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When the first round of enemy arrows launched into the air, they flew in an upward swarm, then arched, thudding harmlessly into the ground around the mounted boy.

Too far from the figure to wound him, but close enough to panic the horse.

The animal broke into a lumbering run. Not toward the flag stabbed into the ground.

Not toward me or the grisly tree at my back.

The horse ran toward the middle of the field where there was no cover. Only tall grasses and animal burrows, waiting to trip the horse, break its leg. Crush the rider as they tumbled.

My horse leapt forward; I had no recollection of urging him into a gallop, but anger raged through my veins and mage magic took control. Beside me, Essabeth raced, leaning low over the neck of her mount.

Behind us, the mounted men from Gheim Vale fanned out in a rumbling line, horses straining…a dangerous flood sweeping toward the enemy.

My heartbeat slowed. My focus narrowed, and I felt each muscle in the horse clench, then expand with force. I heard the air bellowing in and out of the animal’s lungs—a graceful warrior more valiant than I was.

War cries rose in the distance as the enemy charged, a line of unruly knights surging toward the figure on the panicked horse.

Arrows rained down. The poor creature squealed.

I held up a hand, surged mage magic into the air, spreading a protective shield like the one Anneli used against the blue rain.

The deafening drumbeat from hooves against the ground grew exhilarating. Everything the enemy threw toward the racing horse bounced off the mage magic.

The shield was wide enough to protect Nikki—or whoever hid beneath the hood. But maintaining the magic while gaining control of Nikki’s horse was impossible. I wasn’t skilled enough.

Essabeth shot a glance at me, then kicked her horse hard, flying over the ground, swinging around and grasping the reins of the stumbling horse. Racing back toward us with the animal and rider in tow.

My heart pounded. I slowed enough to change directions, a wide turn back toward where we’d come. Around me, the battle flourished, undimmed as balls of mage magic battered against the shield I held until the power wavered.

Anger clogged my throat. The magic was fading while the chorus of battle bellowed like a storm, and something inside me broke apart.

Warriors fought, relentless. Men, horses, clashing, slicing, screaming or silent with lethal determination.

The show of force was over. The reality was harsh, bloody, and driven by hate against honor.

There was no safe retreat for us, or for the men of the Vale until the fighting was done.

I turned my mount to shout at Essabeth. “Get off the field!”

Pointing to the trees, I ordered her to take the Samira road. To get the boy to safety.

Her horse spun as Essabeth faced me, her expression set with the determination of the dragon lord she longed to be.

Wild and bloodied hair flew around her face while her eyes blazed with mage anger.

She still held the lead for the lame horse, and the boy moaned through the hood, leaning forward, clawing at the saddle for balance.

With his hands tied, he had no chance. If he fell, he’d be lost, and I focused a bolt of magic until the rope fell away.

His stiff fingers dragged at the horse’s mane.

I shuddered at the gesture.

Essabeth was shouting, “What about you?”

I shook my head, still in denial. “Don’t wait for me. ”

Kicking my horse, I ignored her angry protest. Let her words fade into the tumult as I charged back toward the conflict.

I was a High Mage, like the fabled witch of Perun.

I could destroy when I focused on a single target rather than an arching shield.

My fingers spread wide as heat boiled up.

The rage, bitterness, injustice. Then I let it explode.

The wave of magic hit the closest red priest masquerading as a King’s Guard.

He fell from his mount and rolled to the ground where a warrior from Gheim Vale waited.

The sword swung before the priest reacted and blood pooled.

I turned to another man, and then a third, striking out.

Watching each one fall. Blocking the reality from my mind.

These men were not part of the King’s Guard…

men who might have escorted me through Thales.

Or trained with my brother. Men who knew Vasari, my brother’s friend.

I had to be Silk once again, shoving down emotion, destroying the enemy as a duty I was there to perform. The justice speaker, delivering truth at the king’s command—the command Tarian would not expect me to turn against men I once trusted, laughed with, admired.

A shout dragged my attention toward the sky. Wyverns! The cries of men and horses blended with the manic screeches as the two-legged dragons attacked.

The wyverns had no preference; wings thrashed, jaws snapped, tearing at the wounded on the ground, at the horses, at those who would fight back, and those who ran.

I counted at least six. I was still counting when my horse stumbled and went down.

The commander from Gheim Vale was there, yanking on my arm, pulling me from the mount before the animal’s weight crushed me.

My entire body ached, throbbed. My braided hair had loosened and blood-spattered strands stuck to my cheek.

“Move,” the commander ordered, dragging me through the mud until I regained my footing. The horse was struggling, unable to stand, and then a wyvern was there, clinging to the horse’s neck, the jaws ripping…

I screamed. My outstretched arms shook. Fire flowed from my fingertips, arching, consuming the dying horse and the bloodied wyvern.

I kept screaming, even after the bodies stopped moving and became lumps on the ground.

I kept burning…men wearing armor instead of common clothes. Violent men who would not stop killing. Men who had hatred in their eyes.

Overhead, a wyvern rose, struggling to fly. Blood dripped from its gaping mouth. The wings were flaming, disintegrating like ruby-edged lace. Emotions ripped through my mind—fear, guilt, sorrow. Fury.

Disordered images followed…the burning sails on a Davinicus ship that I’d thought looked like dragon wings.

Tarian…cupping my face and telling Silk not to fail.

And Kion… once again, I’d brought my enemies to his door. Put what he protected in danger.

The magic flowing through my hands pulsed with enough force to send me stumbling backward.

Streams of fire tumbled, a tumult of ruby and gold, alive and livid and…

consuming. The rising stench was sweet enough to make me gag.

The ru shing euphoria was manic. I felt like I might split apart, but I could not stop the burning.

