Page 115 of Crowned By Roses

A face appears right before me, features formed of smoke and shadow. Sira.

I blink. She’s gone. My pulse skitters as I struggle to stand.

“Roots run deep, little rose.”

I brace my hand on the nearest tree, trying to catch my breath. The bark shifts, and she grins out at me, eyes of wood and mouth dripping with sap. “Do you think I couldn’t feel you? Couldn’t see you? I am everywhere!”

I scream and stagger away.

“Rosalina!” Kel cries, catching me in his arms.

I clutch his chest. “It’s started, Kel. The ritual. She’s binding her magic with the roots of Castletree.”

Kel’s eyes widen with horror as he looks over the ridge. “She’s becoming the Vale itself.”

“She knows we’re here. We’ve lost the element of surprise,” I whisper.

Aquila clutches her glowing net, illuminating her face. “We can’t keep waiting for your friends. If we don’t attack now, it’ll be too late.”

Kel and I exchange a look.

The Elderblood and Winter…against all Sira’s forces.

“It’s your call,” Keldarion says, looking at me, “Your Majesty.”

I stare out at the horizon again. No army appears. No hope in sight.

Except for what we can muster right here, right now.

My heart finds its rhythm. My father’s face appears in my mind’s eyes, smiling reassuringly. A breeze gusts around us, but this time it doesn’t smell like rot.

It smells of roses.

“We fight.”

49

Keldarion

Is this what it means to be the Sworn Protector of the Realms?

To lead my people to a sure and pointless death? To leave only a legacy of blood? To die beside my wife on the fields of battle?

The red light of sunset is only a pale bleed behind me, night crawling in with a hunger. And through the smog, the full moon’s radiance fights its way through.

My throat is thick, palms damp on the reins of my steed, the giant reindeer, Arktos. We pace back and forth across the ridge. Down below lie the remains of the Briar and the rubble of Castletree—and thousands of Sira’s fighters.

But on the ridge with me are soldiers formed in perfect ranks. Kryodian Riders. Tundrafolk. Deep Guard. Guards from Frostfang and all the neighboring cities. Elderblood spearmen and archers, disguised as Winter soldiers. My wife, dressed in rose-gold armor, golden wings shimmering behind her, looking like a legend who stepped straight from the pages of a book.

All waiting for my command.

I cast one last look to the horizon. My brothers. Caspian. They’re not here.

So it must be us then. Winter and those once of the Above, come together in a final stand for our home.

Taking a deep breath, I pull on the reins and stop before the ranks. If we are to die today, I would have them know what they die for.

“It is a terrible thing,” I call, “to leave one’s home and loved ones, to take up sword and spear and bow, and to face down an evil that we have never seen the likes of before. I stand before you, heart asunder for asking you to stay by my side. But if ever there were a time to take up arms, it is upon us.” My steed gallops down the line. “Sira thinks she can take the magic from the Vale, but she’s wrong.” I hold as many of my soldiers’ eyes as I can. “The magic is within us. It is in our hope when we feel all has been lost. In our honor when we stand for what is right, even against the most hateful storm. It is in our valor when we speak for those who cannot.”