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I take my sister’s hand when the warlord’s forces are halfway to us.

Temra puts a horn to her lips.

From even higher up than we are, hidden behind the trees and natural crevices of the mountain, Marossa’s calvary descends.

The horses charge into the enemy, knocking them down, sending them tumbling head over heels. Swords swing down, taking off heads. Spears are thrown. Axes cleave through armor.

By now, half of Kymora’s forces are gone, compared to only a third of ours—by my guess.

But it’s not enough to convince me we’ll win this fight. Not yet.

After the initial surprise, Kymora’s men start fighting back.

Her archers let their arrows fly, sinking into horse flesh. Someof the poor beasts go down, taking their riders with them, both tumbling end over end down the mountain. Kymora still waits at the base, watching her men fight, shouting out orders, telling them exactly what to do to achieve victory.

We just don’t have the experience or the knowledge to counter her instincts.

But we do have men and women willing to fight for what’s theirs.

Let it be enough.

The fight commences in full force once again when Kymora’s soldiers reach us. Fighting on uneven ground is supremely more difficult. Still, the more tired party is the one likely to make a mistake first.

I stay close to my sister, my back to hers, as we fend off attackers. She swings Midnight with a furious determination. Though Petrik does his best to throw his staff at anyone who tries to approach her, some still get through.

She fights like a lion, with quick slashes and quicker feet. It’s terrifying to see soldiers flinging steel at her, but I have my own foes to focus on.

Though I’ve no shield hammer, I dodge and swing for all I’m worth, protecting Temra’s back with a ferocity that could likely bring down this mountain.

Our magically assisted mercenaries do a remarkable job killing Kymora’s men by the dozens. But when even more red-clad fighters reach the mountain’s top, our fighters are surrounded. And they begin to fall in earnest.

When the imposter Kymoras enter the fray, resolve weakens. Men flee at the sight of her. Some hesitate in fear, which is just enough time for the enemy to get the upper hand on them. Just the nearby presence of the fierce woman in enough to cause more pandemonium in a fight that we’re already losing.

Horses scream. Men scream. Metal screams.

Pain and chaos.

Death. So much death.

More and more of the enemy reach the top of the mountain. Arrows pick off anyone who tries to separate from the thick of the fight. More red tunics surround me and my friends than ever. Skiro and Tazar stay close. Marossa and Algarow. We all fight with everything we have.

An arrow flies right for Algarow. Takes him down before he can finish his exhale.

Without the princess’s head guard to defend her, a sword sails right into Marossa’s unarmored gut.

She looks up, outrage on her face. “Rude!” she screams before slumping against the ground.

Skiro is thunderstruck. He and Tazar sail forward, fighting off her attacker.

Petrik freezes, looking at the scene as though it can’t possibly be real. His staff drops from his hand, but as soon as it makes contact with the ground, the magic sends it back toward his fingers.

Finally, his eyes reach mine. “Ziva, it’s time,” he says.

“No,” I argue. “I can still fight. We can still fight. It’s not over.”

But just because I say so doesn’t make it true.

We’re finally overwhelmed by their numbers. There’s too much red. The princess will die if we don’t get her to Serutha. We have to end this.