But there were at least two thousand Tacorn soldiers still on the field. Another thousand in reserve. If Marai stopped now, Tacorn would regroup. Varana might return. Nevandia had nothing left to defend itself.

Her magic shuddered out. Lightning snapped and crackled as it retreated within her. She collapsed to all fours in the grass, gasping for breath as if she’d run a hundred leagues.

In the settling dust and aftermath of her magic, the world quieted.

She raised her head. Through the smoldering ash across the moor, Tacorn’s reserves were already taking advantage of the reprieve. They charged forward, passing their retreating comrades. As Marai predicted, Tacorn’s lines were reforming. They’d perform one final charge and win it all. Then they’d storm the walls of Kellesar, and spare no innocent Nevandian.

Marai forced herself to her feet. There was no one coming to save them. It was all up to her, but she had nothing left to give.

Marai . . . Marai.

A beckoning finger of smoke flickered across her brain. Tendrils of black gossamer flames crept up through the earth like weeds licking at her feet. Marai had never before seen that kind of magic.

Use me, the smoke said.

It was tempting. The magic was there, accessible all around her. She could save Ruenen and her people. She could save Nevandia. All she had to do was let dark magic in . . . then it could finish Tacorn and Rayghast forever.

Dip into the darkness, my darling, it purred, a lover’s breath in her ear.

Darkness had always been her candle. Its power didn’t frighten her.

Time to make a choice between your devils and your demons, love, and take the outstretched hand of darkness.

Its allure was strong. Enticing. Great, god-like power at her fingertips.

But then Marai thought of Ruenen, her family, and that intoxicating feeling curdled.

If Marai listened—if she tugged on that power—she’d become no better than Rayghast. She’d taint herself further, create more despicable, unnatural shadow creatures, and then she’d truly be unworthy. Black stains would spread across her body, marking her forever as undeserving and shameful. Marai would never be able to face those she loved ever again, nor herself.

Piss off. She mentally sent the darkness a rude gesture.

Marai gathered herself up, raised her arms, and tugged deep within. Weak strands of lightning sputtered from her fingers. Her well was bone dry, but she kept pulling from within herself. From her life force, Lirr’s seed of glowing energy. Keshel had warned that tapping into this seed would drain her of life entirely, but Marai would use it all if it meant the others would live.

I can buy Nevandia time.

She stumbled sideways. Her body contorted, as if she was shriveling away from the inside out.

Perhaps this was her purpose. The reason Lirr had stayed her hand years ago in that forest near Cleaving Tides. When Marai had once been so ready to end her own life, wondering why she was ever born, Lirr had stopped her. Since then, Marai often pondered why the goddess wanted her to live. Perhaps it was for this moment. Marai was supposed to give her life on this battlefield to ensure Nevandia’s victory. To put Ruenen on the throne so he could make Astye a better place.

“That’s enough, Marai,” someone shouted behind her. Their voice was muffled, as if she were hearing it through thick ice under water.

Someone tugged on her shoulders. She ignored those hands. She ignored the cries in her ears.

“Stop,” they yelled.

“Marai, look,” said another voice.

Her stinging, blurry eyes dared a glance to the right.

There, cresting over a craggy hill—eight hundred mounted riders in gleaming silver armor appeared. At the helm, a figure with billowing bright red hair thrust a sword towards the sky. Horns blared. Cheers resounded across the moor.

Grelta had come.

Black-armored soldiers scattered as Queen Nieve led the grand charge down the hill. Tacorn’s organized ranks dissolved and the battlefield erupted into chaos. Nevandian infantry men gathered up their remaining strength and charged forwards to join the fray again. Nieve and Greltan forces swept the Tacornian reserve infantry back across the road, out of Nevandian territory, then back further, towards far off Dul Tanen.

Tarik and his remaining weres let out a howl of victory as they rushed forward to help the Greltans.

It’s finished.

The last remaining embers of Marai’s magic fizzled and snuffed out. Her body wrung dry, arid as the Badlands, she felt the pressure of hands on her shoulder, trying to guide her.

Her body gave out. She plunged forward, crashing to the ground.

Darkness crept in from the corners of her vision. Numbness spread.

She managed to turn her head, one slight, painful movement to watch Nieve galloping onwards, overtaking Tacornian troops with aid from the remaining mounted Nevandian cavalry and infantry. Nieve was a force to behold. A true queen.

But one shadow stood tall amidst the ash and mist.

One shadow stalked towards its prey.

Opposite this shadow, stood a man in broken gold armor. One single beam of sunlight poked through the clouds. It blessed him, illuminating him in radiance. Lirr, herself, smiling down on him . . .

Ruenen. 

He was the ruin of Tacorn, of the Middle Kingdoms as they’d been. Ruenen would bring about meaningful change. Even though he was also Marai’s ruin, she’d happily given it all for him.

She watched as he faced down his enemy, his hunter, his demon, with unfathomable courage.

It would all end now, and there was nothing more Marai could do to help.

Chapter 34

Ruenen

The king was coming, but Ruenen didn’t care. Not when he’d watched the lightning disappear and Marai collapse twice across the nearly vacant field.

She used too much.

Ruenen’s feet ached to rush to her side, but he kept them frozen in place. Marai would never forgive him if he wasted this chance, if he didn’t finish this war now.

Although his heart splintered into frightened fragments, he stared down the King of Tacorn. Behind him, Grelta’s mounted forces corralled Tacornian soldiers into small groups. Many more of Rayghast’s men escaped over the hills. They’d remain a danger if they organized, but that was a fight for another day.

Avilyard and the one hundred Nevandian cavalry rode out to meet Nieve. They’d take Tacornian soldiers as prisoners. That was something Ruenen ordered—not every man need be slaughtered, show mercy whenever possible.

He’d be a better ruler than the twisted king in front of him.

“The boy who would be prince,” said Rayghast. He was merely feet away. Too far to reach by sword, but close enough for his raised voice to be heard, he’d clearly been battered by Kadiatu’s terrestrial assault. Rayghast was covered in scrapes and bruises, dirt and blood, and black stained flesh. He favored one of his legs slightly.