Niamh Smith.
“Cannot breathe,” Billy mumbled from his hiding spot.
After we’d flown a safe distance from the castle, I shifted my cloak to allow Billy to emerge from its folds. He gasped for air, his blue eyes blinking rapidly as they adjusted to the light. He drew another sharp breath—not from near suffocation this time, but at the wondrous sight.
“Magnificent,” he mumbled underneath his breath.
The sun’s glow spilled across the horizon, bleeding into the bruise-colored clouds while the sea shimmered as if forged from molten quicksilver. Billy’s mouth hung agape in awe until Greyclaw began our descent toward the shores of Cambas.
In an instant, the serene seascape morphed from breathtaking beauty to a breath-snatching tempest. The unforgiving squalls of rain must have been the work of a grief-stricken Regina.
As we neared the sands, the blare of a trumpet pierced through the storm—a warning cry to the knights and soldiers that we were approaching.
Something whizzed over my shoulder—heavier than a raindrop. At first, I thought it was hail spitting from the skies. Then I realized it wasn’t falling from above, but shooting up from below.
“Take cover!” Fitzroy yelled, swooping and weaving Greyclaw to avoid the projectiles.
Billy tucked himself between our bodies—small and safe—while all I could do was cling to Fitzroy, eyes squeezed shut, hoping what I didn’t see couldn’t hurt me.
Inside the safety of my eyelids, I could taste the salt as we neared the shore—rain and arrows thrashing through the wind.
Feeling braver, I cracked open an eye and saw the black beach below.
Fitzroy guided Greyclaw toward the shoreline, where the wyvern slammed his talons into the sands and came to a sudden halt. With swords drawn, the men advanced cautiously onto the beach, many gasping at the sight of the enormous beast.
Fitzroy dismounted first, making his presence known, pausing the onslaught of arrows.
Once it was safer, he turned to help me down, followed by Billy. I gripped Fitzroy’s arm tightly, while Billy clung to my cloak as the howling wind lashed against us, whipping my veil around my face and momentarily blinding me.
“I’m nervous,” I whispered into Fitzroy’s ear.
He turned, eyes squinted as grains of sand flicked through the air.
“I’ll protect you,” he assured me.
Our faces were so close I could have kissed him—and perhaps I might have, if I wasn’t aware of the ever-growing audience gathering on the shore.
“Wait here while I address the men,” Fitzroy ordered.
I released his arm and watched as he marched inland, head held high, posture exuding authority—while Billy and I stayed at a safe distance.
“Men,” Fitzroy bellowed, his voice overpowering the roar of the waves.
He raised his purple palms, commanding the attention of well over one thousand soldiers. As Fitzroy revealed his wizardry, some men seemed shocked, while others looked relieved.
“No longer will I hide who I truly am,” he avowed. “My allegiance isn’t tied to crest or crown—I pledge my loyalty to the people.”
Faint murmurs rippled through the throng as the weight of Fitzroy’s confession hung heavy in the salty air.
“The King has deceived you all,” he continued, his voice growing more impassioned.
“No longer will I be an accomplice in his falsehoods. He knows that this war cannot be won without magic, yet he lets men fall in battle, hoping their deaths will stoke the fires of hatred for the Silver Witch. No longer will the men of Lyonesse march blindly through the darkest of wars with no light in sight.”
Lowering his hands, Fitzroy stepped closer to the assembled soldiers.
“Stand with me—not as your ruler or as my subjects, but as equals. In Lyonesse, no man or woman, magical or mortal, shall live in fear. Together, we’ll destroy the Silver Witch and restore our kingdom to its former greatness.
Prosperity will return. Plentiful days are ahead.
Let this be our final fight—for our families, our friends, for Lyonesse! ”
After Fitzroy’s speech, Billy buried himself deeper within the folds of my cloak while I held my breath, fearful the men might charge down the beach, swords drawn, to execute the traitor and his companions.
A soldier stepped forward and paused, his long coat fluttering on the breeze as he stared at Fitzroy.
Suddenly, he thumped his clenched fist into his chest. “For Lyonesse,” he said, bowing his head to his liege.
One by one, the sea of men followed suit, lowering their heads as they pledged their fealty to Fitzroy.
“For Lyonesse!” they roared, the sound of their allegiance growing louder as more joined the cry.
Fitzroy unsheathed his sword and thrust it skyward. “If anyone opposes fighting for harmony, step forward now or flee to the Walled City like a coward. I won’t tolerate dissent in Cambas.”
