Haul gently laid Edward’s body upon the blood-soaked ground. For a moment, he stayed there, hand resting on Edward’s chest as if hoping—foolishly—that breath might return. It didn’t.

  He took Edward’s sword, rose to his feet, and turned.

  Haul ran to Eamon and knelt beside him, tapping his bloodied face.“Eamon… wake up.”

  There was no response.

  Fear tightened in Haul’s chest. He lifted Eamon with effort, carried him to a nearby horse, and laid him across its back. Haul struck the horse hard, sending it racing toward Enora.

  “Live,” Haul whispered.

  He turned back to the battlefield.

  Men were dying everywhere—his men. Cut down, crushed beneath numbers too great to count. Rage burned through him.

  Haul raised his weapon and roared, “MEN OF ENORA—TO ME!”

  The soldiers fought their way toward him, steel ringing as they regrouped. When they finally formed around him, Haul counted them.

  One hundred and fifty.

  Out of five hundred.

  Haul stepped into the center of what remained of his army and bellowed, “This is not the end of us! We will prevail! Do not lose faith!”

  The men raised their weapons and cried out in defiance.

  Above them, on the hill, the remaining captains and generals watched.

  Then the battlefield grew quiet.

  A path opened through the enemy ranks. Soldiers stepped aside. Captains and generals bowed low.

  A man rode through on a massive black stallion.

  He wore long black garments and a hood pulled low, his face covered save for his eyes—bright blue and cold. Upon his chest was a sigil: a cross, an eye at its center, blood streaming from either side.

  Haul felt it instantly.

  Pure evil.

  It crawled up his spine and settled in his bones.

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  Is he… the one behind all this? The architect of my ruin?

  The rider stopped before Haul’s army and removed his face covering.

  Haul stiffened.

  “He looks like an angel,” Haul thought. “You’d never know what he was.”

  The man dismounted and pointed at Haul—beckoning him forward.

  Haul shook his head. “Why would I step forward when I know I’m wanted dead?”

  The man smiled faintly. “You’re right. You are wanted dead. But shouting across a battlefield is tiresome.”

  Haul stepped closer, blade still raised. “Who are you?”

  The man folded his fingers together calmly.“Julius Bescar. Of House Crucivar. Does telling you my name make you trust me?”

  Haul’s grip tightened. “Why do you wish to erase me from this world?”

  Julius’s jaw clenched. “Because I have seen the future. One where my house is forgotten. One where it does not rule. You—you and your commoner blood—strip House Crucivar of everything I build.”

  His eyes burned.“This world is mine. Not yours. And I will not let it be taken from me.”

  Haul leveled his sword at him. “You can try. I’ve seen the future too—and in it, I win this battle.”

  Julius turned, mounted his horse, and looked back.“Is that so?”

  He pointed forward.“Desecrate them. Leave none alive.”

  Haul smiled grimly and charged, his men surging with him into the enemy horde.

  “DO NOT FALTER!” Haul roared. “WE WILL WIN—EVEN IF THE SCALES OF FATE SAY OTHERWISE!”

  Steel screamed. Blood fell. They fought with everything they had.

  The horse reached Enora’s gates at full speed.

  Guards shouted and rushed forward, pulling Eamon from the saddle and carrying him inside. They ran through the halls until they reached a spare chamber, laying him gently upon the bed.

  Doctors were summoned at once.

  They worked quickly, binding wounds, stitching torn flesh, stopping the bleeding. When they finished, Eamon lay still, unconscious.

  Minutes passed.

  Then Eamon’s eyes snapped open.

  He bolted upright and swung his legs off the bed.

  “Eamon—stop!” Theodore shouted. “You’re too injured!”

  The doctors echoed him. “You’ll reopen your wounds!”

  Eamon ignored them.

  “King Haul fights for his kingdom,” he said through pain. “I will not stay behind while he risks everything—for his people, for his dream.”

  They fell silent as Eamon pushed past them.

  He left the castle, mounted a horse, and rode hard for the battlefield.

  Eamon burst through the gates into open ground and saw it.

  Haul.

  Surrounded.

  Eamon spurred his horse faster, sword already drawn. As he reached the fray, he stood atop the saddle and leapt, landing on an enemy soldier and killing him instantly.

  Haul turned, eyes wide.“Eamon! What are you doing here? You’re in no condition to fight!”

  Eamon bowed briefly. “Forgive me, my lord. But I will not stand aside while you fight for your kingdom, your people… and your dream.”

  Haul saw something then.

  Edward.

  Annabell.

  Standing behind Eamon—smiling.

  Haul nodded.

  “So be it,” he said.

  Eamon smiled.

  And together, they turned back to the war.