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Far past the treacherous rocks, in deeper water, the High Vales have constructed a floating platform. Their cable system is attached to it. Once one of the buckets is full, a man at the top of the cliff pulls a lever, bringing the next empty bucket up and sending the first down. Eventually, the full buckets make it to the sea platform, where men unload them into hand carts. The carts are then pushed up the waiting ship's gangplank, which they’ve anchored safely away from the treacherous rocks.

I swear under my breath, wondering how much ore they’ve already transported.

Having seen enough, I push up from my crouch using a large rock near the ledge—a rock that was apparently not well-seated. It falls over the edge of the cliff, taking dirt and smaller rocks with it in a miniature landslide.

Immediately, I duck down, cursing my clumsiness.

“What was that?” one of the nearby elves says, walking to the edge and watching as more rocks and dirt fall to the frothing ocean below. “Is there someone over there?”

Quickly, I do the math. There are eight of them to one of me. Not the best odds, but elves are scrawny, so that works in my favor. But High Vales are gifted with offensive magic, which works intheirfavor—so it probably voids out my advantage. No matter how you look at it, the situation doesn’t look good.

A sudden burst of fire lights the grass around me, and I leap back, barely avoiding the blast.

“There’s a man!” one of them yells…only seconds before an arrow flies from the woods and lodges itself into his thigh. The startled fool stumbles back, right off the cliff.

“We’re under attack!” hollers another, and suddenly they’re all drawing their magic into their palms, caring little if they burn down the forest.

Our cover is already blown, so I leap to my feet, done with hiding. I run forward, dodging another fireball, though the heat of it singes my hand as it goes by.

“They’re the king’s men!” one says frantically, backing away. “The man wears an arm pennant.”

“They can’t talk if they’re dead.” The man who drove the lead ore cart hurls another fireball my way.

This one comes too quickly, from too near, and his aim is accurate. There’s no way to block, so I brace myself for the pain. But instead of fire, it feels as if a bucket of water is tossed over my head. The elf’s magic fizzles before my eyes, sending nothing but a blast of heat my way.

When I look down, I’m shocked to find I’m perfectly dry—and wondering what in the kingdom just happened.

After I come to my senses, I glance toward the woods. Pranmore stands with his hands raised, and his own magic, blue and serene, swirls in his palms. The light illuminates his face and antlers, making him look like a mighty figure from a painting of old.

“They have a Woodmore,” one of the High Vales spits out, saying the name like it’s a curse. He turns to the forest and directs a blast of flames toward Pranmore. But Pranmore stands impervious to the magical attack, and the fire turns to steam before it even reaches his ward.

Clover steps out of the woods, her bow ready, and shoots an arrow into the arm of the man who fruitlessly attacks Pranmore. The man screams, clutching his wound as he falls to his knees.

Just as one of the elves tries to send an attack her way, Clover steps behind a tree, easily dodging it.

“I act under the authority of King Algernon,” I command. “Stand down, and we will not hurt you.”

My diplomacy is met with another fireball hurtled at my face, and my anger grows.

“Pretty archer you have there,” my attacker taunts, sending another blast that I easily avoid. “Maybe we’ll take her back to Revalane after we kill you. Can’t guarantee she’ll make it there alive, though.”

He heaves another ball of flames at my face, but Pranmore’s protective magic washes over me, and my blade meets its mark before he can utter another word.

“Henrik, look out!” Clover cries.

I turn just in time to see an elf leap at me from one of the empty ore buckets. Several of the men from the floating sea pier are riding them to the top of the cliff. Now, they’ve joined the attack.

Clover shoots one right out of his moving perch, and he falls to the rocks below. She takes aim once more, but a fireball whizzes past her head.

“If you burned my hair,” she snarls, looking for the man responsible, “I will gut you alive.”

“Lady Clover!” Pranmore exclaims, horrified.

“Fine,” she huffs, locating the man. “I’ll just shoot him.”

I don’t get the chance to see if her aim was true because one of the newly arrived elves attacks me, wielding a short sword. As our blades meet, he presses his hand to my shoulder, sending a jolt of sparking magic into me—paralyzing me for several seconds.

The magic courses through me, making my sword spark. I drop it, and then I turn and punch the elf in the face. His head flies back, and he drops his sword before he stumbles over the cliff.