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“What–?” she mutters, confused. But Ryon is not gripping his knuckles in the way Dawsyn expects him to.

He looks back at her, concern clouding his face. “Malishka?”

Dawsyn does not answer. While the necklace heats her skin, her focus resides on Ryon’s hand and the bare fingers that host no ring – magicked or otherwise.

CHAPTERTWENTY

The Chasm sings.

But this time its voice is a deep drone. A subsonic drum that slowly crescendos. It makes Dawsyn look to the ground, where pebbles and debris quiver. She expects to see cracks forming between her feet – opening to finally swallow them all.

But then comes the sound of echoing voices. Of armour. Of horses.

The Chasm walls collect the noises and surround them with it, so that the cacophony comes from everywhere, all around.

“No,” Ryon breathes, eyes wide. He is as struck as she, frozen in stupor, in disbelief. “No!”

Hector steps toward her, gripping her elbow. His touch is cold.

A glow appears, growing warmer, brighter. It is the same light Dawsyn has seen in her imagination, the same building illumination that would precede their freedom. Paradise.

Only it does not arrive from the north, but from the south.

They come.

On their horses and on foot. With their pulled wagons and glinting armour. They come toward them aglow with lanterns and torches – a travelling nimbus.

It reaches Dawsyn’s face in increments, making her squint. She raises her ax. “No,” she utters. That burgeoning hope, the last vestiges of confidence within her, already it is ebbing, slipping away. “No.” Her voice is louder this time, and she pushes her way forward, through the faceless bodies of her people, toward that brilliant light and the sounds of nickering and clashing armour.

Not now,her mind screams.Not now!

“Halt!” She hears from ahead, inside the nimbus, and the voice is familiar.

Dawsyn does not pause to reason its owner, she retrieves a blade from her side and launches it through the air, to the place where the first horse comes to a standstill, still twenty paces away.

But the rider raises a shield, and the blade clatters off it before it can find its mark. The knife falls to the ground, and the mount jumps, startled.

“Stop!” says that same voice from behind her shield.

This time, the voice catches. It sticks to the sides of Dawsyn’s mind. Then quickly it rots, turning viscid and foul.

“Ruby,” Dawsyn exhales, and it is not a sigh of relief, or of welcome. Because Ruby mounts a horse blanketed in Terrsaw green, and she is flanked by Terrsaw armour, and the shield she holds before her bears the emblem of her homeland. Of her Queen.

“Dawsyn,” Ruby answers, and only then does she lower her shield. Just enough so that Dawsyn can see her face.

The same brown eyes and rich skin. The same lips pressed firmly together, the same cleft in her chin. And not a mark on her to be found. Not a single one.

On her finger is a ring, one not present when last Dawsyn saw her. Dawsyn cannot see the silver band clearly, but the necklace against her collarbone beats its heated pulse, and she feels sure the ring does the same.

Ryon’s ring.

“Easy!” Ruby calls, but she looks beyond Dawsyn, raising a placating hand to those behind her. “Peace!”

But the people of the Ledge are backing away. Most have never laid eyes on a horse, never seen weapons hewn of such fine silver. The light is blinding after days holed up in darkness. It burns their retinas. Dawsyn feels them raising their weapons and retreating.

Already, they know what Dawsyn knows. This is a fight they cannot win.

Ryon is pulling on her arm. “Fall back,” he yells, holding his sword defensively, his eyes pinned on Ruby’s.