ity of Cyme, Amazakaraan
Western Realm

Queen’s Guard Acting Commander Freyja Zyrr strides along the base of Cyme’s translucent protective dome, searching for threats, her runic axe strapped to her back, blades sheathed all over her.

Ever primed for battle, but especially so this night.

It’s balmy and quiet. Deceptive in its tranquility. Freyja peers through the dome into the dark wilds beyond. She knows the Mages are likely out there, scouting around the city. Perhaps the Alfsigr are there as well, both vile peoples wanting to consume Amazakaraan and wipe her people clear off the face of Erthia. And then there’s the Prophecy, every one of their seers unnervingly certain its time is at hand. Freyja flexes her shoulders, the weight of her axe the only reassuring thing about this night.

A rustling sounds in the trees behind her. She turns, taking in the curious forms of owls suddenly perched all over the elm grove’s branches, the night birds dimly lit by the dome’s scarlet runes and staring at her through round, unblinking eyes. Freyja pulls a shard of golden lumenstone from her pocket, its amber light suffusing both her hazel-hued hand and the dense grove. She looks back up and scans the Goddess’s night children. Three golden-eyed eagle owls, perched in a row. Two great gray owls with piercing yellow stares. Several elf owls with such ferocious expressions for their tiny size, they’re almost comical.

She lowers her gaze, taking in the two white, specter-like barn owls perched on Wynter Eirllyn’s shoulders, the Alfsigr Icaral standing in the shadows, as Freyja knew she would be as soon as she spotted the birds.

“May I speak with you?” Wynter shyly inquires, her dark wings pulled in snugly around her slender frame.

Freyja nods and waits as Wynter emerges into the narrow clearing that rings Cyme, the edge of the city’s dome rising behind Freyja. Wynter stills before her, the dome’s scarlet runes tinting Wynter’s alabaster hair a soft pink.

“I seek your aid,” Wynter says in a small, strained voice, the desperate gravity in her silver gaze portending a request sure to be monumental.

“What aid do you seek?” Freyja asks and waits as Wynter seems to wrestle with her plea, her lips trembling.

“I seek help for my brother Cael and his Second, Rhys Thorim,” she finally blurts out. “I seek help freeing them from imprisonment in Alfsigroth.” Her face tenses, as if she’s fighting mightily against some internal tide that wants to keep these thoughts bound down.

Freyja narrows her eyes at the edge of the Zalyn’or necklace imprint emblazoned around Wynter’s pale neck—the necklace placed on all Alfsigr when they reach twelve years. The necklace Alfsigroth demands its citizens wear that Wynter is entrapped by—that all Alfsigr are entrapped by—save for a rebellious shard of Wynter’s mind that refuses to be extinguished. Freyja worries about the Zalyn’ors, and so does Queen Alkaia. And so Freyja is charged with checking in with Wynter several times a day, to guard against the possibility that Marcus Vogel has infiltrated the Zalyn’or binding and wrested control of her mind.

But it’s clear that this plea of Wynter’s comes from herself alone.

A plea on behalf of men.

“Why do you bring this to me?” Freyja inquires, glaring at Wynter with a look that reads I know exactly why you’re bringing this to me.

“Because you love a man,” Wynter states with the pure certainty of an empath.

Freyja curses herself for letting Wynter make contact with her hand earlier. Because Wynter now knows that Clive Soren, the head of the shattered Keltish Resistance, came to Freyja just last night.

He was standing outside the runic dome just a few paces from where they are now, his tall form washed in scarlet rune glow, obviously waiting for Freyja. His brown hair was mussed, his piercing brown eyes set on her with passionate urgency.

A ferocity of emotion ripped through Freyja at finding him there, her breath constricting, as if suddenly clenched in a vise.

“What are you doing here?” she snarled, desperately scanning the woods for Gardnerians or Alfsigr or fellow-Amaz who could render him to ash in a spli second.

A magic-free Kelt.

I’m in love with a magic-free Kelt, Freyja agonized, her heart twisting at the sight of his longed-for face.

“Go East, now!” she hissed, wanting to leap through the dome and push him so hard that he’d have to start on his way there. So he would fully realize that he was tearing her heart apart by still being here and in incredible danger when she’d thought him well on his way to Noilaan by now. “The Subland Vu Trin undercover here can portal you East, so go!”

“I won’t go without you,” Clive snarled back. “Not without you, Freyja.”

“With me, then?” Freyja rejoined, incredulous. “You can’t be with me. I’m on this side of this runic dome, and this is where I will remain.” Forever separated from you so I can protect my people. But, damn you, Clive, at least go East. Let me feel like you have a chance against the Mages when they come.

