CHAPTER 25

COMMANDER RYATT

At the top of Cliffhelm's defensive wall, I stand here at Fourth's outpost with all of my soldiers as we overlook the icy land of Fifth Kingdom below.

Far off to the right, I can barely spot the familiar shadows making up the serrated mountains of Deadwell. Those lone peaks in the distance seem just as bare and inhospitable as ever.

Except this time, they really are inhospitable. No one's left in Drollard Village. The rip's closed and everyone's been ripped away right along with it.

But straight ahead, the landscape is far bleaker.

Ribbons of darkness cut through the snowy ground like an open gash sliced through fair skin. The fae army travels forward like a spreading infection, ready to make the land bleed. Ready to make everyone bleed.

There are thousands of them. My pulse hasn't stopped racing since they first appeared on the horizon.

I don't know what's happened at Breakwater Port on Fifth's shore. But with these numbers, it seems that Judd and King Thold were successful in cutting them off and not allowing access to any Orean ships.

But that means that the entire fae army might be heading here, toward Fourth's border instead.

Considering how much distance they've already traveled, they're moving fast. But it makes sense. This is a complete invasion. We were expecting them to behave as Oreans would and secure their newly won kingdoms. But it's clear that's not what they're here for.

The last thing the fae are going to do is slow down and fortify, since that would only give us more time to fight back and defend our world. They don't care about holding Highbell and Ranhold. They want total control over all Orean land. They want to eradicate us.

And we're here to try to stop that from happening.

This outpost's sole purpose is to guard the border separating Fifth from Fourth. It's a bulky fortress built on a sheer cliff, with a protective wall of slanted stone that stands up against the wind. Thick guard towers are on either side of the outer wall, and there's a threat of sharp spikes spread along the base. Every inch is made from the black stone from our mines and always covered in a layer of frost.

Lu and Osrik stand on the wall on either side of me, all of us in our fighting leathers and full armor. Black metal encases our bodies, with strips of brown leather crossed over our chest plates and Fourth's sigil engraved right in the center.

To my right, Lu rests her hand on the hilt of her sword, fingers wrapped around the twisted wood. Even out here, Osrik has his arms bare, with only straps of leather wrapped around his biceps.

I don't know how the bastard doesn't get frostbite. At least I convinced him to wear a damn helmet this time. Although, I think that might actually be because Rissa glared at him when he started to refuse it. When he put it on, she nodded victoriously and then breezed back inside the barracks.

I think she's good for him.

Roland, one of the soldiers I brought with me, lets out a low whistle. "They look like a cursed river. Like sludge seeping this way."

My gaze follows the parade of marching fae. They do look like a curse flooding in. Thousands of them are filing toward us, and the twenty-two of us on this wall are all that stands between them and the border we're trying to defend.

Every one of us knows that our odds are impossible. That in all likelihood, this is a suicide mission.

For most of my adult life, I've wanted to be an army commander. Wanted the chance to step out of my brother's shoes and lead these soldiers by myself, as myself.

Now, I'm standing here doing just that, and this responsibility is the heaviest thing I'll ever have to carry. Because this isn't just a matter of life and death—with war, that's always the case.

What's at stake here is our entire world .

Which is why I've poured everything I'm capable of, everything I've learned, into planning the strategies of this single battle. Because in many ways, the fate of Orea will be decided right here . In the empty land straddling the line between Fourth and Fifth.

Despite the enormity of the task we face, these soldiers choose to stand here with me. Lu and Osrik choose to stand here with me, giving me their trust.

And that means more to me than they'll ever know.

With a pang, I think of my mother. Wishing I could've seen her and that I could go into this fight knowing that she's alright. Wishing I could know what the hell happened to Slade.

Fucking praying that I can make it out of this and find them both.

The chilled silence drags on as we watch the fae seep in, and I hear the scrape of my soldiers' boots against the stony ground. Hear the creak of their leathers cinch every time they shift. All while the icy air chaps our faces and spits frost at our feet.

Finally, one of the soldiers to my left, Gideon, breaks the grim silence. He has magic in his veins that makes him unbelievably quick despite how bulky he looks. His form often blurs when he moves. "You know what I hate the most about battles?" he says.

The soldier next to him, Varg, picks at his teeth with a hare bone. He's got a superstition about that damn sliver. If he's not picking at his teeth with it, he's got it clamped between his lips. He says he's never lost a battle while it was in his mouth. But that could have something to do with his own power, which is the fact that his own bones are unbreakable. So while he's well into his fifties, he's a damn formidable fighter.

