"You're here," Penny said.
Isolde looked down. The princess was sprawled on her back, her red hair fanned around her like a pool of blood. Her eyes were hollow and sunken. But she was alive, Isolde thought, which was a promising start.
"I'm here." Isolde extended a hand. "The others?"
Penny clasped her hand. "Fighting." She winced as her ankle struck the ground. "We're all fighting." She paused. "Except for Grayson."
Isolde didn't need further explanation; she could tell what Penny meant by the look on her face. It was the same look she saw in the mirror every morning. "I'm sorry."
Penny brushed grass from her fighting leathers. "You've brought men?"
Isolde nodded. "Thousands."
Penny exhaled. "Thank gods. Who's that?"
Isolde turned. Most of her men were already engaged in battle; swords clashed, competing with the sound of dragons shrieking. She could see Axel engaging Halson, his teeth gritted in concentration.
Isolde pointed. "Axel Winterthorpe." She turned to a round middle-aged man dispatching a group of soldiers. "And that's General Graves, as well as..."
Her gaze paused on Wes. Ah. She didn't know his surname; only that most of the girls at the convent fancied him. The young lieutenant general kicked an attacking soldier in the chest, turning to flash her a grin.
"Wes Whitewood."
Isolde blinked. "Whitewood?"
Wes mopped sweat from his brow. "Yes, Your Holiness."
Her heartbeat sped up. That surname wasn't common. In fact, she'd only heard of one other person with that name. "As in Bo Whitewood?"
Wes lowered his hand. "He was my uncle."
Isolde searched his face. She could see it now: they had the same lopsided smile, the same shade of golden-brown eyes. Her throat burned.
"I'm sorry," Isolde said. "Your uncle was a close friend of mine."
Something in Wes's face softened. "I know. Bo never stopped talking about the snjya that he met outside a convent one night." His mouth tipped up. "He said she was on a mission to save the world."
"Oi!" Graves called. "Whitewood!" The general's face was exasperated. He was knee-deep in a soldier's chest, yanking his blade free with a sickening squelch. "When you're done having your tea party, we could use some help."
Wes waved cheerfully. "Noted!"
Penny's face changed. "Watch out!"
Isolde twisted.
Something blurred past her. A sharp sting began in her left shoulder, and she looked at where a knife lay on the grass. Halson stood close by, his lips pulled back in a snarl. Wes stepped forward, any trace of humour gone from his face.
"Behind me," Wes ordered.
"No." Isolde unsheathed the dagger in her foot. "He belongs to me."
Wes's frown deepened. "But—"
"Let her go," Axel said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "She's right. Halson's life is hers to claim."
Their eyes met. There was sadness in Axel's gaze, but something else, too. An odd sort of pride. His gaze fell to the iron ring tied around her neck.
"Go," Axel said.
Isolde ran.
She had limited experience with hand-to-hand combat. Everything Isolde knew — everything she'd learned — came from Axel, who'd shown her basic manoeuvres on the long boat journey over to Wynterlynn. Halson had two decades of training. She had only weeks.
Still.
She had the element of surprise. That had to be enough.
Isolde collided with Halson. He stumbled back, his eyes wide, and she kneed him in the chest. He recovered faster than she would have thought possible, dancing backwards out of reach.
"My wayward wife." Halson's lip curled. "How delightful to see you again."
She swung. "Wish I could say the same."
Halson ducked. "You look lighter. Lost a bodyguard, perhaps?"
Isolde's smile was sharp. "Just the nagging husband."
"Ah," Halson said, and something flashed in his eyes. "You've grown claws."
"No," Isolde said. "I've always had claws." She drew a knife from her sheath. "I've just remembered how to use them."
Isolde attacked with force, weaving and slashing. Halson parried each blow. He looked amused, like a cat batting a mouse. Her heartbeat sang in her ears, and her shoulder burned where the knife had cut it. Halson was both faster and stronger, but Isolde had spent years observing people. She'd studied people at the convent like a scientist studying books, learning when they might strike. How fast the blow might come.
Halson was no exception.
The young emperor sprang forward. Isolde absorbed the blow, letting the knife tumble from her hands. Halson's smile was a haunting lullaby.
"Nice try." Halson stalked forward. "I'm sorry to end on our marriage on bad terms, my dove, but you've become a bit of a thorn in my side." He kicked the knife out of her reach. "Sleep well."
Halson raised his weapon. Isolde braced herself.
"Now, Isolde!" Penny cried.
Halson's eyes went blank with confusion. Penny's magic lasted only a heartbeat, but it was the advantage that Isolde needed; she sent out a pulse of purple light, and Halson threw his hands up to shield his eyes. Isolde kicked out her leg; the glass caught the sunlight, igniting in a shower of golden sparks.
The knife slashed through Halson's throat.
Halson made a terrible gurgling sound. His eyes went wide, and he staggered back, his hand clawing uselessly at his throat. Isolde stalked forward. She was winded and her shoulder hurt like hell, but she forced herself to bend. To pick up her fallen knife.
Halson took the shape of her worst memories: the burning museum; her hands pinned to a desk; and Julian, bleeding out in the snow. Julian, his blue eyes wide with pain. I fell in love with your heart first. It was such a godsdamn beautiful place to be.
The fire in her chest blazed brighter.
Isolde caught the scruff of Halson's shirt. His blue eyes were wide and panicked, his breath coming in short wheezes, and a terrible sense of satisfaction roared in her chest. Good. Let him be afraid at the end.
She didn't give a shit.
"You cost me everything," Isolde said softly. "Everything. And now you'll die for it."
She drove the knife through his chest.
