Like a bolt of lightning, her power struck the Oremian prince, and he cried out, red running from his nose. Panting, he met his tormentor’s gaze. ‘Just end it,’ he hissed.

  ‘End it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he spluttered, his voice thick with desperation.

  ‘Have you had enough?’ Ines asked, her voice sickly sweet.

  Casimir dribbled blood.

  ‘Then share it with me,’ Ines leaned in, so her words tickled Casimir’s ear. ‘Your magic. You’ve done it before, you can do it again.’

  ‘I’m done doing things for you.’

  Ines laughed softly. ‘Now, we both know that’s not true.’

  Ines was laughing now, her eyes manic, drinking in the sight of Bleak. ‘Did you enjoy that one?’ she said madly. ‘I used to have him cleaned up and brought to my chambers, too.’

  What little magic Bleak had left flared furiously. She could feel Casimir shaking beside her. She couldn’t fathom what had been done to him. What had been done to so many of her kind.

  Her vision went black. That remaining ember of her power shot down through her entire being, and she honed the kernel of darkness that lived within her. The kernel that had wrought death upon the realm before. It burst outwards.

  Ines staggered, and her invisible hold on them weakened. ‘It’ll take more than that …’

  Ines sat straight-backed at a dressing table, with Casimir standing behind her. In the mirror, she studied him. He was thin and gaunt, and his hands trembled as he tied a long, flowing silk scarf around her bald head.

  ‘Another,’ she commanded.

  He took another piece of fabric from the basket by her feet and layered it atop the other. He tied it slowly and carefully. Ines watched him intensely as the silk threaded through his trembling fingers —

  ‘Pressure point,’ Bleak rasped, clutching Casimir’s arm. ‘She’s an Ashai – get to her pressure point.’

  ‘I don’t …’ Casimir croaked. ‘I don’t know where.’

  Ines steadied herself and lurched forward. Bleak’s magic wasn’t strong enough to deliver the blow they needed.

  ‘You do,’ she begged Casimir. ‘You know her better than any of us. The scarves! They’re there for a reason!’

  ‘Casimir!’ Ermias yelled. ‘You can do this. After all she’s put you through, you can end it here.’

  Casimir froze for a moment, staring at the woman who’d been his lover, his captor, his torturer for so long. Then, his eyes flew to the silk flowing from her head.

  He launched himself at her.

  ‘Casimir!’ Bleak cried out, but he was already on Ines, clawing at the long stretches of fabric as she struggled against him.

  The stone at Bleak’s chest pulsed as Casimir clamped his hands over Ines’ bare scalp. The false queen shrieked. Magic thrummed around them – Casimir’s magic. And Bleak watched on as lines began to form across Ines’ face.

  ‘Casimir!’ the false queen screamed. ‘Stop!’

  But Casimir didn’t stop. Ines’ skin grew thin and loose, almost translucent, with blue veins visible beneath.

  ‘There was never another collector,’ he said savagely. ‘You were one of a kind. But now … now you’ll be nothing.’

  ‘After everything I built for us …’ Ines’ voice was ragged.

  Casimir gaped at the foreign queen, disbelief etched on his pale face. ‘For us?’

  The glowing stone around Bleak’s neck was pulling her towards Casimir. Seeing this, Ermias grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her towards the other Oremian prince.

  ‘The stone needs to be whole,’ he muttered to her, not taking his eyes from Casimir.

  ‘We could have ruled together,’ Ines was saying.

  Ermias snatched Bleak’s stone, and seeing what he was doing, Casimir reached out, one hand still gripping Ines. He joined his stone with Bleak’s and Ermias’. They fused together with a hiss.

  Violet light exploded. It cracked Ines’ shield of power, swelling around the three Oremian heirs and the false queen. Ines opened her mouth to speak, but Bleak had heard enough from their tormentor.

  ‘You wanted this realm for yourself,’ Bleak spat. ‘You infected this land and its people with hate and darkness, a poisoned kingdom for a poisoned queen.’

  ‘Little Alarise,’ Ines wheezed, wrinkles now crowding her sagging face. ‘Grand words for a drunken pickpocket.’

  ‘That’s not me anymore.’

  ‘No? We are who we are.’

  ‘Some of us, perhaps.’

