Chapter 35
The storm clouds bubble and rage along the edge of the fae-enchanted border as if they’re waiting. As if they’re impatient, like me. I’ve brooded all winter, locked up in this frozen cage. Now, I’m ready to fight. I’m ready to kill the Fox King.
Nervous villagers watch as the sun rises steadily overhead. It pauses at the zenith, as if holding its breath for the descent. When it hovers over the tip of the western peak, the tension finally breaks. Wordless, we all move toward our stations.
From atop the battlements, I can see everything. The open field stretches between Gwyllion’s stone walls and the shadowed forest at the mountain’s base. Somewhere beyond that veil, the Fox Army gathers.
My stomach twists with a mixture of fear and anxiety.
So many people are about to die. And why has it come to this?
Because my father cares nothing for human lives, that’s why.
He cares only about his own motives and ambitions.
Now we all stand here on the edge of battle, waiting to see who will live and who will die. Cold rage laces through my veins.
A breeze blows my scarlet cloak behind me. It’s foolhardy to wear bright red in battle. It makes me an easy target, but that’s the point.
I want him to see me.
I want my father to watch as I use light power to rain death upon his men. I want him to recognize his own daughter as the one who burns brighter than he ever could. My hands grip the stone wall in anticipation.
Several yards away from me, the Dead Queen waits.
She faces the horizon, veil rippling in the wind, her presence as cold and unmoving as the mountains.
Below her, the castle gates stand sealed, and Gwyllion’s fighters line up along the castle walls, waiting to hold back the Fox Army for as long as they can.
The Dead Queen’s Wolves are peppered throughout the mix, a few well-trained warriors among the farmers and townsfolk.
Somewhere down there, Hunter and Tristan wait to fight alongside them.
My throat tightens. I try to spot Hunter’s golden hair or Tristan’s dark shadow among the others, but they’re lost in the crowd.
I tell myself they’re strong fighters. That they’ll make it through.
But the words sound desperate, even inside my head.
My only comfort is the fact that Hunter chose not to wear his copper armor, so he won’t be mistaken on the battlefield for a Fox Soldier.
Down below, all is silent. The only sounds are the wind and my own pulse hammering in my ears. Every soul waits, staring toward the distant tree line.
And then—they come.
The first glint of copper flashes between the trees like a spark.
Then another. Then hundreds. The Fox Army begins to march forward, their copper-plated armor glittering like beetle shells in the late afternoon sun.
They move in perfect formation, row upon row of faceless soldiers, their swords rising and falling with every synchronized step. The earth shudders beneath them.
Below my battlement wall, white-knuckled hands clench around makeshift weapons. Old men stand shoulder-to-shoulder with boys barely strong enough to lift a blade.
And then I hear something … Voices—no, screams—carried on the wind.
Corpse wolves.
They must be attacking the remains of the Fox Soldiers stationed in the trees at the base of the Spires.
My eyes dart to the Dead Queen, but she shows no reaction.
Her black veil blows behind her, blocking the late-afternoon sun where it falls toward the forest in the west. The silver moth on her chest glints in the sunlight.
On the battlefield below, the shimmering line of copper soldiers crests the final rise like a wave about to break.
And then it does.
The field explodes into motion. Shouts, war horns, and the thunder of a thousand boots echo as the Fox Army surges forward.
Their front ranks break into a run, shields raised, arrows whistling ahead of them.
The villagers brace behind overturned wagons and hastily built barricades.
Just before the Fox Soldiers reach the Annwyn fighters, smoke and shadows swirl outward, blinding the Fox Army.
It’s Tristan’s power. I know it is. The shadows curl low and hungry, swallowing copper whole. Relief flickers through me, but it fades just as quickly.
The darkness doesn’t hold them all back.
A group of soldiers push through the wall of shadows, emerging into the sunlight, squinting.
The villagers attack, using pitchforks and makeshift shields to push them back, but the soldiers recover quickly.
Swords flash; screams split the air. The scent of blood rises almost instantly, sharp and metallic.
My hands tremble against the stone wall. I press them flat until my knuckles whiten.
Hold. Just hold.
