then it was done.
Distantly, above the surface, the Bane
swore. Whether in fear or awe, she didn’t
care.
Surfacing enough to gulp down a breath,
Lysandra submerged again. Even in this form,
the cold tore at her, the water murky and dim,
but she swam with the current, letting it guide
her on its way out of the ancient tunnel.
Beneath the city walls. Into the wider
Florine, where the cold grew nearly
unbearable. Thick blocks of ice drifted
overhead, veiling her from enemy eyes.
She swam down the river, right along the
eastern flank of Morath’s host, and waited for
her signal.
The Crochans took to the skies, a wave of red
that swept over the city and its walls.
Atop the southern section of the wall, Ren