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Taristan’s hand closed over her mouth, rough skin hard on her parted lips. He pulled her back, nearly out of the saddle, pressing her body to his own to keep her from falling or making a sound.

Her teeth met hard flesh, and she expected the iron tang of blood. It never came; his skin was impervious to any wound she might give him. He held firm, enough to stifle her voice, but not enough to cause her any harm. She struggled anyway, an elbow digging into his chest, but it was no use. Taristan of Old Cor was as stone.

“That is the Army of Asunder,” he hissed, his breath hot against her neck, his voice weaving through her mind. She felt his lips moving, the rough stubble of his cheek pressed against her own. “The first gift What Waits ever gave me.”

Her heartbeat rammed in her chest, threatening to burst right out of her body, and lightning worked through her blood. She grabbed for the reins, trying to move her horse, but Taristan held firm, his grip unbreakable.

Ronin looked on, silent, his face blank.

She breathed hard against Taristan’s hand, trying to calm herself, trying to think through this madness.

Trying tosee.

Not faces,she knew, watching as more and more, dozens, hundreds of thosethingsslipped into the water. Corpses, skeletons, all in varying states of decay, but somehow stillalive. Herbreathing steadied, her pulse still racing. She saw skin worn away to skull, empty eye sockets filled with shadow. Dangling flesh. Greasy, knotted hair. Missing limbs, mouths without tongues or teeth. Erida nearly retched against Taristan’s palm. Their armor was battered, rusted over or bloody or both. It was the same with their weapons, a range of swords and axes and knives, all cruel, all terrible.Creatures from the Ashlands. The Army of Asunderechoed in her head, louder than her heartbeat.The first gift of What Waits.

I knew they existed,she thought, trying to make sense of the impossible scene. Dead men walking, dead menswimming. She followed their progress, rows of them slipping through the tall grass and into the river. Only ripples remained, small tugs through the current. The first wave reached the river walls, the ripples breaking against the stone. Slowly, they emerged—and began toclimb.

These things killed Sir Grandel and the Norths.Her Lionguard had met these monsters first, when Taristan was just a mercenary with ancient blood and a more ancient sword.This is what he brought from the first Spindle.

She ceased her struggling, and Taristan lowered his hand to her neck, lest she try to scream again.

“I knew, but...,” she murmured. She swallowed, her throat bobbing against his palm. Her mind raced, words forming too slowly to speak.

Taristan remained, warm and solid against her back. “You did not know,” he said, his voice as low as his morals. “Not truly. How could you? They cannot be known without being seen.”

“Behold,” Ronin whispered, pointing to the corpses. His whitefinger poked out from his robes. In the dim light, his hand looked skeletal, stripped of flesh, a knobbled bone.

The Ashlanders climbed like spiders, skittering over uneven stone, ascending what no mortal man could climb. Some fell back into the water with quiet splashes, their rotten hands breaking as they scrambled. But most made it up the walls, undaunted by the height. Erida wondered if they knew fear, or if they even felt anything at all. The first reached the top, and a scream followed. Some of the torches flared, kicking up, before falling over the parapet, plunging into the river with a hiss. And so it went down the ramparts. The Ashlanders crawled onward, leaving darkness and bloodcurdling screams in their wake.

Queen Erida of Galland watched, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare. She tried not to tremble, but she quivered in Taristan’s grasp, shuddering with every clang of metal.Hundreds,she thought, trying to count the corpses again.Thousands.

She raised her chin, picturing herself in Rouleine, the city gates flung wide. Then Partepalas, on the throne of Madrence, two crowns encircling her brow. After a long moment, she stopped shaking, and Taristan pulled away, forcing Erida to hold herself up alone. She dared not move lest she fall from the saddle, or be sick into the shallows. Again she thought of the crown of Galland. The crown of Madrence. The glory of her forefathers, their dreams made flesh in a young, vibrant queen.

When the screams began in the city—man, woman, and child—she did not flinch. The flames came next, licking up within the walls. Smoke followed, clouding over the weak stars, until even they disappeared. The world took on a hot red light,pulsing like a beating heart, heavy as the smoke and ash falling across the rivers. In the siege camp, shouts went up, orders ringing through the legions.

“We must be ready for the surrender,” Erida said in a hollow voice, feeling detached from her body. Her limbs moved without thought, and she reined her horse out of the river, urging her to a trot.

Minutes that felt like years passed, washing over her as a massacre broke through Rouleine. The sounds of slaughter echoed between her heartbeats, iron on flesh, shrieks and weeping.

She rode back to the gate, her hood thrown back to show her face. Taristan and Ronin rode at her side, keeping pace, grim as their master across the realms. The wardens balked, recognizing the Queen. The gate swung wide, allowing them to pass without stopping. Soldiers knelt but Erida ignored them, riding onward.

“I was fifteen when I took the throne. Far too young. Only a girl,” Erida said.

Taristan turned in his saddle. His eyes were blood red. From the flames or his god, Erida didn’t know. She didn’t care either way.

“When the high priest put the crown on my head, I told myself to leave that girl behind.” The siege camp woke around them, rising to find the city on fire. “There was no room for her on the throne.”

The wind kicked up, blowing a curtain of snowy ash across the camp. Soldiers blundered from their tents and ran for water buckets, ready to stamp out any errant embers. Erida continued past them, the taste of smoke curling on her tongue.

“But now I know,” she said. “That girl held on, clinging to my edges. Holding me back with the wishes and foolish thoughts of a child.”

Taristan glowered, the darkness around them giving over to poisonous yellow and red. “Where is she now?”

Even over the sounds of the camp, the roar of flame, the cracking of wood and stone, she could hear the screams. Erida did not bother trying to ignore them. They were a cost she was willing to pay.

“Dead.”

They did not enter Rouleine until first light, the rising sun filtering through clouds of ash. Smoke drifted, heavier than mist, throwing a hazy veil over the world. The fires had burned low, contained within the walls, leaving the river and autumn forest untouched. But for the smoke and the ashfall dusting the landscape, nothing looked amiss.