Twelve gripped her axes so tightly the grain of the wood was imprinted on her palms. She couldn’t believe what she’d seen. Goblins avoided Hunters and had done so even before the Dark War.

She bit her lip and risked another glance around the door frame. There were now two of them visible, both shorter than her but powerfully built, their features too large for their faces. Gleaming armor caught the ghoulish green light and their weapons glinted—it was like seeing the pages of her books come to life.

One of them spoke. “You have the plans, Ferrick?”

“I have memorized them, my lord Morgren. I will find her,” Ferrick said, his voice breathy, excited.

“Excellent.”

“There are prisoners down here,” Ferrick said. “Shall I kill them?”

Twelve stifled a gasp. On her shoulder, Widge could have been made from rock.

“No, leave them. Soon there will be no one to bring them food or water. Dehydration is a slower, crueler death than even you could deal.” Morgren’s laugh turned Twelve’s stomach. “Come, Ferrick, we have matters to attend to.”

“Yes, my lord.”

There was another roar. The stench that accompanied it almost made Twelve retch. On her shoulder, Widge chittered fearfully, his nose wrinkled in disgust. She shrank back into her cell and shuddered in horror; there was an ogre out there with the goblins—she was sure of it. Only an ogre could smell so terrible. A rattling snarl made the hair at the nape of her neck stand up—that was the sound of a winter wolf.

Twelve crouched down, pressing her back against the cell wall and closed her eyes, listening as a procession of creatures forced their way through the narrow passage to the staircase. The green glow dwindled as the goblins climbed up.

The fear-freeze that had settled over Twelve lifted slowly. She stood shakily, clutching a trembling Widge to her. She’d always thought she’d look forward to her first real battle; the truth was a brutal shock.

Think about the person you want to be.

Silver wouldn’t cower in a cell like this, Twelve was sure. Victory certainly wouldn’t. Making up her mind, she darted out of her cell and grabbed the candle before hurrying along to Five. Whole chunks of the ceiling had come down outside his cell. Twelve tried to be quiet, but her breath sounded foghorn-loud in her ears as she scrambled over the rubble. Miraculously, his candle was still burning and the key was still in the alcove. When she turned back with it in her hand, his pale face loomed, eyes staring.

“Wh-what in Ember happened?” he whispered, dazed.

“The lodge is under attack,” Twelve whispered back, handing him his candle from the alcove. “We have to get up to the training ground and warn everyone.”

“You’re letting me out?” he asked. His usual arrogance was gone and he sounded much younger.