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The wards flicker as the Woodmores tire. I’m not sure how long they can hold them. It’s been at least an hour since they were ambushed, likely closer to two.

I raise my hand and draw my horse to a stop to call orders. “Let the High Vales take the golems,” I command, raising my voice to a yell to make sure they can all hear me. “The rest of you focus on the necromancers. Archers, keep a safe distance.”

Clover nods from beside me, acknowledging her place. She hangs back as I move forward, our eyes locked for a second. There’s an unspoken command in her gaze—stay safe.

You too.

We separate.

Woodmore magic is blue, and sometimes gold. High Vale magic can be gold as well, but it’s often red. Blood magic, however, is a sickly green or black. It makes it easy to find our targets in the growing night, even in the throng of soldiers. They also wear dark cloaks, shielding their faces with hoods that cast shadows to hide their identity.

The Woodmores’ magic fails as we join the fray, the elves likely unused to exerting so much energy. It’s like a muscle that must be built, a test of physical endurance, and in this age, the Woodmores have had little reason to exercise their gifts.

Screams fill the valley as the vulnerable elves are targeted, telling me we’re too late. Even as the king’s soldiers cut the necromancers down, the blood mages attack the Woodmores with an ardent passion—not running away as their gutless people often do when they find themselves outnumbered. They fight with a sick passion, almost as if entranced.

I strike with my sword, and a robed man falls mid-attack, succumbing to the steel of my blade. His victim lies in the grass, curled into herself with her arms shielding her head, injured but alive. The young Woodmore woman untucks her head from her arm, staring at the bleeding necromancer who lies at her feet. She then turns her light brown eyes on me with horror.

Like I’m the monster.

My heart pounds, the adrenaline from the battle coursing through my veins, and I turn from her, determined to save these people no matter how they resent the blood shed on their behalf.

The High Vales’ magic causes booming explosions as it rips through the war golems and destroys the energy crystals within. The noise echoes in the hilled valley and shakes the ground. One of the metal soldiers lies nearby, a hole in its chest plate. It twitches as magic leaches from the destroyed crystal and into the soil. Sparks of white-hot energy fizzle into the air like the fireworks the traveling elves of Saosan sell around the mid-year holidays.

From somewhere nearby, I hear Ayan yell. I jerk my head up, spotting him just as magic explodes from his hand, volatile and rarely used. It collides with a golem, sending it flying back several feet. The seven-foot soldier clatters to the ground like a discarded toy, lifeless.

Searing pain hits me square in the back, and I whip around on my horse. My attacker smirks under her hood, only her mouth visible.

I rear back, startled to find her.

“Hello, Henrik.” Camellia tosses back her hood and reveals her long, ebony hair. It’s as smooth as silk, like a raven’s wing against her now porcelain skin. “I was hoping I’d meet you here.”

I dismount, needing to fight her face-to-face. Letting out a guttural cry, I stride forward, raising my blade. The princess stands impassive, merely wincing when I run my sword through her stomach. But she catches me before I can pull the weapon free, clutching my arm with unnatural strength.

She stands so close, I can smell the stench of death on her breath. Gagging, I try to jerk away, but she holds me in her taloned grip.

“Listen to them,” she whispers, brushing her free hand over my cheek. “Listen to their screams. I hope they’ll be your lullaby tonight.” She laughs softly, the sound chilling. “Think of me as they play in your head.”

And then she’s gone. In her place stands a man. He clutches his stomach, choking as blood trails from his mouth.

I yank the sword free, breathing hard as I watch him fall.

* * *

The fight is over within twenty minutes. Once the last golem topples to the ground, the remaining necromancers flee.

The High Vales proved invaluable against the talvernum soldiers, as they well should be since they are their creators. But the toll is great.

I survey our losses, a sick knot tightening in my stomach.

Dead litter the ground—far too many Woodmores, robed blood mages, several soldiers, and even a High Vale who got too close to a war golem.

A moth, lit by the moons’ light, flits near one of the fallen. It’s a picture of life against needless death, and it makes my stomach roll. I look away, angry and filled with shame.

Mournful wails replace the sounds of battle, the Woodmores grieving the friends they lost. My men and the High Vales have moved back, encircling the elves and giving them space. A lump forms in my throat as I realize more than half the Woodmores are gone. At least twenty men and women dead. Once their magic fell, they were defenseless.

I turn my head toward the archers, looking for Clover, needing to know she’s safe.

Relief grips me when I find her. She sits atop her horse, bow hung slack at her side. I follow her stricken gaze and an iron cage closes over my lungs.