"Gettin' your shitty face all scarred up?" Varg muses around his toothpick.

Gideon glowers at him. "Fuck off, I'm still prettier than you. And no, it's the food. Battle food is either the dry shit we carry in our fuckin' pockets all day or this charred shit we gotta catch ourselves that's barely got any fat on it and tastes like smoke. Just once, it would be nice to camp next to a fuckin' tavern."

A few of the soldiers chuckle.

"Or a saddle house!" someone else calls, and that earns even more laughs. Lu and I exchange an amused look.

"Well, what I hate about battles is having to dig our own shit hole," Varg jokes.

"Or having to piss in the snow and watch your dick shrink from the cold," another soldier says.

"Hate to break it to you, but your cock is always that small!"

More and more of them toss out replies and chuckles.

"Nah, the worst is this heavy ass armor."

"The helmets we gotta wear."

"Fucking marching. I hate marching."

"How 'bout you, Tyde? What do you hate the most about battles?"

Tyde has his gaze pinned straight ahead, the only soldier whose serious expression hasn't cracked.

For a long moment, he doesn't answer, until finally he says, "The wait."

His words and quiet tone sober everyone in an instant.

"You rush to make plans and defensive strategies. Rush to prep and pack and travel. Rush to arrive at the place where you're going to take your stand. But when all that rush is over, all that's left is the wait ," he says, still looking ahead at the enemy army. "The wait is like a night that won't end. You keep waiting for the sun to crest, but it doesn't. So you gotta keep watching the horizon, because you know it's coming, you know it's inevitable, but the anticipation chews up your nerves and spits them back out. You don't know when the wait is going to turn into something else. But it will. And that something else is really just death. It's death that we're waiting for. We just don't know if it's ours or theirs." He pauses. "That's why the wait is the worst."

Silence stumbles between everyone. A clumsy presence that elbows its way in. It grows bigger, taking up all the empty space and infiltrating our thoughts.

"Changed my mind," Varg finally says, breaking past it. "I think the worst part of the battle is the fucking conversation."

Laughter snaps out, ease and humor returning to the soldiers. I don't blame them one bit for embracing it. Both this joking distraction or Tyde's sobering words. Everyone faces battles differently. Everyone has their own way to cope.

If they didn't find that way to cope, none of them would still be standing here. Because the army that marches toward us is unfathomable. There are so many that they don't even seem real. Just some fae trickery to scare us away.

But they are real. And all we can do is stand here and watch death approach. Because Tyde is right. That's what marches toward us.

Above us, the clouds begin to cough out chunks of snow in fits of hacking thunder. Below us, the fae get closer.

"Tyde?" I call.

The serious soldier is still staring straight ahead, frost gathered at his blond lashes. He's ready to give me his report immediately. "Stone armor like river rocks. Swords seem to be made of some sort of stone too, maybe granite, though I wouldn't imagine they'll shatter as easily, so don't count on that."

His magic is sight. He can focus his teal-eyed view, the distance yanking in until he can see something as if it were right in front of him. A very useful power for spying or cataloging an incoming army.

"No weak point at the neck," he goes on. "They have mesh from helmet to throat, and they've got stone gauntlets on their forearms. Under the arms are open, but it will be difficult to make that strike unless they're lifting up their sword or shield. Their legs are the most vulnerable," Tyde says, head cocked as he considers. "Though not the knees—those are plated with stone. The flesh of the thigh is open, their gloves and boots are simple leather. Helmets protect their skull and ears, but eyes and mouths are open for archers."

Everyone takes in Tyde's assessment with rapt attention, cataloging everything he said. It could be a matter of life or death.

"Anything else?" I ask.

"Some are wearing different insignia badges, though I don't know what they depict, but they're only worn by a few of them."

"Could be rank," Lu offers.

I nod. "Could be."

When we see the front lines of the enemy start to round the bend of a shallow dune of snow, I feel everyone tense.

"They're passing the crevice now," I say, though they can all see it for themselves. My heart gets stuck in my fucking throat as I watch.

I've calculated this. I've run through the scenarios a thousand times. We need the first battalion of fae to cross that part of the land, just like they're doing right now. Then, I need them to shift slightly.

It's time to draw them slightly away from Cliffhelm.

