The Ashlords come on horseback. Fifty are mounted. Another hundred soldiers march in a perfect, bronze column up the mouth of the valley. They move with steady caution, because they know they don’t need to hurry. The Curiosity’s servant showed them how many of us there are. Whatever he saw, they saw. We have no horses summoned. We have few supplies.

And we have nowhere to run.

Bastian considered fleeing north and dismissed it. A glance in that direction shows how right he was. Running would have been useless. The valley stretches on for miles. We’d have to scale the cliffs and mountains flanking the valley to avoid the mounted Ashlords. Which makes the wall our only choice. A narrowing, defensible point.

Bastian quieted his men and commanded them to the different choke points and entryways. He ordered me to stand on the ramparts with him. He tried to protect Luca, but my cousin spat on the ground, grabbed a sword, and went to join the ranks below. Bastian muttered something about mountain-raised Dividian and shrugged.

It strikes me that Bastian is the same age as the Shor brothers. If he lived in my village, Mother might try to invite him to my birthday party in the hopes of matching us up. Unlike the Shor brothers, he’s not training to be a locksmith or a city clerk. Bloodshed is knocking at the door, and Bastian looks excited. This is what life in the mountains has trained him to do, to be.

I have to take a deep breath to stay calm. There are a handful of his men posted along the ramparts with us. I watch as they load spare pistols and polish weapons, preparing for battle. My gut clenches every time one of them glances my way. They’re probably just looking to their captain, waiting for orders, but I can’t help feeling like there’s an accusation in their glances. I’m the reason this battle has come to their doorstep. The idea turns my stomach.

“Let me go,” I say. “I’ll give myself up. They’ll leave.”

“No, they won’t.”

“I’m not going to let this happen.”

“Hey,” he says, fixing his eyes on me. “You’re not the only one who can make something out of nothing. Got it? This battle is by design, Imelda. Just stand there and look rebellious.”

The words don’t make any sense, but I resist asking the questions that burn to life. Instead, I stand there with my chin raised and watch as the Ashlord soldiers form ranks. A single rider separates from the company and trots forward, his ringed hand held up to signal a peace negotiation. The sight has Bastian grinning.

“The burners forget we play by different rules here,” he says. “Cover your ears.”