Halson let out a terrible sound. And then he was sagging, falling to the grass, the life bleeding out of him before her eyes. Isolde drew a shaky breath. She raised a trembling hand to the ring at her throat, clutching it until the icy metal burned in her hand. To you, I have always been as I see myself.
She closed her eyes.
You knew before I did, Jules. You knew me better than I know myself.
"Isolde!" Penny cried.
Footsteps pounded across the grass. "Your Holiness!"
The others arrived in a gaggle, bearing fresh cuts and bruises. She was vaguely aware of Owain staring at Halson's body, of Tristan touching his back, but then Wes stepped in front of her and everything was his worried face.
"You're alright?" Wes demanded.
Isolde sheathed her knife. "Fine."
Wes reached out a hand, then seemed to think better of it. "Your shoulder—"
"I've had worse." Isolde cast a wry smile towards her leg. "Trust me."
She searched the battlefield. Flames engulfed the sky, illuminating her own soldiers' swords, which shone like winter icicles. Anna's magic appeared in strands of moonlight, tangling with the golden sunlight of the dayweavers.
Graves shook his head. "A Queen of Light, and a Queen of Darkness. A Lady of the Flame, and a Lady of Ice." The general's voice was hushed. Almost awed. "If that isn't the divine work of the gods, then I don't know what is."
Isolde turned. "Come on."
Wes blinked. "Where?"
Isolde's face was grim. "To hold them off. For as long as we can." She turned to Penny. "Where's God-Slayer?"
"With Anna."
Isolde nodded. She'd figured as much. "Have we figured out how to use it yet?"
Penny glanced at the tower. "Camille's working on it."
"Well," Isolde said. "She'd better work quickly."
**
Camille knelt by the bed.
Isaac lay on the mattress. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his eyes flickered while he slept. Camille adjusted her grip on his clammy hands. She'd long since extinguished the fire — no point in drawing any attention to themselves — but the room felt stifling.
Something exploded outside. Camille squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her forehead to the mattress. She'd given up checking on the progress of the battle. Seeing all the bodies... trying to work out whether it was anyone she knew...
There was no point.
She couldn't bring them back, anyway.
"Am I dead?" a voice croaked.
Her head flew up. "Isaac?"
"S'me," Isaac slurred.
He was struggling to sit, his muscles shaking with the effort. Her heart lurched. "You're alive," Camille said, which was an incredibly stupid thing to say, but felt important all the same.
Isaac grimaced. "Unfortunately. Did it work?"
"Almost." She hesitated. "I'm close."
His gray eyes focused on her. "But it's going to kill me to get it."
A lump rose in her throat. "Something like that."
Isaac nodded, absorbing the blow. Then he patted the bed. Slowly, Camille settled on the mattress, their fingers interlaced. His skin was fever-hot, burning like iron in a forge.
"You know," Isaac said, "Ryne asked me once who I'd choose if it came down to a choice between you and the world." His gaze was calm. "I can see on your face that you already know."
She looked away. "I can't do it."
Isaac squeezed her hand. "You have to."
"Please," Camille whispered. "It's not meant to end this way."
Isaac's voice was steady. "Look at me, Camille." When she met his gaze, his gray eyes looked white, like the first blanket of snow. "I grew up in service of the crown. I've spent half my life on battlefields, one knife wound away from death. I'm not afraid of dying." He kissed her knuckles. "I'm just glad it's you, at the end."
Tears pricked at her eyes. "I love you."
"Hold my hand," Isaac said, and his smile was soft. "Don't let go."
Camille squeezed his hand, tears blurring her vision. She tried to memorize this moment. Every callous on his fingers. Every darker fleck of gray in his eyes.
Then she dove.
The memory came all at once, this time. The forest. Lucia. Someone laughing. The images passed by with dizzying, breathtaking force. Isaac's hand gripped her fingers, harder and harder, like a screw tightening in a hole. His breath came in gasps.
Something snapped.
Camille was wrenched from the memory, shot back like an elastic band. Isaac slumped back against the headboard. His hand went limp. And his chest, Camille realized with fresh terror; his chest wasn't moving.
She shook him. "Isaac."
His head lolled against the headboard. She shook him, harder this time.
"Isaac."
His body didn't move.
Agonizing pain filled Camille, crashing again and again, a relentless wave that wouldn't let up. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. Salt filled her mouth, and she clung to Isaac, listening for the place where his heart should have beat. Memories cycled through her: Isaac, riding through light-dappled woods; Isaac, tearing through a burning castle to get to her; Isaac, his face half-shadowed beneath paper stars in a child's bedroom. My love for you is not conditional. It just is.
Tears stung her eyes. He looked tranquil, Camille thought, like a statue cut from granite, but the stillness was unnatural; Isaac was always in motion. This was some bizarre copy, an insulting imitation of who he'd once been.
Seconds passed.
Camille forced herself to take a breath. Then another. Her legs trembled beneath her as she stood. There wasn't time to mourn.
She had to go. Now.
Camille pushed herself off the bed, striding across the room on wobbling legs. She was halfway to the door when a croak sounded.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Camille spun.
Isaac's grey eyes were trained on her. A torrent of emotion swept through Camille, so hot and fierce that her legs buckled, and she braced herself against the mantelpiece. "You're alive."
Isaac grimaced. "If you're trying to kill me..." He struggled into a seated position. "You'll need to try harder. Did it work?"
But Isaac was smiling, a slow, cautious joy stealing over his face. The answer must have been obvious. And despite everything — or perhaps because of it — Camille found herself smiling, too.
"I know what it takes to kill a goddess."