Page 171 of Winds of Ruin
A beat of silence stretched between us before Fen cleared his throat. “My Queen, I think you and the King should stay out of the fray—go inform the other rulers of the realm,” my brother said as he wrapped his arms around Asterie’s shoulders. “They must be ready in case we fail at the front lines.”
“I agree,” I chimed in, tightening Mayra’s cinch to prepare for travel. Sybilla required garrot root to keep away the pain, which dimmed her Reverist abilities. Krait’s Shadows had waned and been gifted to Lark through the years—he could be mortal any minute. With their magic suppressed, they would be liabilities.
Sybilla cocked a hip, clearly unimpressed with the idea of not fighting at the side of her friends. “We will alert the other rulers,” she said—conveniently leaving out any agreement about staying away from battle.
Krait began barking orders at a groom to ready his horse, and I sighed.
“Climb on up,” I instructed Fenris and Asterie. “Mayra can carry three a short distance.”
My body found a numb rhythm in the mundane preparation to fly. My Griffith shrieked, stomping her feet as horses passed, and I settled her by scratching between the coarse feathers of her neck.
The Wind refused to guide me.
Defeated and aimless, I gave Asterie a knee to boost her up onto my mount.
My heart tugged at me to follow Emmerick, to fly to the volcanic shores. Having Fen and Asterie with me would curb that impulse to chase such unknown danger.
Hundreds of soldiers lined the border outside of Kruthin—mortals and Source-wielders alike. A few dozen flaming Warhorses from the Plateau had just arrived.
Rolling hills of brown grass lay before us, and fog kissed the ground.Shit visibility for a battle.
I hoped our forces would be enough; this time we were not sitting ducks as we’d been in Sahlmsara and Sahlmkar. The Corridors had assembled quickly to give us a fighting chance.
The heart of two small towns, Kruthin and Kullworth, braced vulnerably just miles behind us. They’d evacuated, though many refused to leave. Both towns had been slums after the Great Wars. They prospered now with the return of Soil magic to charm the crops. But the people on this side of the North Corridor were still skeptical of the very magic that’d saved them, and they would rather hunker down with pitchforks than be told to leave everything they worked for behind.
Wyeth had set up a makeshift infirmary on the far side of Kruthin’s boundary. It would not be easy to relocate if the Moirai made it past our troops—but it was close enough to move fallen soldiers and treat them.
Cassidee’s Griffith, Paren, screeched before landing in front of me. Cass wore leathers that were soaked through from the cloudy conditions, and her mousy brown hair lay matted on her shoulders from the wind.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
Cass sucked air in through her teeth. “There’s little left of Algarnd. We spotted hundreds of ships departing, packed with those escaping to the sea. Hundreds of civilians fled on foot to the south—they seem to be the only other survivors.”
“Are we still positioned at the ready here?”
Cass nodded. “It’s hard to see through the fog, so we’ll keep assessing their direction. Right now, they’re coming straight for us.” She checked her quiver, mouthing numbers as she counted arrows. “I’ll take the flyers to kill as many as we can before they cross the river a mile west of here. We’ll try our best to slow them down. Are you riding with me?”
“No, I’ll be fighting from the ground. I’ve never been a good mark with a bow,” I answered.
She nodded her agreement, meeting my gaze with resolve as Paren lifted off. On the wind, I heard, “Stay alive, Red!” Then she shouted orders at the other flyers to get into formation.
A lump grew in my throat.
I’d been here before.
A city in ruins.
Moirai approaching.
Separated from the man I loved.
The day Ryn left for Sahlmkar—to prepare for Krait and Sybilla’s arrival—had been the only time I’d almost told him I’d loved him.
He’d still been tender from the beating that Krait had dealt him in a fit of rage over withheld truths. Despite my attempts, Ryn refused to let me take him to the healer that night. For the first time, I’d realized how broken he’d always been—how much guilt he’d carried for centuries over his sister’s death.
Ryn’s father had tortured him into betraying the information of Freya’s secret elopement with Krait. The Phynnic King had deemed her actions treason and ordered his own daughter killed.
Ryn had unraveled all of this to me that night before he left. When he departed, he’d told me, “When I get back, I’m through with pretending we’re not meant for each other.”
