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poisoned claws had forced her to flee. So
she’d drawn the ilken back toward her own
lines, right into the range of Ren’s archers.
They’d gotten the ilken down—barely.
Shots to the wings that allowed Lysandra to
rip their heads from their bodies.
As they’d fallen, she’d dove for the ground,
shifting as she went. She landed as a ghost
leopard, and unleashed herself upon the foot
soldiers already pushing against Terrasen’s
joined shields.
The skilled unity of the Bane was nothing
against the sheer numbers forcing them back.
The Fae warriors, the Silent Assassins—Ansel
and Galan’s few remaining soldiers spread
between them—neither of those lethal units
could halt them, either.
So she clawed and tore and sundered, black
bile burning her throat. Snow turned to mud
beneath her paws. Corpses piled, men both