Page 312 of Kingdom of Ash

Aedion Ashryver rasped, “No one is getting through that wall of Ironteeth.”

Manon bared her teeth. “I am.” She pointed at the shape-shifter. “You can carry me.”

Aedion snarled, “No.”

But Lysandra shook her head, sorrow and despair in her green eyes. “I can’t—the magic is drained. If I had an hour—”

“We have five minutes,” Manon snapped. She whirled to the Thirteen. “We have trained for this. To break apart enemy ranks. We can get through them. Take apart that tower.”

But they all looked at one another. Like they’d had some unspoken conversation and agreement.

The Thirteen stalked toward their own mounts. Sorrel clasped Manon’s shoulder as she passed, then climbed onto her wyvern’s back. Leaving Asterin before Manon.

Her Second, her cousin, her friend, smiled, eyes bright as stars. “Live, Manon.”

Manon blinked.

Asterin smiled wider, kissed Manon’s brow, and whispered again, “Live.”

Manon didn’t see the blow coming.

The punch to her gut, so hard and precise that it knocked the wind from her. Sent her to her knees.

She was struggling to get a breath down, to get up, when Asterin reached Narene and mounted the blue mare, gathering the reins. “Bring our people home, Manon.”

Manon knew then. What they were going to do.

Her legs failed her, her body failed her, as she tried to get to her feet. As she rasped, “No.”

But Asterin and the Thirteen were already in the skies.

Already in formation, that battering ram that had served them so well. Spearing toward the battlefield. Toward the approaching witch tower.

Manon clawed her way to the battlement ledge, and hauled herself to her feet. Leaned against the stones, panting, trying to get air into her lungs so she might find some way to get airborne, find some Crochan and steal her broom—

But there were no witches here. No brooms to be found. Abraxos remained unconscious.

Manon was distantly aware of the shifter and Prince Aedion coming up beside her, Lord Ren with them. Distantly aware of the silence that fell over the castle, the city, the walls.

As all of them watched that witch tower approach, their doom gathering within it.

As the Thirteen raced for it, raced against the wind and death itself.

A wall of Ironteeth rose up before the tower, blocking their path.

A hundred against twelve.

Inside the witch tower, close enough now that Manon could see through the open archway of the uppermost level, a young witch in black robes stepped toward the hollowed interior.

Stepped toward where Manon’s grandmother stood, gesturing to the pit below.

The Thirteen neared the enemy in their path and did not falter.

Manon dug her fingers into the stones so hard her iron nails cracked. Began shaking her head, something in her chest fracturing completely.

Fracturing as the Thirteen slammed into the Ironteeth blockade.

The maneuver was perfect. More flawless than any they’d done. A lethal phalanx that speared through the enemy’s ranks. Aiming right for the tower.

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