In one synchronized move, the three lords placed their hands to their heart and bowed. The deepest show of respect they’d ever offered Ruenen. His throat closed. He couldn’t swallow. His eyes spasmed, fighting back the sting.

“I expect things in good working order for when I return,” he managed to stammer out. “And please handle those land disputes . . . I don’t want to come back to all that.”

“We’ll also make plans for your coronation, Your Highness,” Holfast said with a weak smile.

Ruenen nearly laughed. That future was so dim, so improbable, it was a fool’s hope.

As servants strapped golden armor around his chest, arms, and legs, Ruenen stared at himself in his bedroom mirror. He’d never felt much like anybody. He tried so hard to hide. But the man standing before him in gleaming armor, green cape fanning out behind him, helmet crooked under his arm . . . this was who Ruenen was always meant to be. Even if he’d not been born the true Prince of Nevandia, this was his destiny, designed by Lirr. And for once, he felt proud. Exhausted, but proud.

If he was to die, it would be for something meaningful.

He couldn’t let this country down.

Midday arrived, and he and Mayestral sat on their horses outside the Kellesar gate, surrounded by soldiers, flags, and spears. Ruenen looked back at the city that had become his home. His responsibility.

I will make this country better, he vowed. I’ll stop the pain and suffering. I’ll empower those who have been mistreated. I will create a land of acceptance. 

He could feel them with him; ghosts wrapping cold, translucent arms around him. Monks Amsco and Nori. Master Chongan, the Mistress, Yuki, and the boys. Every soul who had ever helped him and lost their lives.

This was for them.

Tarik and his werewolves appeared through the gates on horseback, dozens of knives and axes strapped to their bodies, faces covered with elaborate warpaint. More intimidating in appearance than Tacorn soldiers, Ruenen pitied any man who had to face the brawny weres on the battlefield.

“Your Highness,” Tarik said in a cheerful voice, coming to Ruenen’s side. “It’s an honor to be included in this momentous occasion.”

Ruenen smiled. “The honor is mine. Nevandia is stronger with you at our side.”

Marai and the fae came into view. Keshel, Leif, Raife, and Aresti wore pieces of armor and chainmail, sitting erect upon their mounts, appearing the part of regal warriors. Thora, sitting in front of Raife, had a large pack stuffed to the brim slung over her shoulder. Medical supplies, Ruenen wagered. She wore a jacket and pants made of thickly padded beige gambeson. Kadiatu, clinging to Leif’s waist, wore the same in green. She carried nothing with her. Ruenen had never seen either female without a dress. They appeared as frightened and uncomfortable as they were the day they first entered Kellesar. Now, they were going off to war. A war they never had cause to fight in, if Marai and Ruenen hadn’t plucked them from their safety.

Marai, however, had no armor or padding. She wore her traditional Butcher blacks, Dimtoir and dagger strapped to her belt. Her horse trotted over to Ruenen’s side.

He leaned over. “You should be wearing armor.”

“I don’t want anything to get in my way.”

Ruenen scowled, grabbing hold of the reins of her horse. “You’ll be entirely too exposed and vulnerable, Marai. Please—”

“I’m the Lady Butcher, Your Highness. Let me do my job as I see fit.” Her voice was as crisp as the mist hanging in the air. Her legs nudged the sides of her horse, walking it back behind Ruenen where the fae and werewolves remained.

Avilyard and two flag-bearers took her place. “Ready, Your Highness?” he asked.

Ruenen had no choice. He must be ready. He slammed his helmet onto his head. It severely limited his vision, but he heard the sonorous call of a horn echoing off the craggy hills. Gripping the reins as tightly as he could through thick gloves, Ruenen galloped across the moor. Thundering hooves pounded the earth behind him.

The encampment was a massive city of tents and people and horses. Weapons of all kinds were in piles near a large boulder, guarded by soldiers. But despite the overwhelming size of the camp, Ruenen knew it wasn’t enough. Even with the mustered men, his army was only three thousand-strong. Across the gray, cloudy moor, flames flickered from large fires in the distance. The fog covered the view of the Tacornian troops encamped on the other side of the road across the valley. Three times Nevandia’s numbers, not counting the near one thousand Varanese.