I could not breathe, or slow the energy, the dragon fire. Maybe Eydis Khoth was right and my mother had burned those soldiers and then blamed it on the dragon.

“Senna!” Essabeth dragged on my arm. “Stop!”

“I can’t!”

“You can. Over here.”

Her magic flowed into me like a cooling stream, giving relief.

I came back to myself enough to regain control.

Horses danced in agitation, held by a man in bloodied clothes.

The boy sat on a different horse, one that wasn’t lame.

Someone had removed his hood, and a sob rose in my throat at the sight of Vasari’s battered face.

His swollen, purpled eyes. Bloodied lips.

He clutched the saddle, swayed like a drunken man or one close to oblivion.

“Ride!” The commander from Gheim Vale dragged me to a mount, lifted my body into the saddle. Gore left smears on his face that he didn’t notice.

Essabeth’s horse danced beside mine; she’d remounted.

I tried to focus.

“Lady!” The commander shook me when I stared vacantly. “The enemy retreats. Go!”

“Nikki!” I gasped for air. Gripped the reins.

“Not here.” Essabeth took charge, giving me no choice as she slammed her palm against my horse’s rump. She still held the reins for Vasari’s mount, and an instant later, we were galloping in a mad dash across the field and into the trees, then along the dirt road to Samira.

The tears in my eyes dried to a salty crust. Trees became a dark green smear as we passed.

The road stretched straight, slicing through the encroaching shadows as if we’d entered a mage tunnel even though we hadn’t.

Neither Essabeth nor I had the power to create a portal, or at least for me, not yet.

The horse I rode moved his head with each pumping stride. I leaned low over his neck, urged him on.

I’d known the boy wasn’t Nikki when Vasari had clawed at the horse’s mane. Even beaten and blind, Nikki would have reached for the bridle to find the reins.

I hadn’t wanted to face the disappointment; the hollow dropping in my heart.

I hadn’t wanted to break apart when I had to be Silk.

Swallowing was impossible; I’d cried or screamed away all the saliva.

Blood oozed from the cuts on my face. Essabeth had smears of blood coating her arm, but her focus remained intense.

Vasari rode between us, his horse well-enough trained to stay close.

Vasari, the boy I’d warned Nikki about, believing he would put his own safety first—and Nikki said it was because I didn’t understand friendship.

Vasari’s head dipped, but his balance was better, even though he still slouched. I had no idea how far we had to ride.

“Essabeth,” I shouted over the hammering hoofbeats.

She dashed a glance at me. “There!”

I turned to my right; a horseman raced through the trees, red cassock flailing. Then a second horseman joined the chase, the horses digging, pivoting, dodging trees, leaping over the fallen, tangled branches. Gaining ground.

“Faster,” I ordered. “Give Vasari the reins. ”

Essabeth did so with a smooth maneuver that didn’t slow our desperate pace. Vasari was aware enough to take control. But as we galloped, three more red priests emerged from the trees, their horses arrowing toward the road.

Wind buffeted my face, stealing the air from my lips. I urged my mount forward, thrilled at the contracting muscles when he threw more power into his stride. Shoulder muscles strained. Beneath the pounding hooves, the road churned.

As a group, the priests converged on the road behind us, gaining speed, manipulating magic until they half-dissolved like phantoms streaming in our wake. Their iron boots gleamed. The bloody hooves of their horses battered the dirt.

The clawing black gauntlets inspired a visceral fear.

Essabeth had taken the lead. Her lathered horse heaved with the effort, pulverizing the road beneath its feet. I wanted Vasari protected, riding behind him to keep his mount closer to Essabeth.

“Go!” I shouted above the noise. “Leave me if I fall!”

Essabeth did not respond—was I shouting in my mind?

Sobbing?

The gap between Vasari’s horse and mine widened. Had I slowed?

Over my right shoulder, I sensed a presence; a red priest loomed, beating his lathered horse until he rode close beside me.

As the priest leaned forward, the crimson cowl fell back.

He wore a silvered helm with wicked spikes rising like a demon’s horns, and a cross-shaped, gold-rimmed opening in the visor revealed his eyes.

Other slits provided ventilation for breathing, but the helm concealed everything else .

Still, instinct told me the priest was Ildoran.

I sensed his hatred, and when he reached for me, my heart thrashed in my chest, driven by terror and the silver-banded, six-pointed star glinting on his gauntleted fist, so like the star throbbing and burning beneath my skin.

We were mage fighting mage.

Justice against injustice. Power against tyranny.

Men like this man had attacked the eyries during the Chaos. Tried to destroy a species.

Men like this man swore dragons were gone. That the world was a better place and we should all be grateful.

Men like this man had destroyed what was good and kind in the world. Continued to destroy. Ruin lives and dreams and the light of hope.

Magic streamed from him like ribbons made of resentful mist.

I struck out with magic, a burst of heat that widened the distance between us. The horse surged, desperate.

But Ildoran closed the distance and smiled through the slit in his helm; evil rushed. His hand bobbed. His arm extended as he reached.

I turned away, stared at the road between the horse’s pointed ears, urging the animal to race faster…willing strength into his legs, air into his lungs.

“Senaria!” Essabeth screamed.

Ildoran’s hand closed around my arm. The pain seared until I was almost blinded. And in the sky above our heads, a shadow descended. Silent. Deadly.

Massive .

I registered the white scales, the golden eyes, while I gasped against the pain in Ildoran’s grip.

I am here.

The dragon’s voice echoed, a voice I hadn’t heard before. An ancient voice. Raspy.

Then the dragon’s jaws opened and fire erupted, burning away the phantoms, the red priests on their horses.

Burning Ildoran.

Scorching the earth.