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A fallen Glacian, caught by surprise, lies bloody on the ground, and Ryon scoops the short sword from his clutch, throwing it into the air. He watches as Dawsyn reaches out and snatches its handle. She uses it to slice through the back of another Glacian, who holds an Izgoi by the throat.

Ryon hears the bellowing roar of another who flies toward him down the alley. Beyond the creature, Ryon glimpses the slain body of an Izgoi in the snow then turns his gaze back to the approaching Glacian, his pointed teeth bared between white lips.

Ryon ducks as the Glacian pounces. He spins in time to catch the airborne sword that Dawsyn throws back, and as the Glacian tumbles toward the ground, Ryon guides the sword through the back of his neck in one mighty stroke. He watches in satisfaction as the body and the head land feet apart.

“You always did lean toward the dramatic,” says a figure, approaching from the end of the alley. Adrik. He steps away from the seeping blood of his own people and spits upon the bodies of the fallen Glacians.

“The others?” Ryon asks simply, his breath labored.

“They walk the streets of the pure village for the first time – because of you,” Adrik says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Because of us,” Ryon amends, taking Dawsyn’s hand in his.

She looks to him with that foreboding stare, that resolute countenance, and he has the pleasure of seeing her smile – small and wicked.

“Let’s go,” he says to those in the alley, and kicks away the brute’s severed head.

A rioting mass of the Izgoi collects before the palace walls, and some take to the air in their restlessness, circling menacingly. There is not a Glacian guard in sight. As Ryon suspected, they have retreated to the safety of the palace to protect their king.

The Izgoi await him, await her, and upon seeing them appear, the swelling mass rumbles, as though the victory is already won.

“We cut down any who do not surrender,” Ryon calls to them, his back to the palace walls. “And we sleep tonight in the pure village.”

The Izgoi cry their approval, thrusting their weapons above their heads – weapons that Ryon scavenged, traded, smuggled into the Colony for years.

“TAKE TO THE TUNNELS!” Adrik booms, and with one last shout of assent, the crowd divides.

“We part here?” Dawsyn asks, her fingers wrapping around the ax handle that Adrik gives her. She pockets a knife and then another and turns back to Ryon, expectant.

“We part here,” Ryon nods, his throat tightening in fear. With one hand, he grips the back of her neck and pulls her forehead to his. “I’ll be with you soon, malishka.”

The words travel from his lips to hers, and she presses against his mouth, hovering there as she says, “Do not die.”

“I never do,” he answers, brushing his nose against her cheek once. And then he is gone.

CHAPTERFORTY-NINE

Dawsyn and Ryon part ways. There is only one way to get past the portcullises within the tunnels, and only two in the rebellion with the magic to do it. Ryon heads for the closest tunnel behind the guard tower. Dawsyn heads to the east, following the throng of Izgoi who find a smaller tunnel entrance. They slip on the ice as the tunnel dips into the earth, and within a few feet of darkness, the procession halts, brought up short by the first barrier – the first magicked portcullis.

Stuck behind the pack, Dawsyn tries to pry her way through the shoulders and elbows, but they do not relent. The Izgoi are feverish, agitated; they pay her no heed.

One of the mixed, closest to the portcullis, raises his short sword and impatiently clangs it against the iron bars. There is a pained yelp, a flash of brilliant white, and the Izgoi male crumples to the ground, groaning deeply.

“Stop!” Dawsyn shouts above the clamor. “STOP!” She pushes forward in earnest, shrieking for them to wait.

The idiots will fry themselves one by one. They cannot oppose the magic with strength alone.

Dawsyn knows, for within her, that other presence is filled with mirth. It laughs at the ones who think themselves strong enough to defeat it.

She reaches the portcullis only by ducking under the elbows and hips and pushes another away who refuses her shouts to move.

“Do not touch it, human! It is magicked with the iskra,” a growling voice warns her from behind.

The others shout, and the noise roils over the stone walls and ceiling, filling her head. She narrows her eyes at the rusted iron lock and tries to focus, despite her rapidly pulsing blood and the hollering of the Izgoi.

She can feel that other power within her – so foreign – try to retreat. It resists her, lurks beneath her grasp, and with all her might, she desperately pulls it outward without any thought of exactly how to.

Open it, she demands, biting at that shrinking glow, clawing at it.Open it now!