Fighting against the fuzziness growing in
his head, Aedion began signaling. First to the
shifter holding the line, trying so valiantly to
keep those forces at bay. Then to the Thirteen,
perilously high in the skies, to get back to the
walls—to stop Morath’s creeping before it
was too late.
High up, the cries of the wind bleeding into
those of the dying and injured, Manon saw the
general’s signal, the careful pattern of light
that he’d shown her the night before.
A command to hurry to the walls—
immediately. Just her and the Thirteen.
The Crochans held the tide of the Ironteeth
at bay, but to fall back, to leave—
Prince Aedion signaled again. Now. Now.
Now.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
River, he signaled. Enemy.