  Bleak’s power flickered, and suddenly, as though Casimir’s and Ermias’ magic was feeding her own, she felt it filling her veins, her lungs, her heart. It spread from her chest where the stone glowed between her fingertips. Magic coursed through her like an unending wave.

  Above them, the cracks in Ines’ shield fractured completely, her magic shattered.

  An arrow whistled through the air.

  And plunged into Ines’ heart.

  Swinton stood on the edge of where the shield had been, nocking another arrow to his bowstring. The false queen’s mouth opened in surprise as she looked down at her chest. Blood seeped into her white robes and slowly, red flowers appeared at her wound, blossoming one after the other, creeping down her body.

  ‘Oremere itself is fighting back,’ Casimir murmured. ‘You have abused its magic and its people for far too long. The very thing that once signified your strength is now your downfall.’

  ‘You can’t —’ But the words died on Ines’ lips as the blood blooms swallowed her, and she ruptured into a burst of red petals.

  Chapter 38

  The clang of steel fell quiet and the ashes of the previous realm danced in the wind. The panicked shouts of slaughter had ceased and a collective gasp sounded from the remaining enemy force. Swinton’s bow fell from his grip as Ines’ masked warriors collapsed. Their bodies suddenly disintegrating into the same blooms that carpeted the battlefield. The same blooms that had consumed their queen.

  Swinton’s pain faded as he stared in wonder. The soft, red petals fluttered into the sky, a slow, graceful farewell. They were swept up in the breeze; a hypnotic mass, carried off towards the coastline, out to the dark waters of the East Sea. Dazed, he spotted Henri, crumpled and lifeless in the dirt. Terror surging, he shoved past the three bewildered Oremian heirs and staggered to her side. Sahara, who was wounded herself, was already there, pulling her sister into her arms. Henri wasn’t moving.

  ‘Henri.’ Sahara’s voice broke. ‘Henri, please …’

  Swinton reached out, taking the warrior queen’s bloodied hand in his own. Her skin was cool and a thick, purple bruise wrapped around the column of her throat.

  ‘Lyse!’ someone was shouting. ‘Lyse, we need help!’ Bleak skidded across the dirt on her knees, her eyes wild with fear at the sight of Henri.

  Swinton stared. It couldn’t end like this. Not now. Not after everything they’d been through.

  The groundling leader, Lyse, darted to them, taking up position at Henri’s other side. She leaned down to check the Valian’s breathing. Muttering something to herself, Lyse pressed her palms to Henri’s chest and started a series of compressions.

  ‘Come on, Henri,’ Lyse murmured, pushing down on the warrior’s heart. A rib cracked, two.

  A whimper sounded from Sahara, her eyes glassy.

  Swinton fell back into the mud. This can’t be happening.

  Lyse kept her palms pulsing at Henri’s chest, but Swinton shook his head. It was no use. The warrior queen would never cross the living bridges again. Would never walk the forest floors or train in the circuits. The realm had lost —

  A ragged gasp sounded.

  Henri’s eyes flew open. Her body convulsed as she struggled to breathe.

  Lyse held Henri’s shoulder to the ground, reassuring her. ‘It’s alright, Majesty,’ she said. ‘Breathe, that’s it. Breathe.’

  The warrior queen’s eyes latched onto Lyse’s and slowly, her breathing steadied.

  It was only as her grip became bone-crunching that Swinton realised he was still holding her hand. He released it.

  ‘Sahara …’ Henri croaked, searching for her sister.

  ‘I’m right here,’ Sahara told her, twisting so her face came into view.

  Henri struggled to sit upright. ‘Athene,’ she wheezed. ‘Where’s Athene? What about Luka?’ She craned her neck to survey the battlefield, her grey eyes filled with worry.

  Swinton stumbled to his feet, the arrowhead still embedded in his thigh, and scanned the blood-soaked lands. His numb hand gripped the pommel of his sword tightly as he took in the sea of dead men and beasts before him. Bearded chins tipped to the grey sky, eyes glassy and blank. Discarded white masks lay trampled in the mud. Oremere was a graveyard now, a field of broken warriors.

  ‘There!’ He spotted the fiery red braid across the moors. Dash was carrying Luka’s body, her mother weeping silently beside them as they walked.

  Suddenly on her feet, Henri shouldered past Swinton and pushed through the others, staggering across the now eerily quiet battlefield. She lurched towards her kindred, who gave a sob and collapsed at the sight of her. Henri knelt next to her first-in-command as Dash lowered Luka into Athene’s trembling arms, as though she were a sleeping infant.

