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His shoulders sag a little with his relief. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Your sword, Henrik,” Bartholomew says, panting when he stops next to me. “I fetched it.”

I didn’t even realize he disappeared.

“Thank you,” I say, accepting the blade.

“I’ll get your armor.” He runs off again.

“He almost looks efficient,” Lawrence says with a morbid laugh, and then he looks around. “Now, who’s going to fetch my armor?”

“Lawrence, you can’t…” I shake my head a little, not wanting to finish the sentence.

He squares his shoulders at me, hardening his eyes. “I think you meanYour Majesty.”

“You can’t go,” I say under my breath. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I can’t stay here while everyone else fights,” he hisses.

“And I respect you for that, but you must. You’re ourking.”

Lawrence turns as if he can’t even look at me, and then he whips back. He stares at me for several seconds and then lets out a guttural growl that I feel deep in my gut. It’s precisely how I would feel if someone told me I had to send my friends into battle without me.

“What about Audra?” he finally demands.

“We need her,” I say. “The High Vales don’t trust Ayan to lead them, and they certainly don’t trust me. Not yet.”

“I can’t let my fiancée fight my battles. It’s one thing to fight side-by-side, but to send her alone?” He runs his hand through his hair, clenching the strands between his fingers. “What if something happens to her?”

“I’ll protect her,” Pranmore solemnly swears from our side. “And Henrik, Clover, and Bartholomew.”

“What about me?” Ayan says, pushing his way through the fray to join us, grinning though his face is lined with worry.

It suddenly hits me that his grandmother is in the middle of the attack.

“Are you going to watch over me too?” he jokes.

“I’m only one man.” Pranmore deadpans.

“It’s nice to know you care.” Ayan barks out a tense laugh. “What are we waiting for?”

I look for Audra. She stands at the center of a circle of High Vales, giving her soldiers instructions. The elves don’t wear armor—not leather or chain or plating. They look vulnerable, but I know better.

“We’re ready,” she says when she approaches us.

Lawrence turns toward her, shaking his head.

“It will be fine,” she assures him.

“Give us a moment,” he says to the rest of us, taking Audra and all but dragging her to a corner to talk in private.

I look away, uncomfortable.

“I’m here,” Clover announces a few minutes later, with her bow on her back, wearing leather armor that makes her look like a warrior goddess. Hastily, she plaits a simple three-stranded braid into her long hair, fastens the end with a bit of ribbon, and then tosses it over her shoulder. Determination shines in her eyes. “I’m ready.”

Fifteen minutes later, I ride through the gatehouse with Clover at my side, leading my soldiers into battle for the first time. Every one of their lives weighs on my conscience—I’m heavy with a sick feeling of responsibility that most don’t consider when they covet powerful positions.

We travel thirty minutes before we come upon the fray. The blue light of the Woodmores’ wards is easily visible in the growing twilight, along with the sounds of battle. The soldiers Lord Birchall sent ahead engage with the necromancers and their golems, but they don’t seem to have made progress.