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Dacia is only the beginning.

We spend the next several months visiting various tribes and nations, securing allegiance wherever we go. Sometimes these rival rulers cooperate, and the alliance is forged all on its own. Sometimes it takes Memnon’s personal brand of persuasion. Sometimes it even takes my own.

And if Memnon starts to reconsider the scope of these plans, well, Eislyn is there to whisper all the glories of the world into his ears.

Eislyn, who is cold and clever except when she and Memnon are together—then she is especially clever.

Not that my husband sees it. For him, she is all bright eyes and coy smiles and promises, so many promises.

Of riches and land, power and fame—but most of all, me .

She spins the tale like Memnon’s valor is all for me.

I know this game. I have seen it before. I simply don’t know how to sabotage it. And so we hurtle forward, amassing a force that spans kingdoms, one ruthlessly lead by Memnon.

Rome notices.

Maybe they were informed as soon as King Cotys was deposed from Panticapaeum.

Or maybe word got out that one of the nomadic kings was unifying the otherwise-contentious nations of nomads and barbarians.

It’s never been done before, and the possibility of now dealing with a unified eastern front, one that could truly overpower the empire—well, that’s an intolerable threat.

It still doesn’t prepare me for the moment Katiari rushes into the dining hall at breakfast in her training leathers, her eyes wild and her cheeks wind slapped.

Her eyes lock on mine. “A Roman army has gathered outside the city.”

It’s a miserable day for a battle. Sleet falls from the sky, turning the ground into a frothy mixture of water, ice, and mud. Even clad in layers of hide and felt, armored Sarmatians shiver as we leave Panticapaeum for the grasslands to the west.

My breath mists as Memnon and I ride at the front of the horde, drawing the eyes of civilians peering from their windows. Ferox prowls next to my horse, cloaked in layer upon layer of spells—some for warmth, some for protection, and some meant to hide him from Roman eyes.

I spot the Roman cohort soon after we exit the city, the group of them clustered a little ways beyond a colonnaded temple perched on a natural rise.

If we’re cold, that is nothing compared to the Roman army. Even as far away as they are, I can see them huddling in their cloaks and boots, unused to the frigid weather of early spring in Tauris.

I glance at Memnon, whose eyes shine in anticipation, his form limned with the protective spells I placed on him.

He turns to me. Are you ready, my queen?

I swallow, then nod.

I don’t hunger for this victory the way Memnon does, but like every other battle, I refuse to let him ride out here alone, without my protection. Especially now that it’s Romans he faces.

His magic leaves him then, tugging my horse as close to his as he can get it. He places his hand on me and murmurs, “ Make her skin impenetrable. Protect her body from all harm. ”

You don’t need to add another ward , I tell him. You’ve already placed a dozen or so on me.

His hand lingers on me, his fingers skimming my jaw. When it comes to you, there can never be enough.

I lean forward and rest my own hand against him, so that I, too, can murmur another protective spell, one that makes Memnon’s eyes go soft.

Let’s get this over with , I say, my palm sliding away from him. I want to relax with you by the fire and watch our warriors celebrate this victory.

Memon gives me a small smile. As you will it, my queen, so it shall be done.

Memnon faces forward again, and all the softness bleeds from his face.

The Roman soldiers appear to be scrambling for their weapons and mounting their horses.

I’ve heard that some nations have battle etiquette, where both sides meet and discuss the terms of slaying one another like proper civilized folk.

I don’t know enough about Rome to know if, when they are not busy annihilating innocent villages, they do such things, but Sarmatians do not.

We, at least, are honest about the business of killing. We don’t pretend we’re anything other than ruthless warriors.

So before the Romans can properly arrange themselves into their fighting formation, Memnon removes his bow from his body and holds it up high. Behind us, I hear his men reach for their own bows and spears, readying themselves.

I slip down my bond with Ferox. Battle is about to start. I speak directly into his mind. Remember, stay to the outskirts and keep yourself safe before all else.

The only indication that Ferox might’ve heard and understood my words is the agitated way his tail twitches when I return to my own head.

I grab my own bow a moment before Memnon pumps his arm and lets out a piercing howl. With that, we charge.

