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The children are passed through first, whether by Ruby’s order or not, Dawsyn cannot be sure. She grabs their arms and pulls them through one by one, handing them off to Hector, who hurries them back into the tree line.

He looks back at Dawsyn from there in the underbrush, his eyes wide and anguished. She gives him a strained smile, nods once, and he disappears from sight, taking with him Abertha’s youth, Esra’s irreplaceable light, Salem’s warmth, and the hope of children who will grow away from the fucking mountain that looms beyond.

“Dawsyn,” Ruby calls to her, familiar brown eyes beseeching her from within the enclosure.

“Hello, captain,” Dawsyn says, stepping through the breach and into the holding.

Ruby smiles. “I expected an ax to the throat.”

Dawsyn shakes her head. “I found it difficult to accept that you’d turned on us.” She grasps Ruby’s plated shoulder. “I’m happy to find that you are on our side.”

Ruby pierces Dawsyn with an intense stare. “I never left it.”

Dawsyn looks out to the flock of people, filthy and bleeding. Some remain on the ground, too injured or sick to rise. But there are many so filled with rage that they stand tall, facing Dawsyn with bunched fists. She addresses them now.

“This night gives you your last chance of freedom,” she tells them, her voice low and careful. “The Queen of this land says we must go back to where we came. Back to the Ledge. But that is not the land we were made for. Our lungs were made for valley air. Our skin sewn for its sun. The hands of our parents and grandparents toiled this land, and our hands were meant to feel how it yields.” The last time Dawsyn spoke to her people in such a way, it was in the snow, on the precipice of their descent into the Chasm. She asked them to wager their lives on a chance for freedom then, and it was met with wariness, with fear.

But there is no Chasm here in the valley, nothing that threatens to tip them off the side of a cliff. The frost does not creep in, cracking their lips and burning their fingers. The cold is not a threat here, where the warmth of the sun sticks to the earth even after it sets. When Dawsyn looks to her people now, she sees not wariness, but eagerness. Not fear, but the kind of courage bred in those who have survived many storms and are yet to be thwarted.

“We are outnumbered,” she continues. “But we have the mixed-blooded Glacians on our side and fifty years of vengeance. And we will have to let it be enough.”

“Then it will be enough,” comes a familiar voice.

Nevrak steps forward, his eyes illuminated by nothing more than a deep, deep hunger. And Dawsyn wonders if he might be right. What match are those in Terrsaw, against those who fought the cold and won?

“Our allies wait in the trees,” Dawsyn says. “They will lend you weapons. Move quickly and stay hidden. Wait for my call to reveal yourselves.”

Ruby smiles viciously. “Do not keep us waiting long,” she says and leads the way through the fence.

Dawsyn walks alone out into the open now and it is not to the opponent she has long since come to expect. It is to a woman who cowers back into the ranks of her guard. It is to a Glacian King who breathes heavily beneath the oppressive heat of the fertile season.

Despite the overwhelming number of Terrsaw guards who choke the hills of the valley, Dawsyn approaches unafraid. She swings her ax to her shoulder and rests it there. She watches civilians of Terrsaw stutter in their attempt to welcome the Ledge survivors with welcome arms, only to find the Fallen Village primed for battle. She can feel their confusion, their fear.

She wonders how Queen Alvira can possibly continue to rule them, after this night bleeds to morning.

She wonders if maybe this battle can be won before it begins.

“Alvira!” she calls, letting her voice ring out. She sees the heads of the Terrsaw men and women turn to the sound of it. She sees them jostle one another, point toward her in the bowl of the hills, sauntering out of the Fallen Village. “Do not go so soon.”

Alvira whips around, eyes bulging at the sight of her. “Sabar,” she mouths.

“Do not delay on my account,” Dawsyn continues, gaining ground. “The Glacians are naturally weakened by the heat and your numbers far outweigh theirs. Command your soldiers to kill the Glacians.”

There is a silence and in it she sees Ryon stare at her in wonder, she sees Rivdan smile. She hears Adrik curse her and take out his sword and she raises her ax in response.

But Alvira does nothing.

And all of Terrsaw watches on.

“You’ve an entire army at your back, Your Majesty!”Dawsyn shouts. “Do you mean to have them kill the Glacians or your own people?”

She hears the hushed murmurs, the first rumblings of dissent. The same dissent that has been simmering since she first found herself in a Terrsaw dungeon. She remembers their chants, there was suspicion arising even then.

Surely the Queen will not wage this war before them.

But there is no calculation in Alvira’s eyes. No careful manipulation shaping her lips. From the way she breathes through her teeth, Dawsyn suspects that sense and logic no longer drive her.

“I am the Queen of this kingdom,” she heaves. “I have served it, devoted mylifeto it, and it will serve me in return for what I have given, what I have sacrificed! I will not allow achildto take it from me.”