So saying, he raised her up and – to Melanna’s surprise – drew her into an embrace. The Immortals of his guard hung back, silent and disapproving. She suspected her father’s rare affection appalled them as much as she appalled them. Only Hal Drannic had understood, and he was dead – cut down by the man-of-shadow.

“I’m not Ashanal,” she breathed. “I am Saranal, and Saranal alone.” He drew back. “What do you mean?”

She could lie. She could tell him that being his daughter meant more than any divine tie. He’d believe it, especially in that moment. But she had to tell someone. “The goddess rejected my desire for war. Her steward gifted me the sword.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable. “Emperors rule despite the will of the gods, not because of it. I’ve no doubt that you will one day do the same.”

A sliver of guilt fell away. Not quite enough, but close. “Thank you, Father.”

“Emperor, soon enough.” With a sudden bark of laughter, he swept his hand across the battlefield. “They are broken! Defeated! This day, the house of Saran has done something not seen for centuries! We’ve humbled the bloodless Tressians on their own territory. Let the Golden Court deny me my father’s throne now.”

“Then it is done?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “All but. Devren holds the south. Aedrun will scour the slopes. As for their patchwork fortresses? We’ll crack them apart with catapults and take the survivors by spear. Are you hale enough to join me, daughter? It will be half the victory without you.”

Melanna squeezed her sword and felt her strength return. Her head still throbbed. Her cheek still stung. Neither mattered. Not now.

“Of course, my emperor.” She dipped head and knee in formal curtsey.

Her father bellowed with laughter. “Now you’re prepared to behave as a woman should? Had I known a little bloodletting was all it took, I’d have indulged . . .”

He broke off at the blare of a distant horn. Not a Hadari horn. It was brighter, brassier – a triplet of low notes capped by a half-octave leap. Melanna had heard it many times during her weeks in the Southshires. The signal call that roused wolf’s-heads to attack.

“It’s Crovan,” she said tightly. “The Wolf King’s betrayed us.”

Josiri ran full-tilt down the slope, careless of the treacherous ground. One misplaced boot ran the risk of injury or indignity, but he let the wild notes of the horn drive him on.

Maiden’s Hollow emptied behind him. Wolf-cloaks, bandits; the downtrodden and the dispossessed. They screamed like madmen, drowning out fear and doubt. This wasn’t war as Josiri had known it at Zanya – the serried ranks and the banners streaming high. The wolf’s-heads formed no line and bore no heraldry. They were a mob, driven by the guilt of inaction, betrayal and hesitation. Like Josiri, they came for redemption or the Raven’s embrace.