On the far gibbet, Roslava Orova stared down at her feet, lips twitching in the silent speech of addled wits. Horden had spent too long on Dregmeet’s boundary not to know that demons existed. For all he knew, she was something worse. But Sevaka? She’d done nothing more than defy her mother. A good man would have recognised that. But Horden had no illusions to being a good man. Sevaka had to die so that his sons might live.

“I’m sorry, I’ve no choice.”

He raised the brand.

A brisk wind sprung up across the hilltop. The air came alive with crow-voices. The brand’s flames flickered and rushed back brighter than before. His blood cold as ice, Horden spun about, but saw no sign of the screeching flock. There was only the clutch of prisoners, the battle raging beyond the outer ring, and the remnants of the crowd on the western roadway.

A crowd at whose forefront now stood Malachi Reveque. At his back stood a dishevelled, filthy mass of men, women and children, familiar faces among them. Lady Adrias Rother, wife of Sartorov’s master. Hawkin Darrow, whose marriage Horden had attended only a week prior. And at Malachi’s side . . .

Horden stared at his distant sons. Perhaps there was still time to be a good man. He thrust the brand back into the brazier and began to climb.

Viktor closed his eyes and let his shadow soar. The lunassera had brought the kraikons to a standstill. Proctors had failed to restore them at battle’s end, claiming that some other, heretical magic had doused the light within. And what was his shadow but anathema to the light?

Through the shadow he saw not constructs of steel-clad bronze, but shards of light on a hilltop buffeted by shifting greys. One such blaze flickered and died – the last of Elzar’s kraikons torn apart by its brethren. Others remained. Could he quench the light as he’d absorbed the Dark in Josiri’s soul?

He dove down into the light.

His shadow screamed.

It was a moment before Josiri realised the bellow of pain had been Viktor’s. By the time he turned about, the other man was on his knees, sword abandoned and hands clamped about his head.

“Viktor?”

He rocked back and forth. A low, thin moan – more the growl of a wounded animal than a man. Frost whitened his surcoat and gathered in the stubble of his beard. One eye on the kraikons, Josiri crouched beside him.

“Viktor?”

Mist curled up from Josiri’s mouth and danced briefly in the sunshine before fading from sight. How many times had he imagined the hated Lord Akadra laid low? How often had he prayed for it? But not now. Not like this.

The victorious kraikon turned from the remains of the vanquished. Golden eyes fixed on Viktor as if they sensed his weakness. White leaves scattered from branches as they bore down.