The hard fact rose up with outstretched claws—

My people don’t stand a chance against the power of the Mages.

“Get the Amaz out of here,” Clive insisted. He stepped toward the shield as if it were no match for him, even though they both knew full well that the second he moved through its surface, he would burst into runic flames, the fire igniting his very core.

“And go where?” Freyja harshly threw back.

Clive’s jaw tightened, his glare intensifying, as if he were holding back a million expletives. “East,” he bit out. “You’re an island in the middle of a strengthening monster. Get your people East!”

Freyja advanced toward the dome, now only a handspan from him. “How?” she challenged, teeth gritted. “How do we go East?”

“You’ve Noi portal sorcerers amongst you—”

“And if we went East, how would we live there? Amongst the men? Our religion and every aspect of our culture forbids mixing with men.”

Clive’s expression softened with an edge of longing. “And yet, here you are. With me.”

Freyja’s heart twisted as she held Clive’s impassioned stare and remembered the last time they were together, over a month ago. Sneaking off into the woods to the southwest. Falling into each other’s arms the second they were far enough away from Amazakaraan and taking each other with an intensity that stole Freyja’s breath and ignited that familiar, piercing yearning to be with Clive always. To fight the Mages with him. To never let him go.

“I’ve chosen my people, you know that,” she told him, her tone rough with frustration. Over the impossible choice she’d been forced to make. “Clive,” she said, her voice splintering around his name, “the Noi have denied us entry. As have the Ishkart.”

“Then the Noi and the Ishkart can go to hell,” Clive growled, drawing closer. Almost touching the dome-shield. “They’ve closed the door to my people, as well. So, the hell with them all. Go East anyway. Freyja, the Gardnerians are coming, with the Alfsigr on their heels. And they will break through this dome.”

“They can’t. Or they’d be here already.”

“They took the Lupines down in a single night. They will come, Freyja.”

Conflict whipped through her. “Queen Alkaia wants a homeland without men. Even if the Noi open their gates to us, we’re not interested in being a part of Noilaan. We are Free People.”

“You’re not free,” Clive shot back. “You’re prisoners of your rigidity. Hold on to it and you’ll be massacred. The Mages will kill the children, Freyja. All of you. They view both your people and mine as soulless heathens. They will kill you all.”

“I have urged Queen Alkaia to bend and go East,” Freyja admitted, as the urge to leap through the shield and embrace him gained ground. “I have urged the Council.” A frustrated tear streaked down her face, and she swiped it away, her lips trembling up in a slight, bitter smile. “But they see me as compromised.” She motioned between them. “Corrupted by this thing I never speak of.”

Clive’s brow furrowed, passion firing in his eyes. “Come through the shield, Freyja,” he offered, his voice newly gentle, the fierce love in his expression sending a warm, stinging rush straight through her.

“No,” she rasped with an emphatic shake of her head. “I stay here—” she pointed firmly at the ground “—on this side. This is where I need to be. They need me, Clive.”

Clive’s expression turned mournful as they held each other’s gazes. “I know they do.”

“There’s a chance we’ll portal to the East,” she told him. “Queen Alkaia has gathered all the Amaz under this dome, and she’s having her Circle of Sorcerers construct a series of emergency portals. So...give me this one hope. That if we do portal East, I might find you there.”

Clive’s jaw went rigid, his fierce eyes glazing over with tears as he briefly looked away, then set his blazing brown eyes back on her. “I’ll find you. There is no shield or runic wall or religion or culture that could keep me from you. I love you, Freyja.”

Freyja pulled in a shaky breath, Clive’s beloved form wavy through a veil of tears she could no longer hold back. “I love you as well, Clive Soren.”

“I will find you,” Clive vowed as he stepped back from the dome, ignoring the tears streaking down his own face. “I will find you in the East.”

And then he turned, strode into the woods, and was gone.

“I do love a man,” Freyja admits to Wynter, the words feeling explosive on the air. It feels both frightening and like a revelation to state it plainly. Honestly.

On this side of the dome.

“I know,” Wynter rejoins, compassion in her eyes.

“But Wynter,” Freyja ruefully adds, “we cannot save your brother and Rhys Thorim from the Alfsigr. We could not do this even if they were female. I am sorry.”

Wynter winces and glances away, her frail wings tightening around her. She looks back, imploring. “Then petition the queen to get the Amaz East. And petition them to find the runic sorcerer Rivyr’el Talonir. To free the Alfsigr from our Zalyn’or bindings.”

Freyja’s gaze darts to the imprint around Wynter’s neck. “Do you feel something in it?”

