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It was a torturous experience, and after an hour, she felt wrung out by it.

At the doorway, another Sirandel gave his report, detailing the last charge of the Gallish line. It sounded like a massacre. Sorasa listened too intently, bent toward him, tight as coiled rope.

“Any word from the Prince of Iona?” she muttered. Again she braced for the worst.

“No word,” the Sirandel answered. “But he fights alongside the Monarch. I saw them both on the pike line before I left the walls.”

Sorasa blew out a long sigh, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Very well.”

Her body itched. It was not the Amhara way to charge recklessly into a battle. They struck from the shadows. But every part of her felt wrong in the castle, hiding while Dom fought below.He is safe among an Elder army, she told herself. Irritating as he was, Sorasa knew no greater warrior than Domacridhan. And there were hundreds more just like him.

With any luck, they might cut through enough of Erida’s army, and the legions would scatter, their commanders broken by immortal endurance.

She turned away, letting Lady Eyda speak to the Sirandel scout. The warrior maiden was done up in a dress of chain mail, her great cloak discarded, an ax on her back. Her own people numbered less than twenty now, set at intervals down the receiving hall.

The shaggy bear lumbered among them, yawning. Sorasa made a point to keep her distance from the animal, no matter how well trained they assured her it was.

Corayne scratched it behind the ears, as if it were only a puppy, and not a massive beast. It shuddered, tongue lolling as it leaned heavily into her hand.

“You miss your boy, don’t you?” Corayne said to the bear. Indeed, Dyrian was down in the vaults with the other younger immortals, hidden away from the bloodshed. “You’ll see him soon enough.”

Andry hung back a few paces, uneasy.

Though a grim air hung over the hall, Isadere could not help but smile. The weak candles and thin shafts of light illuminated their bronze face and a flash of white teeth.

“We should give thanks to the goddess Lasreen,” Isadere said excitedly, gesturing to the dragons. “She has answered our prayers.”

Across the hall, Charlie gave an echoing scoff. “You think the goddess of death sent Valtik to us?”

Sorasa ignored them and peered out the door, tracking the blue dragon. In the sky, Valtik dueled bitterly, jaws snapping as icy flame shot through the sky. But the other dragon never gave an inch.

Amavar?she wondered, naming Lasreen’s faithful servant.Or the goddess herself?

The gods of the Ward have answered, Valtik had said before transforming.

Sorasa only hoped it was enough. Her body went cold as she watched the battle, gaze wavering between the field and the dragons in the sky. She winced as Taristan’s dragon tore through Valtik’s defenses, raking a claw down the length of her neck. Rivulets of iridescent blood shimmered in the air before raining down on the city.

Next to her, Isadere flinched, their bronze face going pale.

“She cannot win this battle alone,” the Heir muttered. “I must try my mirror. Certainly the goddess will speak to me now, her eye is upon us.”

The gods are not ours to call upon, Sorasa wanted to say, but held her tongue. Instead, she gave a grim nod.

With a swish of their robes, Isadere marched off, the bodyguards in tow. All three headed for the vaults of Iona, where the valuables were stored.

“Maybe they’ll get lost.” Charlie chuckled darkly, drawing a rare laugh from Sorasa.

It was short-lived.

A piercing scream split the halls of Tíarma, the sound of it like lightning down Sorasa’s spine. She turned toward the noise in time to watch Isadere stagger back into the receiving hall, the Falcon bodyguards half carrying them.

Isadere looked to Charlie first, their black eyes filled with terror.

“This is what the goddess showed me,” they moaned, their voice breaking.

Without thought, Charlie ran to Isadere’s side. “What is it?”

“The path I saw, down and down into darkness...”