Ruenen came across a group of adolescent boys hovering close together, sharing a loaf of bread by a campfire. They shot to their feet as Ruenen approached and bowed low.

“Your Highness,” they said in chorus. The boys were younger than Elmar and Nyle. Only one of them had shoes on.

“You boys bring honor to Nevandia,” Avilyard said roughly at Ruenen’s side.

“Where are your weapons?” asked Ruenen, noticing their empty belts.

“We don’t have any, Your Highness,” one replied, keeping his eyes low.

Ruenen looked to Avilyard.

“There aren’t enough to go around right now,” the commander said. “You boys stay in the back tomorrow at the beginning of the fight. Weapons will become available to you after a short while.”

When Nevandians died.

Ruenen put a hand on the bony shoulder of the nearest boy. “Fight hard tomorrow. Together, we’ll defeat Tacorn and bring peace to our lands.”

The boys nodded; their youthful, dirty faces brimming with nervous courage.

“All hail, Prince Ruenen,” one of them shouted.

Ruenen’s breath caught as the chant echoed throughout the camp.

Avilyard led Ruenen to his own tent. Ruenen brushed aside the canvas flap, revealing accommodations fit for a king. Fur rugs lined the ground and walls, along with small tapestries depicting the Nevandian coat of arms. A table and two chairs had been placed in the center. A cot with lavish pillows and blankets sat on the other side. Food and wine were readily available in the hands of servants stationed inside. It was far warmer and more comfortable than any of the other tents. Guilt sliced through Ruenen as he thought of those boys outside with their stale bread.

“Bring some of this outside to the men. We don’t need all of this food,” he said to Mayestral, who conveyed the order to a duo of servants.

“Our spies spotted Varanese flags across the moor,” said Commander Gasparian as the servants loaded up trays with half of the spread. “The armies have joined. A thousand more men. All the players in place.”

Thora and Kadiatu huddled near Raife, eyes wide. Their shaking fingers entwined. They looked so small in a room full of armor and weapons. Neither of them carried a blade. They didn’t examine the maps that highlighted the overwhelming odds of failure. Their brows furrowed in confusion at the language of war.

They shouldn’t be here, Ruenen thought savagely. It was wrong of him to uproot two gentle souls with hands that had never killed and simply wanted to heal and nurture. Thora and Kadiatu didn’t belong on that field, never mind the war tent.

Another commander shook his shaggy head. “With those numbers, Tacorn outnumbers us nearly four to one.”

Avilyard’s eyes raked over the maps. Miniature wooden flags indicated different units; green for Nevandia, black for Tacorn, and blue for Varana. They’d been positioned like pieces on a chess board. The number of black and blue flags on the other side of the road overwhelmed the green. White flags for Grelta sat off to the side of the map.

“Rayghast stationed Varana on the far left side, and assembled Tacorn’s cavalry and main infantry along the middle.” Avilyard pointed to the thicket of black flags. “This is where we should focus our strength.”

“But then you’re leaving the left and right flanks entirely open,” Ruenen said. He wasn’t used to strategy. War was something he never imagined taking part in, but he wasn’t blind. Varanese forces would shatter the left side of the Nevandian army, then come around behind and swallow Ruenen’s troops whole.

“We’re already spread too thin as it is,” said Avilyard, a hint of resignation in his eyes. “Our priority should be Rayghast. Get to him, and we win it all. Varanese forces will fall back if Rayghast is no longer in charge. They have no stake in this, other than their deal with Tacorn. Without Rayghast, the deal is off.”

“Put us on the left flank,” said a voice of cold steel.

Ruenen’s eyes bolted across the table. Blood rushed to his ears. Marai’s gaze pinned him in place.

“Marai,” Thora gasped, yanking on Marai’s arm to no avail.

The room was silent, other than a small whimper from a trembling Kadiatu. Keshel’s face was unreadable.

“That’s generous of you, Lady Marai, but seven faeries are no match for an army,” Avilyard said, looking from Marai to Kadiatu, who was hugging Keshel’s arm to her torso.