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Ryon tears his eyes from Dawsyn’s back.

It seems he is always made to let her go in the moments he wants to fly her away. She waits by the treeline, out of sight from the Glacians circling above. Ryon turns to face his friends, his allies, one last time before he leaves them, too. “Take to the skies and retreat if the tide turns,” Ryon tells Rivdan, Tasheem and Brennick. The former two nod gravely, shuffling quietly away to spread the word amongst the rest. But Rivdan stays. He looks steadfastly back at Ryon, his stare determined.

“I’ll be following you, Mesrich,” he says evenly, as though the matter isn’t to be argued.

Ryon sighs. “Riv–”

“I’ll be following you,” he says again.

Ryon presses his forehead to his clasped hands. If Alvira’s army awaits beyond them, there is little to be done. The human army will outnumber the mixed. Adrik’s men will defend any aerial attack. The fight will be long, and it will eventually be lost, and he cannot imagine one such as Rivdan withdrawing his honour. He will fight to the end too, whether it is at Ryon’s side or not.

If this is Ryon’s last stand among enemies, he can at least face it in the company of a friend.

Ryon lifts his head. “If I fall,” he murmurs to Rivdan, “find Dawsyn. Take her with you. Please.”

Rivdan nods once, the weight of his promise heavy in his eyes.

“Thank you,” Ryon says, laying a hand on his shoulder. “For everything.”

“If there are two in this valley worthy of following, they are not out there,” Rivdan says, looking to the Fallen Village. “They are here in this wood. I will follow you again,Gervalti. We will be victors today. Fortune from misfortune,”he says, a small grin appearing. “If you will it, it will be so.”

Ryon thinks of the Colony and all the times Rivdan and Tasheem appeared at his shoulder, by his side. He wonders if he will be granted the chance to thank them after, for a lifetime of loyalty. “Fortune from misfortune,” Ryon repeats, shaking his head incredulously. “Let us hope the name holds this night.”

With a contingent of mixed waiting in the shadows, Ryon and Rivdan step into the clearing, their wings visible but tucked, their weapons drawn, but not raised.

The Glacians in the sky see them immediately. They begin to descend, as Ryon suspected. They will likely retreat to Adrik. Warn him. Receive his next orders.

Ryon and Rivdan stalk past the pen of humans, some old, some so young it sends cold-blooded rage to every extremity.

“Ryon!” someone calls from within. Ruby’s face appears in the space between wooden beams, she presses her cheeks firmly to the timber. “Ryon, Alvira–”

“Get everyone toward the north corner,” Ryon tells her quietly. He hopes she hears it over the din of moving bodies, of panicked cries. “Look for Dawsyn.”

Ruby’s eyes sharpen, she nods and disappears, quickly calling to those closest within their holding.

Ryon however, has his eyes ahead, where the opposing corner of the human enclosure nears. Rounding it will reveal the expanse of the army that lies in wait. It will tell him the outcome before the fight begins.

But round it he must.

He looks over his shoulder and nods one time.

Dawsyn runs for the fence.

And Ryon steps out into the open, where the rolling hills of Terrsaw unfold for as far as the eye can see.

The sun is a sliver of orange sinking into the knolls. It glints off a thousand pieces of armour, a thousand different helms. It burns pink through the filmy skin of Glacian wings. Row upon row upon row of Terrsaw guards, fronted by mountain creatures.

Closer to him and on horseback at the foot of the hill is the Queen of Terrsaw and Adrik, King of Glacians.

They are swarmed by several white-winged Glacians, gliding low toward Adrik while Alvira’s horse paces and shrinks away, clearly afraid. They fly next over the hills of armed soldiers, both man and not, calling their warnings, readying them to fight.

“Mesrich,” Adrik calls loudly to him and the sound bounces from the landscape, echoing across the planes. It fills the valley with the promise of violence. Of destruction.

Ryon cannot help the quickening of his blood at the sound of his voice, the sight of him standing there, so assured by the many men that wait beyond him.

If they all die this day, it will not be before Adrik. Ryon must make sure of it.

They halt well before Alvira and Adrik both, so that whatever they might say will be called into the wind and heard for miles around. “Archers sit on the hills,” Rivdan murmurs to Ryon, his sights in the distance, scrutinising the scene. “To the east and west as well.”