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Thornwall did not.

“Ten thousand, beneath the flag of Ibal and the flag of Kasa,” he said sharply, pointing to the armies assembled on the field.

“Ibal and Kasa do not frighten me, my lord,” Erida replied coolly.

He was undeterred, his ruddy face going red as the sky. “Not to mention however many Elders there are among them. They form the center.”

The Queen of Galland reined her horse to look Thornwall head on. He stared back at her, stone-faced. Though he was small in frame, Erida had never thought of him as a small man.

Until now.

“Elders do not frighten me either,” she hissed. “Do they frighten you, Lord Thornwall?”

The insult was clear, thrown like a javelin. Her nobles looked on, speechless, their gazes wavering between queen and commander. Erida may as well have stabbed Thornwall through the heart.

He curled his lip and Erida braced for treason. Instead, he bowed as much as he could from the saddle of a horse.

“No, Your Majesty,” he murmured.

“Good,” she spat back at him. “Then proceed. Sound the charge.”

It took all her will to remain silent in the saddle, her hands still on the reins. She was glad for her gloves to hide her knuckles, bone white as they gripped the reins tighter and tighter. Her armor felt stifling, the chain mail and good steel like an anchor holding her in place. It felt strange to wear true battle armor instead of skirts, dressed as a warrior instead of a queen. Again, the hooks in her skin tugged, and the river of influence flowed around her limbs. They pulled at her, What Waits nudging always.

But Erida held to the saddle. She watched the dragons dancing in the sky, locked together in a conflict not seen since the age of Spindles. If What Waits knew where the second dragon came from, she could not tell. But she could feel His hatred. It dripped from her own pores, seething with every beat of the blue dragon’s wings.

It was difficult to know where to look. The dragons above, trading bouts of flame, or the battlefield below. Her own army was a wave, the tide of knights crashing against a merciless shore.

With every pass of the cavalry, every re-formed line, her throat tightened, until Erida feared she might gasp another breath. Each time, she prayed for the Elder line to collapse inward. For just one of them to falter.

They never did.

Erida snarled to herself. What Waits worked through her body, like poison in her veins, his rage fueling her own.

Balance, she told herself, clutching the reins.Balance.

“Their line won’t break,” Thornwall muttered. Then he leaned to a lieutenant, “Pull back the calvary, bring forth the archers. Defend the retreat.”

Erida felt her anger flare.

“Retreat?” she snapped. “The lion does not retreat.”

“Recover, I mean,” Thornwall said quickly. “So we can send in the infantry.”

Below, the Gallish army shifted, responding to Thornwall’s orders, the Ionian army responding in kind. The Elders drew back, carrying their pikes with them. They were certainly stronger than mortal men, the pike line like a moving forest until they re-formed some yards back.

Erida felt the hooks in her skin, pulling and pulling, weak but incessant.

Soon, she told herself, and the thing inside her.

Again, her eyes burned. Again, she forgot to blink.

This time, she was not the only one. All down the rise, her lords and commanders held their breath, not daring to look away.

The infantry marched across the wasteland of blood, meeting the wall of Elders and mortals in a clash of shrieking metal, steel on steel, iron and bronze and copper ringing. Strong as the Elders were, they were hopelessly outnumbered. Erida’s army ate at their edges, where the mortal soldiers were weaker. Flags of Ibal fell, the golden dragon trampled beneath the lion’s feet. Eagle knights of Kasa stood out among the soldiers, their white armor gleaming up against the red sky. One by one they disappeared, overcome by the waves of battle.

Slowly but surely, the line drew back, the defense losing ground minute by minute, inch by bloody inch.

“What a war,” Erida murmured, turning to Thornwall to smile at him, a peace flag between queen and commander.