  Swinton watched as Henri’s arms folded over not only Athene, but Dash as well. The three of them bowed their heads together, clutching the dead girl, soft cries escaping them, and tears spilling down their faces.

  As night fell, a sturdy hand gripped Swinton’s shoulder.

  ‘Come, old friend,’ Fi said gently. ‘We need to get your wound tended to.’

  At the mention of it, his thigh seared. The shock of it all had masked the pain, but now his head spun and he swayed on his feet. Fi took most of his weight. He studied his friend. It felt like a lifetime since they’d seen each other. The Battalonian was covered in mud, his armour smeared red.

  ‘You’re not hurt?’ Swinton managed.

  ‘Nothing that won’t mend,’ Fi replied, leading Swinton away from Sahara and the others. ‘Come, we need to get that arrowhead out.’

  ‘What of my father?’

  Fi pointed. ‘Alive.’ Sir Caleb was atop his horse, guarding Prince Jaxon. Swinton’s heart swelled with relief as he saw that Princess Olena and Prince Nazuri were also beside him, unharmed. Slowly, Fi led them to a medic area being set up by the groundlings beneath the bright moonlight. Bewildered, Swinton exhaled shakily and turned back to face the city they’d won. Freyhill was theirs. Victory was theirs. He reached for the straps of his armour, its weight suddenly too heavy to bear. But his arms wouldn’t work. They were useless at his sides.

  ‘Here,’ Fi offered. Swinton said nothing as his friend’s fingers worked the straps of each plate. The moans of the wounded and dying seemed to fade away as the steel pieces clattered to the ground. When at last the breastplate was removed, Fi pushed him gently onto a stretcher beneath the stars and cut away material around the arrow wound. Swinton’s whole body was trembling, but he felt no fear. It was over. The war was won.

  Fi thrust a flask into his hands. ‘Drink.’

  The flask shook in his grip as he raised it to his parched mouth. Harsh liquor burned down his throat. He tipped his head back and drained the flask.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said, trying to sit up, spotting movement on the city walls.

  Someone was scaling one of the watchtowers.

  Fi squinted into the distance. ‘He’s one of ours.’

  It was Geraad, the rebel leader. He clambered to the top and reached for the flag waving in the breeze, its embroidered red flower mocking them. A loud rip sounded as he tore it from its ropes. From where he stood high up on the watchtower, he brought a torch to the fabric and set Ines’ sigil alight. A quiet cheer from their forces broke across the field. But Swinton didn’t have it in him to join them. The battlefield was still wet with blood and littered with the bodies of man, woman and beast. And – the lisloiks. Amidst the chaos, Swinton had forgotten about the lure of their song and the terror they’d wrought on the enemy. He looked around to find Bleak now standing at the edge of the moors. She was with a creature who could only have been the queen. She met Bleak’s solemn expression with an intense, glowing stare. Dark, tangled hair hung to her waist, and as she spoke, black talons toyed with the ends.

  ‘What are you —’ Fi stopped short as he followed Swinton’s line of sight. The Battalonian’s breath whistled between his teeth as he, too, took in the women before them: the Oremian heir and the lisloik queen.

  ‘I wonder what she promised,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’ Swinton’s breath caught in his throat as Fi poured cleansing alcohol over his open wound.

  ‘Everything in this realm has a cost, old friend,’ Fi replied, continuing to clean the injury. ‘Especially aid from a kind like theirs.’

  As though sensing their attention on her, Bleak turned towards them, her odd eyes finding them across the field of dead and dying. A cool gale rushed through their forces.

  ‘What in Rheyah’s name …’ Fi trailed off.

  The red flowers rooted to the earth blackened and wilted, their ashes suddenly swept up in the wind. A gentle hiss sounded, and the mist coiling at their feet began to recede. It was as though the gods were taking their first breath, inhaling the mist that had plagued the continents for so long. As the haze retreated, a rich, vibrant land beyond was revealed.

  A sudden roar echoed off the city walls. The great teerah panther, Rion, crossed the moors, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. He went to Bleak and stood at her side, the violet stone still glowing in her hand. Swinton was speechless, amazed at the strange bond between the two. Bleak reached up to stroke the beast.

