the enemy had gone into the river at most.
None would emerge.
Barely a dent in the force now advancing.
Aedion didn’t have words for his
commanders, who had known him for most of
his life, perhaps better than anyone. They had
no words for him, either.
When Morath reached their shore at last,
swords bright in the gray day, Aedion let out a
roar and charged.
The ilken had learned that a shape-shifter was
amongst them, and wore a wyvern’s skin.
Lysandra realized it after she’d swept for
them, leaping from the army’s ranks to slam
into a cluster of three.
Three others had been waiting, hiding in
the horde below. An ambush.
She’d barely taken out two, snapping off
their heads with her spiked tail, before their