On both sides of him, archers sent their arrows into the bodies of the men below. Almost two dozen had fallen, spilled blood colouring the snow a hideously lurid red and the water dark like wine. Clutching the bow in one hand, he turned to look down into the courtyard. Blood was flowing there, too, and not only Skarlan blood. Fraynean soldiers had fallen, their comrades forced to step over their bodies as they fought to hold the line. No grand story of heroic battles could have prepared Ren for this raw and brutal carnage, for the cries of injured men mixing with the shouts of exertion and sharp clangs of steel. The only comfort was that the Skarlans were suffering far more casualties than the Fraynean soldiers.

A hard tug on his arm made Ren yelp, and he stumbled aside just as an arrow bounced off the stone beside his head.

“Excuse me, my lord.” The young man who had tugged him aside looked at Ren with wide, blue eyes. He was barely older than Hellic, strands of black hair sweat-damp despite the cold.

“Thank you,” Ren said, oddly out of breath. The young man turned, gripping his bow tight and leaning against the battlements once more, eager to throw himself back into the fray. More arrows followed the first and Ren staggered back, out of their range.

Ren tossed his bow. It was no use to him. Instead, he drew Hellic's sword, grip tight on the hilt.

“Ren!”

He whipped around. Anik had left the defence line and scaled the stairs. He wasn't looking at Ren, but was scanning the courtyard below where their men were holding strong. “Where's their commander? I just saw him, but now he's gone.”

“Is he inside?” Ren called back, following Anik's gaze. He searched the crowd for a gilded helmet or a flowing cloak, any sign of elevated status, but all he saw were the blood-stained uniforms of men in white and grey.

“No.”

“Maybe he's dead.”

“He's not dead!” Anik shouted, and Ren saw frustration in his eyes when they looked at each other.

“Stop, in the name of the King.” The voice cut through the shouts of men and the clatter of weapons.

Ren spun around to look out over the battlements.

From the back of the severely diminished Skarlan army came the commander in his silver armour. In front of him sat a boy, pressed against the commander's chest with the man's blade at his throat. A young boy, with dark hair and a furious expression, despite the streaks of dried tears on his cheeks.