Terrifying whoops and cries rise from our horde as our horses gallop straight at the amassing Romans. The sound raises the hairs on my arms; I can only imagine what it does to our enemies.

Strands of my hair whip around my face as I draw an arrow from my gorytos, then nock it. I wait until we’re within striking distance of our enemies to take aim, and then I loose the arrow. I don’t see whether it struck its mark before drawing out another and aiming again.

The Romans are in the distance one moment; we’re upon them in the next. Terrified shouts and heaving grunts rise from the thick mass of soldiers as our horses plow through their hastily made formation, scattering it.

From the thick knot of our enemies, a spear thrusts at me.

The wards placed on me hold fast, and they alone prevent the spear from piercing my torso.

They don’t, however, prevent the weapon from nearly unseating me.

The force of it knocks me back, and I have to grab at the reins to halt my fall.

My bow isn’t so lucky; it slips from my grip and clatters to the muddy ground.

Shit. Losing my weapon this early in battle is never good.

I right myself and call on my magic to retrieve my bow as my horse barrels forward. It takes several breaths before the weapon returns to my hand, and when it does, it is broken in several sections, likely trampled by other hooves.

“ Repair ,” I incant as my horse slows, now slogging through the line of Roman infantry pushing back with their shields.

The bow creaks a little as the splintered layers of wood reconnect and smooth over. Within a few inhalations, it’s as good as new.

Arrows whizz past us, one glancing off my warded horse before embedding itself into the ground.

I need to get to the back of these Roman lines. It’s where us Sarmatians are most lethal. Unfortunately, these Romans seem to know that, and they’re doing their best to keep us at bay. I’m stranded in the thick of battle, which, for cavalry like me, is the worst place to be.

I nock my bow, urging my steed on while I scan the field for a target. Instead, my eyes catch on a flash of white in the distance.

Beyond the charging mass of riders, Eislyn sits on a white steed, wearing a stola with an equally white cloak shrouding her. She’s a vision on this bleak battlefield with her long pale hair and her body free of blood and mud.

She stares at me, her hand slightly raised.

What in all the gods’ names is she doing out here ? —

I don’t feel the arrow, nor do I see it until it’s sliced through the side of my neck.

The force of the blow throws me forward, and I nearly tumble from my horse all over again.

Shock dulls my pain, and I have to reach for my throat to assess the wound. Between one breath and the next, my fingers are coated in blood. My blood, and far too much of it. Warm liquid is spurting out of my neck with every beat of my heart. A river of it pouring from me.

Much, much too much.

ROXILANA!

My name is thunder wrenched from the heavens. It echoes inside my head and across the battlefield, surprise and anguish and terrible, awesome power wrapped into the sound.

I think…I think I should be afraid.

Even as the thought crosses my mind, my vision begins to darken.

HEAL YOURSELF, ROXILANA! Memnon bellows down in my head, fear lacing his words.

Magic—of course , I think sluggishly. I need my magic.

I reach for my power, but it’s as slippery as my blood, and fading just as swiftly as my vision…

ROXILANA! I’m coming! Hold fast and take what you need of my power!

I can feel the thick mass of Memnon’s magic pressing against my sternum, bits of it seeping into my bloodstream. I reach for it, even as my vision continues to darken and I list sideways on my horse.

Another arrow lodges into my back, then another. And another.

I grunt, then topple off my steed, landing hard on icy mud and the cooling remains of a dead Roman.

Didn’t I have wards in place protecting me? I think absently. A shiver wracks my body, tugging at all my injuries.

Cold. So cold. And the pain…the pain should be worse, I think. But I cannot see much, and though I hear the screams and the clash of blades, they come from far away, muffled as though through water.

I think I feel the brush of fur, the nudge of a nose.

Ferox?

I try to reach for him, but my limbs aren’t working right.

Roxi, stay with me. Memnon’s voice is no longer thunder. It’s painfully, terrifyingly human. Please, my love, heal yourself. I’m almost there…

But his voice is fading. The pain is fading. Everything is fading.

I know what this is; I can feel it already taking root in my bones.

Death.

It comes so swiftly I don’t have time to panic or plead.

Love you, Memnon…forever and always…

A warm and inviting darkness closes in and snatches me away.