back foot by foot toward Orynth.
And there was nothing Lysandra, nor any
of the Crochans or rebel Ironteeth, could do to
stop it.
So witches died.
And below them, on the city walls, soldiers
from so many kingdoms died as well.
The final stand, the last few hours, of their
desperate alliance.
Manon’s breath was a rasp in her throat, her
sword arm aching.
Again and again, they rallied and drove
against the Ironteeth legion.
Again and again, they were shoved back.
Back toward Orynth. Toward the walls.
The Crochan lines were foundering. Even
the Ironteeth rebels had begun to fly sloppily.
How had they fought and fought and still
come to this? The Thirteen had given up their