  ‘You ready, Commander?’ Lyse appeared, passing a pair of medical forceps to Fi, her face grave with concern.

  Swinton tried to give her a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’ve had worse.’

  ‘I have no doubt,’ she replied, holding his shoulders down with surprising strength.

  ‘Dimi?’ Fi asked.

  ‘Ready,’ he said.

  White-hot pain lanced through him and he bucked beneath Lyse’s grip with a cry of agony. ‘Gods,’ he cursed, tasting blood in his mouth.

  But then, the pain was gone and his legs went warm.

  ‘— an artery, Captain, we can’t stop —’ Lyse’s voice sounded distant.

  Swinton felt suddenly tired. The exhaustion had finally caught up with him.

  ‘Dimi.’ Fi’s melodic voice was panicked. Why?

  ‘Dimi, stay awake. You have to stay awake.’

  ‘Brother,’ Swinton croaked. ‘The war is over. There is no need for fear now. Now we can finally rest.’

  ‘Dimitri, no.’

  Swinton’s teeth began to chatter. He was freezing. Fi’s face blurred before him, but his friend’s hand was warm on his. Somewhere in the distance, Dash was safe.

  ‘Stay awake, Dimi. You have to fight.’

  But Swinton shook his head weakly. ‘I’ve done enough fighting, brother.’ He was tired, so unbelievably tired.

  Fi’s eyes were wet as he held both of Swinton’s hands. Slowly, he nodded. ‘Then rest, old friend. You have done enough.’

  Commander Dimitri Swinton took a shallow breath of the crisp night air. He studied his brother’s face and the infinity of stars beyond it, before closing his eyes one last time.

  Chapter 39

  Bleak’s boots sank into the mud. The earth was scorched with death and the quiet that settled over the battlefield was empty. The world had ended.

  Rion was silent beside her, the great beast taking in all that lay before them.

  ‘Bleak,’ called a familiar voice. ‘Bleak?’ Lyse was running towards her.

  ‘What is it?’

  Lyse reached her and pointed. Outside one of the medic tents, a small crowd had gathered. Dash stood on the outskirts, as though he was too scared to approach, his face a mask of shock. People were staring at him.

  ‘What happened?’

  Lyse took a deep breath. ‘It’s Commander Swinton.’

  ‘What?’

  Lyse was already pulling her towards the tent. Bleak had only just seen him with Fi. It had been Swinton’s arrow that had pierced Ines’ heart.

  Upon her approach, people moved aside and a chill rushed across her skin. As the crowd parted, she saw him. Commander Dimitri Swinton was lying on his back on a stretcher, a white sheet pulled up to his dark beard. His eyes were closed, his face marred with bruising, and the lower half of the sheet … It was drenched in blood. Beside him, Fi was on his knees in the mud, his hands gripping Swinton’s lifeless fingers. Tears streaked his face.

  Bleak swallowed. ‘How?’ Her voice was raw.

  ‘Arrow wound,’ Sir Caleb said quietly, not taking his eyes from his son. The knight, still in a full suit of armour, was scarcely breathing.

  Dash, Bleak realised suddenly, turning on her heel and searching for the young man’s face in the crowd. He remained where he had stood before, on the outskirts of it all, peering in, his umber eyes glazed over in shock. Bleak felt a crack in her chest. First Luka, and now … this. Everything else faded away. Bleak started towards him, but another appeared at his side. Princess Olena. The young girl threaded her fingers through Dash’s, whispering something to him. He turned into her, burying his face in the crook of her neck and sobbing, holding on to her as though she was the only thing left tethering him to this world.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Bleak heard herself murmur, hot tears stinging her own eyes.

  Allehra appeared at her side and squeezed her shoulder. ‘War never is.’

  Bleak wandered the sodden fields of Oremere with Rion. She spoke with Havennesse soldiers and Oremian rebels, but her words came out thick and heavy, and she forgot them as soon as they’d left her mouth. Members from all allied units were gathering the personal items and weapons of the dead. Swords, shields and helms of the fallen were stacked in great piles at the centre of the battlefield, with a separate pile for broken items to be melted down in the Freyhill forge. At the heart of the operation was the rebel, Daleren, his eyes shining with steely determination that drove the cold, practical logistics of the aftermath of war. Mass graves were already being dug on the outskirts of the moors and the dead were being lined up in rows.

 

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