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This night, she drags herself unwillingly to the last battlefield. Death is a burden perched on her shoulders. The ax in her palm feels like an unwelcome visitor. For the first time, she does not want to fight, for she fears they might lose.

The difference does not lie in the enemy, for the enemy has rarely varied. No. The difference lies in the company she marches with, for while forfeiting her own life has never worried her, the thought of losing theirs is a price too high.

She is suddenly sure she is unwilling to pay it.

Not Abertha, who has only just arrived.

Not Esra, who is too alive to die.

Not Salem, who loves too deeply to bleed.

Not Hector, who has already bled enough.

Not Rivdan and Tasheem, who have given too much, too willingly.

Not Ryon, who has pulled her from the deepest trenches of herself and loved her still.

Not even herself, who has only just begun to feel thawed. Renewed. Not now that she has found this family.

But the shouts ahead continue and they call her forward.

Just this one last fight.

She calls to mind every morning she woke to dig the snow from her doorway on the Ledge, every tree that she felled, every song her grandmother sang. She thinks of Maya, of Briar, of all the days stolen from them.

She hears the shouts ahead and there is little else that matters more.

The price is high, but it is not her who will pay it alone.

Light suddenly begins to impede the darkness. The thinning of trees ahead allows the Fallen Village to come into view and reveals the beginnings of ruins. Of crumbled homes choked in vine and weed. Beyond them, a structure looms. Large wooden beams stand fast in freshly dug trenches. An entire perimeter of high fencing. Through the narrow gaps, Dawsyn can see those inside teeming.

Like animals confined to a cage, the Ledge people batter its walls, ramming their bodies against its supports until they tilt.

And above, hovering like vultures, several Glacians circle. They glide over their prisoners as they have always done, taking time to select their prey.

The line of the mixed-blooded halt in the woods, not venturing further yet. Ryon holds his hand raised and steady, alerting them to be still, silent.

“Where are the Terrsaw guards?” Dawsyn whispers. She stands behind a wide oak trunk and surveys the clearing before her. But the fence that imprisons the Ledge people is tall and impedes her view.

“Taking their fucking time,” Ryon mutters.

The sound of steel on wood rings out and Dawsyn’s eyes fly back to the enclosure. She catches a glimpse of silver armour, a flash of steel, and hears again the telling thwack of metal meeting timber. There is a roar of outrage from the bearer within as the effort renders nothing.

“The guards have been captured,” Ryon whispers and he curses quietly, lowering to his haunches.

Dawsyn sees more of them, squinting through the dimness. She sees the swords protrude through the gaps in the fence, hears the clinking of their armour. Someone shunts their body into a tilting beam and it cracks a little. The gap allows Dawsyn a better view and she recognises the thin, straight nose, the glossy hair, the rich brown skin. She watches the guard shove her shoulder relentlessly against the teetering beam and hears her shouts of exertion.

Ruby.

Ryon and Dawsyn turn to each other with a shared understanding. Ryon frowns already, shaking his head. “We need to re-strategize,” he says.

“There’s no time,” is her answer, already formulated.

“Anyone want to share?” Tasheem quips, shuffling forward on her own haunches, keeping low to the ground. “What’s happening?”

Ryon holds his hand high to the line of mixed, signalling them to hold their position. He nods to Rivdan, to Brennick, and they creep inward, forming a tight circle on the forest floor.

Hector, Abertha, Esra and Salem, their bodies crouched, lean toward Ryon, straining to hear.