I look down the line of the wall. The tension has heightened, and although everyone made the voluntary choice to be here, I wonder if a part of them wishes they could run.

I wouldn't blame them.

There is no room for error. Every single one of us knows that.

"I know we are facing an inconceivable mission," I say, taking in each grim face. "But victories can still be earned even when the odds are stacked against us. The truth is, we aren't here for ourselves. We're not even here solely for Fourth. We're here for Orea . Because this is our home. Our land. And we won't sit by and let the fae take it." Their heads nod, backs straightening. "So we will stand our ground until we can no longer stand."

Determination fills in the cracks of their rupturing edges, replacing it with the purpose for our perseverance.

"We stand our ground," Lu repeats, her tone firm.

They all say it back in response, a few of them slamming a fist against their armor-clad chests. "We stand our ground!"

"Archers, ready yourselves at Captain Osrik's order," I command, and thirteen of the soldiers nod, their bows already strapped to their backs along with their long-distance arrows.

Turning, I give Osrik a nod. "You got it?"

He gives me a menacing grin and cracks his knuckles as he glances over at the iron catapult built into the wall. He's the only bastard strong enough to man it by himself. "I got it. Fae will be flattened thinner than fucking flapjacks when I'm done with them."

I let out a dry laugh fueled more by nervousness than humor. Then I pat him on the shoulder. "Good luck, Captain."

He tips his head. "Commander." Then his eyes move to Lu. "Captain, give 'em hell."

"I don't give anything else," she says.

I look between them both, hoping this isn't the last time we're together. That we all make it out of this alive.

"Riders, with me," I announce, and then Lu and I start making our way down the slick steps, passing by the guard tower, with six soldiers accompanying us.

At the bottom of the wall, we pass the armory and head for the stables. Four timberwings are already saddled and ready, and we quickly mount—one rider and one archer per beast.

I situate myself on Kitt's saddle, and Tyde buckles himself behind me so we're back-to-back. As soon as everyone is ready, we leave the stables and launch into the sky. We take advantage of the low cloud coverage, quickly disappearing inside them, getting drenched in the icy mist.

We've traveled the distance of this flight four times during our practice runs, so despite not being able to see, I know exactly when to signal Kitt and the others to drop.

We tear through the frigid fog, and I spot the cluster of trees ahead. Not real trees. Nothing grows out here. These were forged with iron and spikes, built when Slade took the crown. They're meant to deter—or at the very least split apart—an enemy army from this narrow junction so that they're forced to veer straight for Cliffhelm's base.

But today, we want them veering here instead.

I'm the first to land in the middle of the iron forest, the trees ten feet tall, and big enough to disguise our presence. I wait for the others to land, and one by one, we track the army's progress.

"How long?" Varg asks from where he sits on the saddle, back-to-back with Gideon.

Tyde hesitates, probably judging the distance between us and how quickly they've moving. "Ten minutes."

Turning, I lock gazes with Finley where he sits on top of his timberwing, and Maston who's buckled to his back with an arrow in his hand and his red beard coated in frost.

From the roster of magicked soldiers in our army, I specifically handpicked these two for this mission. Finley's black hair is braided down his back. Maston's cheeks are bright red from the windchill. But both of them have the same determined look in their eyes.

Right now, these two unassuming-looking soldiers are the most important people in this entire kingdom. Probably in this entire fucking world.

Everything depends on them.

"Ready?"

"Just like the practice run, Commander," Maston says with a grin.

Finley rolls his shoulders back and looks at the others. "Yep. We'll be back in no time."

My chest feels like I've got every stone brick in Cliffhelm weighing on me, but I don't let it show as I give them the order. "Just like the practice run," I repeat with a nod. "Go."

They both give firm salutes. "For Orea," they say.

Then, Finley yanks at the reins, and the timberwing lifts them into the air. They disappear into the dense clouds as snow continues to flake down.

At Lu's back, Roland messes with the buckles around his waist. A bead of sweat drips off Gideon's temple. Varg flicks the hare bone between his teeth. Behind me, Tyde holds perfectly still.

I start to count the seconds.

Five minutes. If all goes the way it should, Finley and Maston should be able to land on the other side of the slope. Then they can make their way on foot, getting right where they need to be.

Hopefully, without being spotted.

Because if the fae see them, if they're shot down before they can get into position…

"Don't," Lu mutters on her timberwing beside me. I look over and meet her gaze. "They'll do it."

They have to.

If they can't, we don't have a fucking chance.