Page 226 of Kingdom of Ash

Only Aelin had the authority to do so, or Darrow and his council, but Aedion didn’t care.

Ren halted, and Aedion paused with him, well aware of the soldiers within earshot. Of the Fae hearing many possessed. Endymion and Sellene already stood by the front line of the left flank, their faces grave and weary. A home—that was what they’d lost, what they now fought to gain. If any should survive this. What would his father make of his son, fighting alongside his people at last?

“Will anyone come?” Ren asked, aware of those listening ears, too. Aware of the grim faces that remained with them, despite the death that marched at their backs.

Aedion fitted his helmet onto his head, the metal bitingly cold. “None came ten years ago. But maybe someone will bother this time.”

Ren gripped his arm, tugging him close. “There might be nothing left to defend, Aedion.”

“Send out the call anyway.” He jerked his chin to the lines they’d passed through. Ilias was polishing his blades amongst a cluster of his father’s assassins, his attention pinned on the enemy ahead. Preparing to make a final stand on this snowy plain so far from his warm desert. “You insist I’m still your general? Then here’s my final order. Call for aid.”

A muscle feathered in Ren’s jaw. But he said, “Consider it done.” Then he was gone.

They didn’t bother with good-byes. Their luck was bad enough.

So Aedion continued, alone, to the front lines. Two Bane soldiers stepped aside to make room, and Aedion hefted up his shield, seamlessly fitting it between their unified front. The metal wall against which Morath would strike first, and hardest.

The snows swirled, veiling all beyond a hundred or so feet.

Yet the bone drums pounded louder. Soon the earth shook beneath marching feet.

Their final stand, here on an unnamed field before the Florine. How had it come to this?

Aedion drew his sword, the other soldiers following suit, the cry of ringing metal cutting through the howling wind.

Morath appeared, a line of solid black emerging from the snow.

Each foot they gained, more appeared behind. How far back was that witch tower? How soon would its power be unleashed?

He prayed, for the sake of his soldiers, that it would be quick, and relatively painless. That they would not know much fear before they were blasted into ashes.

The Bane didn’t clash their swords on their shields this time.

There was only the marching of Morath, and the drums.

Had they gone to Orynth when Darrow demanded, they would have made it. Had time to cross the bridge, or take the northern route.

This defeat, these deaths, rested upon his shoulders alone.

Down the line, motion caught his eye—just as a fuzzy, massive head poked between Prince Galan and one of his remaining soldiers. A ghost leopard.

Green eyes slid toward him, drained and bleak.

Aedion looked away first. This would be bad enough without knowing she was here. That Lysandra would undoubtedly stay until she, too, fell.

He prayed he went first. So he wouldn’t witness it.

Morath drew close enough that Ren’s order to the archers rang out.

Arrows flew, fading into the snows.

Morath sent an answering volley that blotted out the watery light.

Aedion angled his shield, crouching low. Every impact reverberated through his bones.

Grunts and screams filled their side of the battlefield. When the volley stopped, when they straightened again, many men did not rise with them.

It was not arrows alone that had been fired, and now peppered the snow.

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