“If he discovers you missing, he’ll hurt your sister, regardless,” Avilyard said in a gentle voice, as if he were a father speaking with his own daughter. “I’ll not send you back, but you cannot stay here. A battlefield is no place for a child. I’ll find someone to escort you to Kellesar. Once the battle is over, we’ll figure out what to do.”

If Nevandia fell, the girl would be returned to Rayghast and her betrothed. They’d punish her in some brutish way, and the servant woman would be executed for treason.

The princess’ face brightened through her tears. “Thank you!” She wrapped her arms around Avilyard’s middle, startling the commander.

He hesitantly patted her on the back, then Avilyard called Nyle over. “Take two horses. Come back as soon as they’re safe behind Kellesar walls. We may already be engaged in battle by then.”

Nyle nodded and shoved his helm onto his head.

“Tell Prince Ruenen . . . I hope he wins,” Eriu said. Her young face grew resolute.

Once Nyle ushered Princess Eriu and her servant away, Avilyard turned to his other commanders.

“We can use the princess as leverage over Varana,” Gasparian said.

“No harm will come to that child,” Avilyard ordered severely, “but we should send a messenger with a white flag over to Varana’s lines, let them know we have her, and tell them about the magic. I doubt they’re aware.”

“Brave of them all, don’t you think?” asked Fillito. “Queen Rhia, the little princess, and the servant? To defy Rayghast on the eve of battle . . . takes balls.”

Marai smirked to herself, then wove through the city of tents to the outskirts of the encampment, far from the others. There, she parted the canvas flap to enter the ratty tent that housed the fae.

Inside, they were already awake and dressed, faces etched with fear. Thora clung to Raife’s hand, squeezing so hard his fingers turned purple.

All Marai could do was stare at them. Stare and stare, and wonder why in the Unholy Underworld she’d brought them to this place; ushered them to their likely deaths. How could she ever forgive herself if one of them perished?

Unworthy. Ruined. Tainted, that nasty voice echoed in her ears. The voice she’d managed to turn off for days.

Marai combatted the voice with her own. Don’t let them see your fear. You’re the Lady Butcher. You’re Meallán’s heir. You’re their leader, and you do what you must.

It took all of her inner fortitude she had to speak.

“We’re here to fight for all magical folk.“ Her throat burned. A quiver began in her left leg. “Our future. Nevandia can be our home. We can find peace here, shape a future for so many others.”

“Home will wait for every one of us,” said Kadiatu softly, taking Marai’s hand. “It will wait.”

Marai let out a shuddering breath as Kadiatu’s fingers tightened around hers. “Let’s win this battle. Let’s claim victory for ourselves and for our parents. For those we lost, who sacrificed themselves so we could live. Let’s bring honor to the fae.”

The bloodstone ring thrummed, sending a shiver of magic through her. Meallán’s magic, beckoning, beseeching, a shade darker than Marai’s own.

I will, Marai told the ring. We shall have our revenge against Tacorn and Rayghast.

The jewel quieted. It purred like a curled-up cat against Marai’s finger. She hadn’t used its magic before, but it was now time to find out what kind of power was in a faerie queen’s curse.

For too long Marai had hid in the shadows. Now was the time to step into the light.

“For the fae,” Raife said, putting his fist to his heart. He let go of Thora’s hand to do so.

Leif and Aresti followed with vigor, echoing his words. They’d become warriors; their parents would be proud. One by one, Keshel, Thora, and Kadiatu all did the same.

Marai was last. She whispered the words, remembering her father’s eyes. Her mother’s face. The moment she was ripped away from them and thrust into this life of hardship. Alone, except for the people in this tent. Love washed over Marai with staggering strength. Her knees wobbled, barely keeping her standing. Her family.

“The last march of the fae,” Leif said with a grin.

They all watched her again. Their leader. Their unintended queen.

Marai dismissed them with a nod, throat too constricted to make a sound. Leif and Aresti slammed their helmets on their heads, clattering outside in their golden Nevandian armor. Thora adjusted the pack strapped across her body, took a sputtering breath, grabbed Kadiatu’s hand, and walked after them.

Before Marai could follow, Keshel took her arm and pulled her close. His fingers didn’t hold; they were light upon her forearm. His warm breath caressed the shell of her ear as he bent down. “Don’t use it, Marai. No matter what happens, do not touch the dark magic.”

She glanced up into his eyes, shimmering with emotions he always kept hidden behind a veil of detachment. How Keshel had not broken . . . how he’d managed to save the lives of so many, how he always stayed calm in the face of so much fear . . .

“Of course,” Marai lied. “I’d never let that happen.”

They exited the tent together. The others were speaking with the fully-armed weres and Nosficio. He’d discarded his velvet cape in favor of black gambeson and a full hood over his head. His whole body was covered, except for his red eyes and fanged mouth, which quirked at the sight of Marai.

“Envious of my hood, Butcher?” he asked with amusement. “It doesn’t fall down when I fight.”

Marai snorted. “If only I’d come to you for fashion advice.”

Nosficio grinned, revealing all his teeth. The sky was overcast. There’d be limited direct sunlight, but the vampire still risked his life twice over by being out on a battlefield with no shelter.

He must truly believe in this, she thought.

No, you are the one he believes in. It wasn’t Nevandia. Nosficio hated Rayghast, but he was there because of her. 

Horns sounded. A call to arms. Soldiers rushed about, abandoning their breakfasts and watery coffees by the campfires. They mounted horses, grabbed weapons, adjusted their armor. The poorer Nevandians had no coverage in their thin and ragged clothing. They held pitchforks and scythes with freezing fingers in the early spring morning. But they marched towards battle with honor and courage, bracing themselves for the inevitable.

Tarik held out his massive hand to Marai. “It’s an honor to fight with you.”

Marai gave the werewolf a rare smile. “The honor is mine, Master Wolf.”

Tarik grinned, then turned to bellow orders to his men.

Thora latched on to Raife’s arm, yanking him back towards her. In a breath, Thora pulled his face to hers. Marai pretended not to watch. The desperation in their kiss, the love and longing, regret and unspoken promises seized Marai. Raife and Thora clung to each other like two merging souls.

“I’ve loved no one but you,” Raife whispered into her pointed ear. “My whole life, I’ve loved you.”

Thora choked back a sob; tears glistened on her bronze cheeks. “I’m sorry. We should have . . . I shouldn’t have said no. Because now all I want, Raife, is the life we could have had.”

Raife held her to his chest. “We will have that life. We’ll have years and years ahead of us.”

Thora kissed his palms as Raife went to cup her cheeks. She uttered “I love you,” those three small words over and over again like a prayer.

Marai finally turned away, eyes burning, throat tightening. If they both made it out alive, it would be a miracle from Lirr.

Side by side, fae, werewolf, and vampire marched onwards.

Marai searched for Ruenen. She couldn’t spot him in the mist and masses.