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“There is barely a guard on the city gates. I saw no archers on the walls, no trebuchets, no ballistas. No proper defense on Iona, or the castle. Not evenscoutsat the border, to watch the shores. Do you even have anyone guarding the mountain passes?” he ground out, spearing his aunt with accusation.Treachery, he wanted to scream. “Have you surrendered already, Isibel? Will you doom the realm with your own cowardice?”

Next to the throne, the noble Vedera stared on in shocked silence. He remembered Valnir from centuries past, the Sirandel lord red in the face. Lady Eyda remained stoic, with only a glint of satisfaction in her eye. Even Dyrian’s bear woke to the sound of his booming voice, blinking sleepily at his master’s side.

“It is good to see you alive, my beloved nephew,” Isibel said slowly, as if commenting on the weather.

It only incensed Dom further.

“You did not even send for me, not once,” he hissed, his face flushingwith heat. “What I would have given for a spark of your light in that dungeon.”

He expected her usual coldness. Instead, his aunt seemed to waver, her chest rising and falling beneath the folds of her gown. Rare emotion shimmered in her eyes.

Dom clenched his teeth, bracing himself for the icy touch of Isibel’s magic. He knew the power of her sendings; she would weave through his head, whispering what she could not say aloud.

Instead, she spoke, her voice breaking. “I could not bear it, Domacridhan. I could not bear to send my magic forth, and find you a walking corpse.”

Like Ridha, he knew, hearing the words she would not speak. He felt the pain of it in his own chest.

“Put down the branch, Isibel,” he urged, gesturing to the ash branch across her knees. “You are at war whether you will it or not. There is nothing upon this realm that will save you from it.”

“The Prince of Iona returns,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “And he speaks the truth. There is nothing in this realm that will save us from Taristan of Old Cor. Not now.”

It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. Dom took another step toward the dais, willing his aunt to see reason.

“Put down the branch,” he said again, pleading. “Put down the branch and send word to every enclave. Ask for help. Give us achance, my lady.”

Her silence boiled his blood. Dom gnashed his teeth, biting back every harsh word he wanted to throw. Every horror he wanted to lay at Isibel’s feet. Ridha. Cortael. Countless innocents across the Ward.

“You have an heir again, Isibel.” Corayne’s voice rang out behind him, high and clear and confident. It sounded like the voice of a queen. “You and your people have a future still.”

It was as if something broke in Isibel of Iona. Her pearl-gray eyes turned stormy, her gaze lowered to her lap. And the branch of the ash tree.

Dom’s heart thudded against his rib cage. His eyes never wavered from the branch, watching her white fingers among the leaves. They were silver with winter, but within bloomed the first green of spring.

With a great crack to shake the foundations of the castle, she snapped the branch in two. Dom felt the rush of old magic wash over him, rippling out from the throne to cover the room. It felt like lightning over his skin. Without thought, he fell to a knee, bowing his head.

Above them all, Isibel stood. She cast aside the pieces of the ash branch, letting them scatter across the steps up the dais.

“I lay down the branch,” she said, the ancient words filled with meaning.

Dom shuddered. He had only heard such words once in his lifetime, an age ago, when the last dragon haunted the Ward.

At the corner of the room, an Ionian guard appeared from a doorway. His armor was ceremonial, gilding over steel, the antlers on his helm banded in gold and silver. He bore a sword across his open palms, the steel of it unsheathed, thick as Dom’s own hand.

It was not a beautiful blade. There were no jewels in the hilt, no lovely script etched down the steel. The greatsword looked better suited to a butcher’s shop. Dom went cold at the sight of the blade. This was a sword of Glorian, a veteran of battles older than the Ward itself.

Isibel took it with ease, holding the greatsword in one hand. With a twist of her wrist, she tested it in the air, the edge still singing.

“I take up the sword,” she murmured. “I take up the sword.”

Her eyes danced, some light moving in them, white behind the gray.Dom swallowed hard, willing her voice to travel. Willing her magic to carry through every corner of the Ward.

Dom tried to picture it, her voice rousing the Monarchs to war.

In Tirakrion, Karias put down the vibrant hyacinth flower, and took up the spear.

In Salahae, Ramia let the palm fall, calling for her dagger.

In Barasa, Shan broke the ebony branch, and drew out the war hammer.