“Only the same bindings,” Wynter admits tightly, as if she can barely get the words out. “Vogel has not taken control of it. Not yet.”

The bottomless pain in Wynter’s silver eyes lights a spark of compassion in Freyja. She steps toward her, suddenly decided, even though part of her feels as if the Goddess will fly down from the heavens to shake her in censure. “We will petition the queen together,” she vows. “And when we reach the East, Wynter Eirllyn, I will help you find Rivyr’el Talonir. And we will petition the Vu Trin to help your brother and his Second.”

A grateful smile lifts Wynter’s alabaster lips.

The owls abruptly grow agitated, and Wynter’s smile vanishes as she looks to her kindred in confusion, the owls hooting in distress before they fly away.

Clive’s jaw went rigid, his fierce eyes glazing over with tears as he briefly looked away, then set his blazing brown eyes back on her. “I’ll find you. There is no shield or runic wall or religion or culture that could keep me from you. I love you, Freyja.”

Freyja pulled in a shaky breath, Clive’s beloved form wavy through a veil of tears she could no longer hold back. “I love you as well, Clive Soren.”

“I will find you,” Clive vowed as he stepped back from the dome, ignoring the tears streaking down his own face. “I will find you in the East.”

And then he turned, strode into the woods, and was gone.

“I do love a man,” Freyja admits to Wynter, the words feeling explosive on the air. It feels both frightening and like a revelation to state it plainly. Honestly.

On this side of the dome.

“I know,” Wynter rejoins, compassion in her eyes.

“But Wynter,” Freyja ruefully adds, “we cannot save your brother and Rhys Thorim from the Alfsigr. We could not do this even if they were female. I am sorry.”

Wynter winces and glances away, her frail wings tightening around her. She looks back, imploring. “Then petition the queen to get the Amaz East. And petition them to find the runic sorcerer Rivyr’el Talonir. To free the Alfsigr from our Zalyn’or bindings.”

Freyja’s gaze darts to the imprint around Wynter’s neck. “Do you feel something in it?”

“Only the same bindings,” Wynter admits tightly, as if she can barely get the words out. “Vogel has not taken control of it. Not yet.”

The bottomless pain in Wynter’s silver eyes lights a spark of compassion in Freyja. She steps toward her, suddenly decided, even though part of her feels as if the Goddess will fly down from the heavens to shake her in censure. “We will petition the queen together,” she vows. “And when we reach the East, Wynter Eirllyn, I will help you find Rivyr’el Talonir. And we will petition the Vu Trin to help your brother and his Second.”

A grateful smile lifts Wynter’s alabaster lips.

The owls abruptly grow agitated, and Wynter’s smile vanishes as she looks to her kindred in confusion, the owls hooting in distress before they fly away.

Freyja lowers her gaze back to Wynter only to find the Icaral’s eyes widening as they lock on something over Freyja’s shoulder.

Freyja unsheathes her rune axe and whips around, shock blasting through her as she takes in what’s just beyond the runic dome.

Alfsigr Elves, white as moonlight. But they’re bizarrely elongated, as if someone has stretched them on a rack.

And their eyes.

Huge and swirling with gray. Almost insectile in shape. And there are runes made of shadow marked all over their white Alfsigr garb and on the hilts of the swords in their hands.

Strange swords with spiraling blades.

A chill flashes down Freyja’s spine as she does a swift count of them. Seven Marfoir assassins.

The Marfoir step toward the dome, their movements unnaturally coordinated.

“Get off our land,” Freyja growls as she advances toward the shield.

“Don’t fight them,” Wynter cries. “They’ll kill you.”

Freyja’s nostrils flare as she readies her weapon. “Get the Amaz Guard,” she orders Wynter with a brief glance over her shoulder. “Get them now!”

Wynter nods, but then freezes as Freyja turns to find huge, spidery legs bursting from the Marfoir’s backs, then clicking inward. Legs as salt white as the Marfoir’s skin.

Freyja’s chest constricts as she takes a step back.

In unison, the Marfoir grin.

Their legs click outward as one, extending then drawing inward once more toward the shield, almost touching it. Curling shadow begins to rise from the tip of each pale spider limb to flow over the dome, hugging its surface and spreading out, the Marfoir’s forms darkening as the fog of Shadow advances.

The last thing Freyja sees of the outside world is the insectile eyes of the Marfoir directly before her, a terrifying smile on his bone-white lips. Horror rises, alongside the ferocious will to save her people as she swiftly weighs attack them versus warn the Amaz.

Decided, she mentally summons her forest green mare, dives into the grove to meet the beloved animal, and jumps astride. Then she prods her horse forward, yanks Wynter up behind her and urges the mare into a gallop toward the queen.