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“We can blast their chests to oblivion, but still, they fight,” Ayan says. “We managed to tear one to shreds, and when we examined it, the crystal cavity was empty.”

“Then…how?”

“We think they’re using wraiths to control them.”

“You can’t be serious,” I mutter. “All right—that’s fine. Find the Woodmores and team up. The golems are our biggest threat. Once we take them down, the mages will likely retreat.”

Ayan nods, ducking out of Pranmore’s ward and screaming a battle cry as he clashes with a mage.

Though the golems and mutinous High Vales have made the battle more difficult than it should have been with our numbers, we’re winning. By morning, we’ll have our victory.

But it still doesn’t settle right on my weary mind. Why would Camellia send these men at us for nothing? Perhaps she believes they’re disposable, but it’s a waste of her resources, and she’s not that careless.

Suddenly, a thought assails me.

“What is it?” Pranmore asks.

“The golems can be controlled by wraiths,” I breathe.

Pranmore nods, not understanding.

“Lawrence has collected more than a dozen of them in his storeroom.” I turn on my heel. “We have to return to Cabaranth.”

“But Henrik!” Bartholomew exclaims.

I’m frantic as I fight through the mess, cutting down the enemy with little thought or remorse. Finally, I find Gavriel.

“Camellia is going to attack Cabaranth,” I tell him urgently. “It’s possible she’s already there. I need you to take command here.”

“Go,” he says. “I have this.”

* * *

We leave the battle, traveling quickly toward the city. Even Pranmore deems the situation worthy of riding.

None of us are prepared for what we find.

“Cabaranth is under attack,” Bartholomew gasps when we arrive.

An army of skeletal warriors writhes outside the city, climbing atop each other in an attempt to scale the walls. High Vales throw fireballs, knocking down the undead soldiers, but they simply build themselves up again.

It’s like fighting the tide.

Bartholomew worries his reins. “How are we going to get past them?”

“Pranmore? I ask. “Can you get us through?”

The elf nods solemnly, petting his borrowed horse’s neck as if to soothe her worries when I believe he’s the one seeking comfort. “They’ll shy away from my wards.”

But there are so many.

“We don’t have a choice,” I say. “We must get inside.”

Steeling ourselves, we ride toward the undead army. Pranmore raises his wards once we’re close. As predicted, the skeletal soldiers recoil and weaken. Bartholomew and I cut them down as we pass, sending their dry bones to the ground.

But as we’re nearing the gates, Pranmore’s ward suddenly disappears.

“Pranmore?” I yell, looking over my shoulder.