If I break focus now, I’ll ruin the element of surprise. My power builds and roils inside of me in anticipation. My eyes flicker to the Dead Queen a few yards away on the battlement wall. She stands emotionless as her people are slaughtered below. Her veil catches lazily in the breeze.
Below, wooden shields splinter beneath the force of bronze blades.
One of Gwyllion’s fighters drives her makeshift spear through the gap in a Fox Soldier’s armor, only to be struck down by another before she can pull it free.
An old man swings a scythe too wide and loses his grip; it clatters to the dirt.
The air fills with the clash of swords and the thud of bodies hitting the ground.
It’s all motion and noise in a blur of mud, copper, and blood.
The Fox Soldiers advance step by step, driving the villagers backward toward the barricades.
Arrows hiss through the air. A woman with a broken pitchfork throws herself at a soldier twice her size and takes him down.
Black-clad Wolves dart in and out of the chaos, blades flashing like silver lightning, but even they’re being pushed back.
Gwyllion villagers fight desperately. The sight claws at something inside me, hope and horror tangle together. I’m proud to be standing alongside them, and terrified that this is the end for Gwyllion.
My eyes search frantically for a copper banner or a white horse among the masses.
I spot Father and curse. He’s at the rear of the army now, where he can watch from afar as his Fox Soldiers murder innocent men, women, and children.
Rage floods through me, burning away the fear, leaving only fire.
I reach for my power, feeling it build inside me like a storm about to break.
“Wait.”
It’s the first word the Dead Queen has said since the battle began.
“But I see him!”
The Dead Queen doesn’t look at me. “Wait.”
I scramble to grab control of my power, to smother it back down. My heart pounds in my throat. What are we doing up here, standing around while our people are slaughtered?
Down below, another wave of pitch-black shadows erupts from the chaos.
Screams follow. As the shadows move, several copper soldiers lie crumpled on the ground.
Tristan uses his power to kill only if it’s absolutely necessary for survival.
Worry prickles my skin. We’re losing this battle faster than I’d anticipated.
I turn to the Dead Queen, ready to argue, but she’s staring at the sky, her black-gloved arms outstretched.
“What are—” But I don’t finish my thought.
A low hum builds from behind the castle, from the north.
It grows louder as I turn to squint toward the trees, only to find them moving.
A large, dark mass emerges from the old forest, twisting and turning like the wind.
My breath catches in my throat. For a moment I think it’s smoke.
It isn’t until the mass crests over the castle that I realize what it is.
Insects. Millions of them. All newly thawed from their winter graves and burrows beneath the once-frozen ground.
They’ve been summoned somehow by the dark powers of the Dead Queen.
Their wings thrum the air like billions of instrument strings.
The sound is maddening, an undead symphony that claws at my skull. I flinch, covering my ears.
The swarm is so dense it blocks out the sun.
The air turns thick, vibrating with the whir of wings.
Dread surges through my chest. I turn to cover my head as they rush past us like a storm aimed for the battle below—from enormous cicadas and grasshoppers to the tiniest gnats and nymphs.
And, of course, moths. Thousands of them.
My skin crawls as they brush against my hair and cloak, and my stomach twists in revulsion. But the Dead Queen hasn’t moved. She hasn’t even flinched. Her veil streams in the wind as her insects swarm past her.
I duck behind the barricade wall as they fly by, blackening the sky as thoroughly as twilight. Screams echo below. I scramble to peer through the cracks in the battlement wall. Dead insects swarm and dive at the copper-clad Fox Soldiers.
Only the Fox Soldiers.
I can feel the Dead Queen’s power weaving through the swarm, directing it like a conductor guiding an orchestra. It’s terrifying. But it’s also magnificent.
The people of Gwyllion watch with a mixture of horror and awe as insects crawl across copper armor, looking for gaps to sting and bite through.
They fly into the soldiers’ mouths as they scream, causing them to choke.
They burrow into flesh, eating the Fox Soldiers from the inside out.
The air hums with the furious beating of millions of wings.
Beetles attack, knocking grown men to the ground. Wasps sting any visible skin. Moths, delicate as lace, cling to eyes and mouths—blinding and suffocating. Horses scream and rear, throwing their riders. Soldiers toss their infested armor aside as they claw at their skin.
