A movement above the shimmering net caught Twelve’s eye. Three sparks whirled against the darkness, growing larger as they swooped beneath the skybridges. She stared in disbelief. The firesprites. What were they doing back at the lodge? Around her, the Hunters’ voices grew to a roar.

“The Hunters are my family now and always.

I swear before them that I will never lower my weapons

In the face of darkness,

Nor allow tyranny to rise.”

Slowly, Twelve bent low, and picked up her axe again.

Chapter

Forty-Nine

Like darts, the three sprites streamed down into the training ground. To Twelve’s horror, Brightfire and Burnfoot grabbed the sinister net. Flames plumed spectacularly from their wings as they touched the threads of magic and wrenched them up, away from the Hunters beneath. The net fought back, huge compared to them, wrapping itself around them, crushing their wings as they sent great gouts of fire coursing across it.

“What in Ember are they doing?” Five gasped.

“Looks like they’re saving us,” Twelve said grimly, unable to tear her eyes from the firelit battle overhead.

Morgren swore furiously and began to throw spell after spell at the sprites, hopelessly tangled and fighting above him. But the net was shaking, falling apart, and it was clear Morgren was struggling to maintain it.

“Hunters, ADVANCE!” Hoarfrost’s voice boomed, seizing the opportunity. All around him, Hunters dived for their daggers.

The rows of goblins in front of the armory raised their weapons as one, their faces as blank as death masks.

“We’ll never break through!” cried Six. “Not without Dog.” Around them, the Hunters surged forward, carrying the little group with them.

“We have to try,” said Twelve simply, readying her remaining axe as the rows of goblins loomed closer.

They were brought up short by Sharpspark appearing suddenly in front of Twelve, his face fierce and furious. “What are you doing?” he shrieked, his tiny hands scrunched into burning fists. “Why do you not use your power?”

“I . . . What?” Twelve gasped, as Hunters poured past them, battle cries streaming from their lips.

Above them, Brightfire and Burnfoot sent the last and brightest of their fire zinging along the threads of the net before vanishing with it in a flash of violet light. Morgren roared his fury.

Sharpspark reeled where he flew, would have fallen to the ground if Twelve hadn’t stuck out a gloved hand to catch him. For a moment, his fire dimmed to nothing and he appeared impossibly fragile, slumped in the palm of her hand. His wings were gossamer, his skin almost translucent.

“Are they . . . ?” Twelve didn’t know how to finish the question.

“Gone,” Sharpspark whispered. “Returned to the Great Flame.”

“I’m so sorry,” Twelve said.

Fire began to flow over Sharpspark again as he flew off her hand, his teeth lengthening in anger. “Sorrow is useless,” he hissed. “We promised to serve you, and we are.”