Melanna’s father reached her side. His cloak was torn. Uneven gait betrayed injuries concealed by gilded armour.

“Daughter, you must go. My guard will hold them long enough for your escape.”

“No!”

He removed his helm and set it aside. Earnest eyes bored into hers. “You must. The redoubts are emptying. Our warriors’ hearts are failing. The battle is lost. I will not lose you alongside.”

Our warriors. Not his. Theirs. If only she’d heard those words in happier times.

Melanna stared out to the west, to blue tabards lining up beneath the redoubts. At the familiar shadow gathering beyond the beleaguered shields. She could do as he asked. Sera’s chandirin would bear them both away. But . . . “And what of you?”

“My place is here, come what may.”

Death or capture. Which meant death now, or death later, his last dignity stripped away before baying crowds in the grey city. Melanna gritted her teeth against her tears.

“No! It won’t end like this! I won’t let it!”

Her father’s tone hardened. “It is not for you to choose. As your father – as your emperor – I command you to leave. To keep our family name alive.”

Thick, bitter laughter spilled from Melanna’s lips. “Oh, Father . . . When have I ever followed your commands?”

She pushed him away. The white flame blazed in her hand. “Saranael Brigantim!”

Tears hot on her cheeks, she ran for the shield wall.

Akadra cut a path towards the owl-banner, claymore a bloody blur. Josiri kept pace though there was little for him to do in that trail of carnage, save dispatch those the widow-making blade had merely stunned, not slain.

A line of golden shields split apart. White flame blazed, given purpose by a young woman’s hand.

And Akadra? Akadra did the very last thing Josiri had expected. He shrank back, hands upraised as if to shield his eyes from the piercing light. Seeing her victory, the woman screamed like a cyraeth claiming the damned. The white flame crackled and swung for Akadra’s head.

But then Josiri was there, between Akadra and the fire. His skin prickled with the heat. The edge of his blade ran molten beneath the alabaster flame. The woman screamed and ripped her sword away. The fire came again.

Again, Josiri parried. This time, he’d attention enough to note the woman’s youth. Younger than Calenne. Almost young enough to be his daughter. And yet there was something familiar about her. Not her face, but her manner. Josiri had seen it enough in his own reflection that past week. Frustration. Self-loathing. They could almost have been twins – if in spirit, rather than flesh.

But . . . a woman in the Hadari ranks? And not robed as a lunassera? Josiri recalled the details of his conversations after Crovan’s death. Was this Melanna Saranal, the would-be emperor’s daughter?