A handful of men bolted from the blackened sands, their silhouettes vanishing as they raced inland—no doubt to spread word of the magical bastard orchestrating a mutiny.
Among those remaining, several gripped their hilts tightly, determination wild in their eyes as if ready to slay the crown’s betrayer.
Then, one man broke from the ranks, slashing his sword ferociously as he charged at Fitzroy.
Fitzroy raised his weapon, though it soon proved unnecessary. Acting on instinct, I recalled the spell Regina had cast on Elizebeth—the one that had hurled her across the Great Hall.
“Wesan gan.” Be gone, I commanded, flicking my hand toward the attacker.
A spark of light cracked through the rain, colliding with the man.
He soared through the air, spinning before falling onto his own sword.
His whimpers were almost lost in the winds as he bled out on the beach.
No one went to help, and those who’d moments before seemed eager to duel Fitzroy now lowered their weapons, choosing survival over pride.
Gasps rippled through the men as they turned their attention to me. Whether they were startled by my spellcasting or recognizing me from the smithy was unclear.
I scanned the faces on the beach and spotted a few familiar ones—including Godwin.
His fingertips traced the gnarly mementos that magic had carved into his cheek.
He wasn’t rallying like the others, nor did he protest—he was rooted in place, observing the commander he admired and the soldier he worked beside.
I wondered how he felt, discovering we both bore magical blood—the thing he hated.
The thing that scarred his face.
I continued glancing between the onlookers, my veil billowing in the wind like a banner, until I landed on a man who made my stomach churn.
Bash.
His white hair was tied back, revealing the entirety of his face. But the comforting smile I’d hoped for was absent.
His gaze—stern and cold—locked onto mine, tightening my throat.
“Niamh,” Fitzroy called, stealing my attention from a hard-faced Bash.
With Billy clinging to my cloak, I crossed the sinking sands to join Fitzroy.
“You were right,” he said, resting a hand on my waist. “My father deserves to be beheaded for his attempts to eradicate magic.”
He gazed into my eyes, and I wondered how it was possible that this had once irritated me. Now, it gave me butterflies. But I struggled to savor the moment—seeing Bash had awakened my memories, and now they rattled the shackles I’d locked them up in.
Fitzroy turned back to address his men.
“Remove your gloves. Use spells to protect yourselves and those around you. Teach the wizards and defend the mortal men. Every one of you is crucial in this fight. We have two nights to prepare, but we can stand strong—and claim this kingdom as our own.”
Admiration swelled in my chest as I listened to him speak. Despite his uncertainty about taking on such a daunting role, he did it anyway—for the people of Lyonesse.
After his speech, I leaned in close and whispered, “From what you told me about her, I’m certain your mother would be proud of you right now.”
As I pulled back, I noticed how the salt in the sea spray had curled Fitzroy’s hair, softening his otherwise commanding presence.
He brushed away grains of sand that clung to my brows and lashes, and I appreciated his tenderness.
His lingering touch glided along my cheek—a gesture that felt natural and possessive—and left tingles in its wake.
As much as I wanted to stay, ensnared in Fitzroy’s gaze, I couldn’t resist stealing a glance at Bash. He was deep in conversation with another soldier, his strong hand resting on the man’s shoulder.
Meanwhile, Fletcher, standing beside his cousin, glared at me from beneath the rim of his cap—his eyes as sharp as daggers.
“Niamh!” a voice called across the shoreline, saving me from Fletcher’s steely stare.
I recognized the tone immediately—it was Finn.
I searched through the crowd until he emerged from the throng of soldiers.
“Go, see your brother,” Fitzroy said. “I’ll take Billy to my tent and have him write down everything he remembers about Regina’s plans for battle.”
After a brief squeeze of my waist, Fitzroy grasped Billy’s wrist and dragged him inland.
The goblin attracted curious stares as he passed, his wide eyes revealing that he was as bewildered by the sight of the men as they were by him.
Moments later I heard, “Niamh,” but much closer this time.
Then, Finn appeared within arm’s reach, and I embraced him tightly.
“You’ve finally returned,” he murmured, crushing me like he was checking I was real.
Together, we walked along the sands, merging with the men heading for the encampment.
“You were right,” Finn admitted. “It took just one brave soul to stand up for wizards and change everything. Now we can reclaim Lyonesse as a land of magic—no longer forced to hide our true selves.” He exhaled a long, relieved puff, as though the war were already won.
“I won’t be celebrating until the battle’s done,” I replied, my chest tightening at the thought of Regina’s wrath when she discovered our deception. “The worst’s yet to come.”