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“You will wear my wards,” he says, his voice commanding.

I raise my eyebrows. “Only if you wear mine.”

His eyes shine in the low light of the tent, and he inclines his head ever so slightly. “Always, little witch.”

“Okay,” I agree, nodding back to him.

“Then it’s settled,” Memnon says. “You’ll wear my wards, and I’ll wear yours. And side by side, we shall fight.”

I only start trembling once our camp is a dark smear at our backs. Fog clings to the ground, stirring as our horde’s horses pass through it, making the land look ghostly, like the dead have come to watch.

I ride at the front of the amassed warriors, Memnon at one side, Ferox at the other. Despite my best attempts to keep my panther safe back at the settlement, the stubborn creature refused to stay behind. So here we are, the pair of us heading back out to battle.

Next to me, Memnon’s body no longer wears the languid ease it did during training, though I don’t sense much tension coming from him. Certainly not the corrosive fear that’s flowing through my veins.

“You can still turn back, my queen,” Memnon says.

I draw in a deep breath, trying to steady myself. It’ll be okay. All I have to do is keep an eye on Memnon. And not die. That should be easy enough.

“I’m not leaving you,” I insist.

He glances over at me, his eyes full of that once-unnamable emotion I now recognize as love.

I give him a tight smile, hardening my spirit.

Somewhat comforting is the knowledge that Katiari rides with the group. If she can be brave enough to face down enemies without the use of magic, surely I can do this with my power.

Memnon halts, and the rest of us follow suit.

I strain my eyes, searching for what caused us to pause. Eventually, I see them.

Dacians. They look like specters out in the mist. And what I can see of them…there are many. Far, far too many. More by far than there are Sarmatians.

One of the Dacians breaks off from the group, his horse cantering forward, fog swirling at the creature’s ankles. The hairs on my arms rise at the sight of him.

Come, Memnon says,ride with me.

Getting closer is the last thing I want to do, but when Memnon urges his steed forward, I can’t help but coax my own horse to follow, Ferox silently joining us.

The mounted figure pauses in the middle of the field, and I can feel his eyes on me. My crown, my face, the Roman tunic I defiantly wear, and the Sarmatian armor resting over it.

It’s only as we near the man, however, that I make out his features. He’s older than Memnon, with a graying braid running down his back and a thick beard obscuring the lower half of his face. Like Memnon, he wears a circlet under his peaked helmet.

He must be Zoutoula, the Dacian king himself. He looks old enough to have ruled his people for decades, but Memnon killed the previous Dacian king a year ago when his power Awoke.

Since the attack, he must’ve learned his son had fallen in battle, and then—then he must’ve witnessed his own warriors cutting down their loved ones. He likely had to order their deaths just to stop the carnage.

The Dacian looks at my husband with abject hatred, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Wretched beast,” Zoutoula opens, “the days I have fantasized about your death.” He takes in Memnon’s face, grimacing.

“You gave me a wedding gift,” Memnon says, unruffled, “and I sent you my many thanks for it.”

Zoutoula snarls. “For the honor of my father, Dacia’s former king, and myson,” His voice hitches, “who should have been Dacia’s future king, I will make your death slow, and then I will have my warriors defile your body in every imaginable way.”

At his words, my magic rises, coiling around Memnon and instinctively shielding him.

Is my wife being protective of me?my husband says, his tone light.