It’s carnage. I should look away, but I can’t. Every scream below is one less threat to Hunter. One less blade aimed at Tristan. The thought steadies me, even as my hands shake.
It is beautiful, in a terrible way.
I glance at the Dead Queen. Her veiled head is tilted slightly, as though listening to music.
She looks almost serene, as if the massacre below is a hymn only she can hear.
For the first time, I begin to truly understand what kind of creature she is.
The Dead Queen is darkness made flesh, yes.
But she is also so consumed by a single-minded purpose, there is no room for anything else: Revenge.
And I am more like her than I ever dared to admit.
Gradually, the swarm drops to the ground, one by one. Their corpses litter the battlefield. Alongside them, hundreds of dead Fox Soldiers lie. Some of their faces are so swollen from stings, they hardly look human.
Cheers rise up from below. Annwyn fighters hug each other and sob in relief, but I know it can’t be over. I scan the distance for the flash of a white horse and a copper banner. I find Father, waiting.
“Why is he just standing there?” My words sound weak, as if I already know the answer.
Behind him, a second line of copper emerges from between the trees. More Fox Soldiers. At least twice as many as before. They rush toward the castle.
I turn to look at the Dead Queen. “That was just the beginning.”
From behind her veil, she nods. “Now.”
As if on cue, the wind picks up. It howls as the storm finally breaks through the enchantment along the mountain peaks in the distance. There isn’t much time before it reaches the battlefield.
My auburn hair lifts from my shoulders, tugged by the wind, as I reach for my light.
It pools like a torch in my outstretched hand.
I close my eyes and feel the golden power as it surges within me.
It claws to be released, fierce and wild.
I don’t force it. I don’t make demands. I simply embrace it.
My power knows my heart, and it senses my intentions.
Scattered all along the crumbling battlement wall, villagers take notice. They point to me, and beat their weapons against the stone, the rhythm rising like war drums. It creates a cacophony loud enough to rattle my bones. Loud enough for the fighters below to hear.
They were all waiting for this.
Below us, Gwyllion fighters retreat to take cover behind shields and overturned wagons.
When the new wave of Fox Soldiers surge onto the battlefield, I release my light, holding nothing back.
The power tears free in a searing rush, so blinding it momentarily burns my vision.
The brilliant glow reflects off their copper and bronze armor, amplifying and redirecting the light back into their eyes a hundredfold.
Blinded, the Fox Soldiers fumble. Their shouts turn to screams as they clutch at their eyes.
They stumble into one another, clatter to the ground, and trample each other in suffocating piles.
The Gwyllion fighters hold steady in shaded huddles as I send every ounce of light into the faces of my father’s men.
Then, our own second line of defense bursts through the castle gates.
Their eyes are blackened with soot to absorb the light, and they’re wearing a variety of wide-brimmed hats and veils to shade their faces.
They sprint across the battlefield to impale the blinded Fox Soldiers on farm tools and pikes.
Blood spatters and the air fills with an iron tang so strong, I can smell it high above on the battlement walls.
Beyond the blinding light, I sense my father’s eyes on me. It’s why I wore the red cloak, after all. So he could watch as I killed his men.
My blood sings with the thrill of power. The Fox King tried to extinguish my gift. He belittled me, berated me, tried to replace me, and then locked me up in a dungeon to die.
But I survived. And now, I’m the reason his men are dying.
As my light power finally fades from my outstretched hands, I look beyond the battlefield.
Even from a mile away, I can sense my father’s fury.
The Dead Queen was right. He knew I was stronger than he was.
Even with all his armies and all of his rage, his power can’t compare to mine.
That’s why he never fights on the battlefield.
That’s why he never deigned to heal soldiers in the borderlands.
It’s not just that he doesn’t want to ... It’s that he can’t.
The realization makes me laugh. He may be the mighty Fox King, but he is weak. He’s just a little man who hides behind a big army and a family name.
The wind tears at my cloak as thunder crackles toward us. The encroaching clouds block the sunlight as they move across the sky. But there’s another boom, and it’s not thunder. The wall lurches beneath me. The ground trembles, and the world tilts.
Too late, I realize I’m falling.