Ryn stumbled into the Candlemakers’ makeshift camp, panting.
“Kael is on his way,” she managed, doubling over with hands on her knees, chest heaving.
The sun was just breaching the eastern peaks, gilding the ragged treetops, and casting golden waves over the frost-covered ruins of the old mill where they had made camp. Canvas tents flapped in the morning wind near the frozen creek that cut through the clearing.
Ward followed several paces behind her, less hurried but no less grim, one hand resting on his sword hilt, nervously scanning the tree line.
“Kael?” Oona stood from the firepit where she had been tending the morning flames, brushing ash from her palms. Relief, momentary and foolish, rippled through her voice and across her features. “He made it? Did you find Sarah?”
Her amber eyes held a hope that made Ward’s expression soften before he delivered the blow.
“No sign of Sarah,” Ward said flatly, his breath forming pale clouds in the morning air. “Kael made it alright… and he brought the Crown.”
The words hung in the clearing, frozen mid-air.
Around the camp, the scattered Candlemakers—perhaps twenty in all, a mix of villagers and true believers—paused in their morning activities, heads turning toward the conversation.
Oona blinked. Her hope died like a candle snuffed by a sudden draft. “No. There must be some mistake.”
Ryn shook her head, her dark braid snapping across her shoulder. “No mistake. They’re coming down the western ridge. I saw the banners myself.” Her tone hardened.
“And Kael is riding at the front.”
Oona lowered her head as she stared silently into the fire, the kettle beginning to hiss behind her, steam rising to join her frozen breath. Her shoulders, which had straightened at the mention of Kael’s name, now curved inward. Betrayed.
“We can’t fight a whole army,” said Marcus, breaking the tense silence. He stood near the tree line, arms crossed over his chest, gaze tracking the horizon as if he could force the Crown soldiers to materialize through the power of his gaze. “Not out here. Not like this.”
Their encampment suddenly seemed pitifully small: a handful of tents, a struggling fire, a few hunting weapons, and kitchen knives turned into weapons. The Candlemakers had faith, but belief wouldn’t stop arrows or turn aside swords.
“It’s me they want,” Oona said calmly, despite a shiver. “And Sarah.”
“Don’t matter,” Ward muttered, moving closer to the fire for warmth, “they’ll burn the rest of us anyway.”
Morning light crept across the encampment, touching each face one by one, revealing all: fear, resolution, uncertainty, hope. The fire popped and hissed, sending a shower of sparks upward.
“I’ll go,” Oona said, straightening her shoulders. “Meet them before they come.”
Marcus pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning against, his face flushing with anger despite the cold.
“No way,” he objected. “I just rescued you from the castle dungeon.”
A brief smile crossed his face, victory remembered, then devoured by the threat bearing down on him.
“No way I’m letting you go back. I’ll go. I’m the master of Threadneedle now.”
Ward pitied him. That was worse.
“They’ve taken the Castle,” Ward said quietly. “Elena is in irons. The Seat of Threadneedle no longer belongs to Thorns.”
No one spoke, but the sounds of the camp and still mountain morning filled the gap—the wind through pine needles, the distant cry of a hawk, the crackle of the fire, the rasp of a sword being sharpened, and one of the younger Candlemakers praying.
Marcus stood frozen, shock rendering him momentarily wordless and smaller. The reality of his family’s fall from power physically diminished him.
“They’ll be here in minutes,” Ward said, quieter now. “Whatever we’re doing, we do it now.”
“It’s got to be me,” Oona said, rising to her feet, still limping from her tower jump.
“Go with her,” Ryn shot to Ward, her gaze hard with suspicion. “I’m not sure I trust that one,” she added, squinting toward Oona. “She was calling in the Crown at the Broken Needle. No need to take more risks.”
As Ward nodded reluctantly, Oona finished gathering her cloak around her shoulders. The camp fell silent as all eyes turned toward the hill.
Framed against the mountains in the morning sun, two horses appeared, riders merged with their mounts in dark symmetry.
Then, as if sprouting from the earth, a thousand soldiers dotted the hillside, armor glinting in the early light, weapons at the ready, and banners snapping in the wind.
Oona limped out to meet them, her slight figure tiny before the force stretched across the hillside. Behind her, the Candlemakers gathered at the edge of camp, a ragtag assembly against the military might on display. Their faces showed it all. They were done for.
As the distance closed, Kael rode ahead, leaving Sorian mounted above the army, his dappled horse pawing at the snow-covered ground, agitated.
The sun was now pushing its rays fully over the mountain peaks, transforming the blue-tinged snow into fields of gold and diamond.
As they met in the neutral ground between the two forces, Kael dismounted his black steed, which snorted clouds of steam in the cold. He moved toward Oona with the intention of an embrace, his face a complex map of emotions.
She recoiled; the memory of their last kiss turned bitter. The Crown’s army at his back stood as damning evidence against whatever words he might offer.
“What is this, Kael?” she asked, the question hanging in the chill morning air. “The Crown? You’ve gone back on all you stood for, on us.” Her eyes flashed with hurt and anger. “When we last met, I was saying we needed their power. You talked me out of it, only to destroy me and everything else.”
He tried to calm her, reaching for her hands, but she pulled away.
“No, Kael, let me finish,” she insisted. “You must turn them around.”
“Oona, please,” he said urgently, low enough for her ears alone. “We need them. We can’t fight Nexus alone. We need their army.”
“Do you think their swords and arrows will be of any use against Nexus?” She gestured toward the soldiers, their weapons suddenly seeming like children’s toys against the threat both of them understood all too well.
