“We’ve brought their mounts,” Raife said. “We hope you can make use of them.”

The sentries’ eyes raked over their pointed ears, bloody clothes, Tacorn emblems on the horses’ coats. They didn’t lower their weapons; hesitation drawing their faces.

Several golden-clad commanders exited a nearby tent, and Marai recognized two of them from the Witenagemot meetings.

“Stand down,” one of the commanders said to the guards. The soldiers lowered their spears, but didn’t step aside to let Marai through. “They are who they say they are. The girl in black has the Nevandian pin.”

Marai glanced down. Sure enough, a gold and green brooch was pinned to her black cloak. She hadn’t noticed it before.

Always trying to protect me, Ruen.

“He said they’d come from dispatching Tacorn soldiers,” one of the guards said, leering at Keshel.

“You defeated the entire unit yourselves?” asked a commander Marai didn’t recognize.

Leif, back to his haughty self, replied, “Two units, actually. You should be thanking us. You’d be engaged in battle tomorrow if we hadn’t intercepted them.”

The commander’s eyes narrowed. “People have heard that Nevandia is harboring magical folk. A few weres came here searching for you.”

“Weres?” repeated Raife, blanching as if the commander had asked him to strip naked and perform a little dance. “You mean werewolves?”

“We’ll take the horses, but you lot have to take the weres with you. They’re in the way here.”

Marai understood his meaning. No magical folk would be welcome in their encampment.

“Where are they?” Marai asked the commander.

He pointed to a large boulder on the outskirts of the encampment. Six muscular figures paced back and forth, weapons in hand. Two shaggy horses stood next to a small wooden cart carrying sacks and boxes.

Marai and the fae approached. The werewolves, in their human forms, raised their weapons defensively. Marai noticed their hairy arms, low-set ears, and various scars across their faces and exposed skin; all distinguishing marks of a werewolf. Sturdy blades and axes were clutched in their hands.

“We aren’t leaving,” said the tallest and brawniest of the six. His skin was as dark as the coal in the back of his wagon; his head shaved on both sides. “You can keep trying to intimidate us all you want. We have just as much right as you to be here.”

“We heard you were looking for us,” Marai said.

The tallest werewolf, most likely the leader, squinted his eyes as he looked from Marai to Keshel, spotting his pointed ears. Keshel and the others regarded the werewolves with equal interest. They’d never seen them before.

“You’re the fae, then.”

“We are. How can we help you?”

The leader snorted. “Funny, ’cause we came to help you.”

The other weres lowered their weapons and nodded along. The leader held out his hand to Marai. “Name’s Tarik.”

Marai shook his scarred, calloused hand. A laborer’s hand. A warrior’s hand. “Marai.”

“We were coming through the Middle Kingdoms, trading our goods up from Ain.” There were several secluded pockets of werewolf communities across Astye. These ones, it seemed, were coal miners.  “We met up with another faerie on the road. He told us the rumors about the new prince and his faerie band.”

Keshel stepped closer, face alight with intrigue. “Another faerie? Is he still here?”

Marai’s mind whirled. Maybe it’s him . . . the part-fae from Cleaving Tides.

“Nah, he left when we arrived. Said he didn’t want to go into the camp. I think he got spooked by all the soldiers,” said Tarik with a shrug.

“People up and down the road are talking about you all now, saying the prince is allowing magical folk to live here,” said another werewolf, with dyed red hair sheared close to his scalp. A tiny sword earring dangled from his earlobe. Marai caught Aresti regarding it with envy. “We thought we’d lend him our skills.”

“That’s quite generous of you,” Raife said, “but why would you risk your life here when you live in the South?”

“We’re tired of how poorly we’re treated,” Tarik replied. “Tired of being denied work or basic rights ’cause we turn into wolves once a month. So what? Doesn’t make us any less feeling or trustworthy.”

Leif muttered, “Damn right.”

“Is it true?” the shortest werewolf asked, with eyes as wide and blue as the ocean on a clear day. He had long hair and a bushy beard. “Is the prince really so . . . unusual?”

Marai smiled. “He is. I know Prince Ruenen would be happy to meet you all.”

There it was again—hope. Hope in the faces of all six werewolves, and such a powerful thing it was, too.

“Well, then let’s go,” Tarik said. “We’re not doing anything useful around here. Those bastards won’t let us set foot inside the camp.”

“Progress is slow,” Keshel said dryly to Tarik as the weres climbed into their wagon.

Tarik sat upon the saddle of the shaggy horse with a smile. “But at least it’s something.”

Back on her own horse, Marai’s body drooped as the fae and werewolves made haste towards Kellesar. The effects of using so much magic the past few days began to take its toll. Her mind dragged, body ached, and she struggled to keep her eyes open in the saddle.

Finally, at daybreak, Kellesar rose from the valley. A wan sunrise illuminated its white stone, painting the city in a golden hue.

A strange feeling brewed inside Marai as her horse galloped steadily towards the gate, the werewolf wagon clattering behind her. She was happy to see the city. She was excited to bring the werewolves in to meet Ruenen.

Because change was coming.

Change was here.

Chapter 22

Ruenen

An immense battle brewed like bubbling lava beneath the earth, waiting to burst from the crater of a volcano.

Ruenen’s constant headache felt much the same.

Events escalated once the fae returned from their mission in Gloaw Crana. Days went by in a blur. Avilyard and his commanders spent hours analyzing maps and strategy. The Witan chattered for hours in the hallways after meetings, seemingly afraid of wasting a single moment of planning in order to rest. Weapons in the armory were sharpened. Blacksmiths hammered away, forging new blades. A drum of war, Ruenen heard the steady, rhythmic beat of mallets on steel every time he went outside.

“Rayghast is furious,” Avilyard explained to Ruenen and the Witan. “His attacks are more consistent and aggressive, retaliating after the loss of those two elite units in Gloaw Crana. There’s now a massive congregation of Tacornian soldiers encamping opposite our troops on the moor.”

“There’ve been two skirmishes in the past three days,” said another commander, whose name Ruenen couldn’t remember. His arm was in a sling and there was a cut across his eyebrow. He’d been involved in both skirmishes. “We’ve lost around seventy men and four of our top battlefield commanders, not to mention civilians.”