“But how is that possible?” Concern edges Nephele’s features. “And what did he do to you?”
Part of me wants to stop their conversation and tell Nephele that it’s possible because Vexx killed Alexus, their friend. How do they not realize that? Should I tell and risk upsetting them?
Nephele runs her hand over Colden’s ruined coat and tunic, tugging the fabric back enough to reveal a portion of a pink starburst blooming on the niveous skin of his torso.
Like the one on Alexus in the ravine.
Colden shrugs his bloody shoulder. “I have no godsdamn clue how it’s possible. As for what Neri did? Let’s just say that I’m not exactly deadly anymore, but if we can find a sword, that can change. Let’s search the Eastlanders.”
Nephele gives Colden a worried look. “He…he removed the curse? That’s what I saw him doing?”
Colden nods, raising his brows. “Thus the reason I need all the weapons we can find.”
With a new weight settled on her shoulders, Nephele hurries to her wagon while I go looking for Killian. I tuck Rhonin’s dagger into a leather loop at the waist of my trousers, my mind racing around too many things to sort.
The second general lies about ten feet from the horses, body half in the road. She’s sprawled in such an awful manner that she must be dead. Her short sword is still strapped to her side, so I take it, along with her ring of keys, and meet up with Nephele and a handful of Witch Walkers. Together, we start toward Colden.
He’s at the wagon closest to camp, on his knees next to the Eastlanders trapped beneath their horses. It isn’t lost on me that—when he breaks the warriors’ necks—none of the Witch Walkers flinch. They keep striding toward him, as though all of this is perfectly normal.
Colden snatches a hatchet and uses Killian’s keys to unlock the rear of the last wagon. Seven Witch Walkers climb out, uninjured and primed to fight for freedom, but they look haggard, tired as Nephele, and I wonder if any of them—my sister included—can even wield magick right now.
I suppose I’m going to find out because minutes later, we’re running into the chilly night, through Frostwater Wood—me, my sister, the Frost King, and strangers I’ve never met—heading for the eastern side of the camp.
My blood pumps harder and faster the closer we get, our speed increasing. The unknown looms ahead, but I smell the scent of mingled deaths. It makes my eyes water.
Warriors fight on the path, where the wounded waited for my healing. The torchlights that lit the area still burn, illuminating a couple dozen figures, lending an amber tint to the scene, a color that I will forever associate with Neri’s eyes and the Stone of Ghent inside the God Knife.
The clash in the near-distance looks like a painting—a war painting—but I can’t tell who the Eastlanders are fighting.
Until we break through the trees.
I stumble to a stop at the edge of the forest, heart hurtling into my throat, stealing my air. Colden and Nephele keep moving, straight into the bloodshed, but the weaponless Witch Walkers come to a standstill like me.
Colden slams his hatchet into a warrior’s neck and throws the man to the ground as though he is nothing. The body falls, landing amidst so many others, and Colden continues fighting.
I can’t begin to count the dead, the fetid aroma of fading life thick and too familiar. Eastlanders cover the snowy path, the white streak in the wood now marred with the red handprint of their deaths. Some of the wounded must’ve tried to fight.
Above, near the tops of the trees, dozens of silky, fibrous masses float, billowing in the wind. I’ve never seen anything like it, but I know what those masses are. I feel it on a bone-marrow level.
Souls. Lingering in this world.
Pulse thrumming, I take in the chaos on the path. Raging, the final wave of warriors closes in on Helena, Rhonin, Colden, Nephele, and—
Alexus.
A jolting flush of shock tingles through me, sweeping violently from my head to my toes. I cannot break my stare. Surely I’ve slipped into a dream, some distortion of reality.
I saw Alexus die. Saw the God Knife enter his chest—the scarred chest now bared to me.
He wears no tunic.
No chains.
No death wound.
Neri. Neri is free. I hadn’t been sure what might become of him if something happened to Alexus, but the fact that the northern god stood a mere step from me means that Alexus let him go—in what I’d believed to be death’s release.
At the ravine, a mark painted Alexus’s chest in an angry, starburst welt—a mark that’s still imprinted in his skin and looks like Colden’s.
A kiss left behind from a removal of power. Alexus’s mark had to be caused by Neri’s exit. And yet…
The welt had been there before Alexus died.
He freed Neri before Vexx stabbed him—when the earth rumbled.
I will come for you, he’d said in the moments before I lost consciousness. Trust me.
Gods. I still don’t know how it’s possible that Alexus Thibault is here, alive, but my blood sings for him.
Witch Walkers spread out along the roadside and chant a song of power. Finally, shaking off my shock, I charge into the fray.
It’s like being back in the village all over again, only this time, my sister and Helena, the Frost King and Witch Collector, and this new person named Rhonin, whom I might call friend, are with me.
I face off with my first attacker, a warrior I vaguely recall from the ravine. He wields a longer sword, making it hard for me to measure my strikes.
With every twist, stab, and slice, the dark sky, flaming torches, and Elikesh song sends me back to that night, memories rising in a dark tide. My anger and pain build into true rage as I’m forced to remember the moments when I watched my life burn to ash.
But I’m not alone. On the periphery of my vision, my sister wields a spear and Helena her swords, both stabbing, ducking, and lunging with nimble motions. Rhonin is a beast with a dagger, and Colden is a violent force all his own with that hatchet. He and Alexus work off one another, and even though Alexus fights with a wounded knee, their movements still play out in artful form.
The remaining Eastlanders are dwindling, fewer than a dozen left. There are no magick-cast arrows this time. No stolen fire magick to make this easy for them. Their prince is losing his power.
Even in the cold night, sweat slicks my skin as I fight. It’s a true battle, clashing swords while maneuvering around fallen bodies and blood-slicked snow.
And this Eastlander is strong. With every swing of his blade, he drives me across the path, forcing me to navigate the littered ground with backward steps, not knowing what lies behind me.
He meets my sword with a swift undercut. I stumble back a step, but then I spin, changing our direction. He pivots, and on the advance, raises his weapon.