“It’s too late for that,” she said, shaking her head. “I must go to Nexus before it gets Sarah. I can stop it.”
Kael stared at her, his expression sorrowful, weighted down with things she couldn’t name. He leaned in, clasping her hands in his. For some reason she let him—drawn by a truth she recognized in his eyes.
“Nexus has Sarah,” Kael said, in words like stones. “It’s too late. A Crown camp, eviscerated. A garrison destroyed, and Riven took Sarah—to the tower...”
Together, they turned toward the tower, which glowed with an unnatural light, electrified by some inner power. Kael couldn’t be sure if the shimmer was just the sun catching ancient stone, but an unmistakable blue beam pulsed from one of the high windows.
“Then we must act now,” Oona said, the last of her resistance falling away in the face of this new, greater threat. The feud between Crown and Candlemaker suddenly seemed small, a human quarrel, beside Nexus.
Kael nodded, then waved to Sorian, whose horse, at his signal, sprang into motion, galloping over the snow toward them with hooves kicking up diamond dust in the golden light.
Behind them, Candlemakers and Crown soldiers regarded each other with suspicion across the clearing.
But the tower’s pulsing blue light washed them all in the same cold glow.
“Here,” Sorian said, pointing to the map. “I’ll lead the flanks against the tower when the sun is at high noon, while you sneak Oona inside. Like this...”
His fingers traced a sinuous path around the crude sketch that lay between them: a map splashed with red arrows, scribbled diagrams, and at its center, the tower.
“The key is getting her into the tower. We’ll distract Nexus.”
“Fat chance,” Ryn snorted, arms crossed, loud enough to make a few of the Crown officers bristle.
“You can draw arrows on a map all day, general. Doesn’t mean we’re marching.”
The makeshift tent’s canvas walls snapped with each gust, while lanterns swayed overhead, casting erratic shadows across the battered map that dominated the central table.
Around the table stood an unlikely war council. Crown officers stood shoulder to shoulder with Candlemakers, but the air was tight with tension—like a charge searching for a ground, ready to crack this fragile unity.
Sorian stood with both hands braced on the table, his polished gauntlets pressing down over a corner of the parchment. He didn’t blink.
“You’re part of this army now,” he stated, a command, rather than an observation. A slight disdainful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a smirk a few officers mirrored, like dogs seeking favor.
“No, we’re part of what’s left,” Ryn shot back, edging closer to the table.
“We’re not risking lives for some android girl none of us even knows. She used to sweep my floors, and she ratted out Martha and the rest of you.”
That hit home. Several Candlemakers shifted, glancing sideways at one another. Doubt whispered like smoke.
Kael faced Ryn from the opposite side of the table, arms folded across his chest, the lanterns tracing sharp shadows across his face.
“She’s more than that,” he said, stripping off some tension. “She’s also human. And whether she wants it or not… she has the key.”
He glanced around the table. “Nexus will purge not only the Candlemakers. Everyone. The world. We’ve seen what it can do.”
He let that hang, before he dropped, “Now, imagine if it had the Covenant.”
A shiver passed through the tent, the glow from the tower reaching inside and touching them all with cold fingers.
Ryn didn’t blink. “And you want us to follow the Crown now? Him?” She jabbed a thumb toward Sorian. “Behind him?”
Sorian looked down his nose, flexing his jaw. “I’ve led more battles than you’ve had birthdays, barmaid.”
The insult fired like a match near kindling. Ryn didn’t flinch. “Strange. You’ve led all those battles… and still walked into this one blind.”
In the corner, Ward ran a whetstone across his blade, slowly. “If I had an ale for every fool lost to a general’s plan…” he muttered.
“I will not stand for this belligerence,” Sorian said, exhaling. He spun around to the tent flap, done explaining himself.
“Wait.”
It was Oona who moved in front of him, blocking his way, immovably soft-spoken and impossible to ignore.
“You’re right to question, Ryn.” She looked at her with respect. “We all should.”
Then she turned, voice rising just enough to reach the rest.
“But she’s also wrong. This isn’t about the Crown. Or who’s loyal or not. Or who betrayed Martha. The truth is,” she said, looking at each face in turn, “we’re all guilty of something.”
The wind pressed in, the tent groaned, and for a half second, no one took a breath.
“Maybe you, Oona,” Ryn said, whispering the words. “Not all of us bargained with tyrants in secret.”
“No,” Kael said. “She’s right.”
All eyes focused on him, Crownsman-turned-Candlemaker. He gazed at Ryn, just her. “It wasn’t Sarah’s fault. I framed Martha.”
The floor dropped out from under the room.
“I planted the knife and made sure it was found. I knew what it meant, but I did it anyway.
He was calm, but his look betrayed the cost of the confession.
Ryn didn’t blink. She didn’t speak. Not at first. She only glared at him, her face drained of color.
Then, “You bastard.”
And she turned. Walked straight out. The tent flap slapped shut behind her like a verdict.
The rest stood frozen as the ground.
Then Marcus cleared his throat, rough with the question they all carried. “But if Martha didn’t kill Edric… then who did?”
Everyone stared at Oona.
She stood motionless, cloak drawn tightly around her. “No,” she said simply. “It wasn’t me.”
But the doubts lingered. Faces once filled with resolve now faltered. Someone sighed. The wind rattled the tent ropes. And outside, distant and barely visible over the ridge through the open tent flap, the tower pulsed blue.
The sun climbed higher over the snowfield, shrinking the shadows.
It was time.
“We go,” Sorian said, pushing past Oona to open the tent flap.