was a flowing band of iron, barely reflecting the starlight. The Rose was wider than the Alsor, the current slower. At the river’s edge, Taristan reined his horse back toward the city. Torches flared along its walls, the yellow and orange lights growing with every step forward.

Erida gritted her teeth. They were beyond the camp, without aguard, and now ridingtowarda city under siege? A city that would doanythingto fight her off?

“Taristan—” she ground out, trying to be heard over the horses. “Taristan!”

He ignored her, and she almost yanked on the reins, ready to turn back. But something pulled her along, a tug in her heart, the cord that ran between the Queen of Galland and her prince. She wanted to sever it. She wanted to pull it closer. Wanted less and more, all at the same time.

More lights flickered along the base of the walls and Erida let out a small sigh of relief. There were Gallish patrols moving along the marsh that protected half of the city. The rivers secured the rest, flowing together behind Rouleine, another obstacle for any approaching army. No matter how many men or how many catapults she brought, they could never cross the Rose or the Alsor to assault the walls from the south. Some mountains even the Queen of Galland could not climb.

Before she could ask exactly where they were going, Taristan reined his horse down the riverbank, into shallows choked with mud and reeds. Ronin followed and Erida did too, bracing herself against a splash of cold water. They waded until the flowing river kissed her boots and the horses could go no farther, lest they be swept away in the current.

“They come tonight,” Taristan said again, without any further explanation.

She followed his gaze, searching the river, and then the base of the walls a few hundred yards away. From this angle, she could see where the Alsor met the Rose, foaming white before chargingaway south, deeper into the kingdom of Madrence. The joined rivers were a road to Partepalas, King Robart, and victory.

Erida ran up against the limits of patience, hard-won in the court of Galland.

“Exactly what are we looking for?” she whispered, though there was no one else to hear her. “Who arethey?”

Ronin looked on, clearly enjoying her confusion.

“Is there another Spindle here?” She eyed the sword at Taristan’s side, knowing its power and its danger. Her fingers worried the reins of her horse. The air felt still, silent but for the distant sound of the city and the camp. She felt no crackling charge of energy, no searing hiss of Spindle power. “Another crossing?”

Taristan did not answer. His red hair looked black in the starlight, curling slightly. He stared through the darkness, brow furrowed, jaw set, a shadow of stubble across his cheeks. His eyes ticked back and forth, searching the waterline where the river met stone, splashing up against the city walls.

It began as a wind swaying in the tall grass along the river, bowing the plants at the far bank. Erida barely noticed it, until she realized there was no wind at all. The air on her skin was still, the trees in the distance unmoving. Her lips parted as she watched, wide-eyed, trying to understand.

They looked like shadows at first, strangely sharp, their figures jagged against the dim light. Without the moon, they slipped through the grass undetected, silent, with barely a clink of armor or rasp of sword. But they carried both. And there were so many. Suddenly more than Erida could count, each figure stepping into the Rose River, wading into the water until it disappeared beneathits surface. One of them caught the starlight before it slipped below the current, a white gleam curving over its face.

No, that is not a face,Erida realized, a scream rising in her throat.