Page 136 of Fallen Nocturne

“Demons and fae,” I offer.

Every silver hand tightens around its weapon. “Better.”

The sixth call shakes the plateau.

“Yselle, Mother of Rot. Wake.”

The earth bulges. Twisted trees pull themselves free, roots tearing from the soil. Faces move beneath their bark.

I hear Siofra make a small sound behind me, a breath pulled sharply through her teeth.

When Yselle stands, her shadow falls across three companies of elven soldiers. She turns toward them. A murmur of awe and fear moves through the watching army.

I move to the seventh circle. My hands are beginning to shake.

“Corven, Knight of the Last Roost. Your queen calls you.”

A flock of ravens bursts from the center of the circle. They wheel above us in a screaming spiral before collapsing together. Black feathers become armor. Wings become a cloak. A beaked helm forms over a face hidden entirely in shadow.

Corven kneels before me. “You are not my queen.”

“No,” I admit.

He tilts his head the way ravens do. “But you freed mine.”

“I did.”

He rises and draws a sword made from a single black feather. “Then my debt remains.”

The eighth passage is different.

This one I do not call so much as invite. There is a difference. Some things from Astefar must be dragged toward the opening. Others need only be shown an open door and given a reason to cross.

I draw a smaller circle, no wider than the span of my hands, and scatter crushed flower petals across its center.

“Little Thistle,” I call gently. “Come into the light.”

A tiny hand appears between the petals.

Little Thistle pulls herself through, no taller than my thumb. She has dragonfly wings, a dress made from overlapping leaves, and a crown of yellow flowers tangled in her dark hair. A spear made from a sewing needle rests against one shoulder.

She takes one look at the open sky and covers her eyes.

“It is too bright,” she complains.

“The light will fade when the battle begins,” I vow.

“Promise?”

She peers at me through the narrow gaps between her fingers.

“I promise.”

Little Thistle lowers her hands and gives a sharp whistle.

A distant buzzing answers.

The sound grows louder until a dark cloud appears above the trees. Thousands of bees sweep across the plateau, led by one enormous golden queen. Sadie. Behind them come moths, beetles, wasps, and every winged creature that still answers Little Thistle’s call.