“Even the mighty Bone Tree can’t go against the rules, Varia,” he says. “You should know that better than I. Much better. You had five years of formal training, after all.”

“Lucien!” Varia’s snarl turns keening. “Don’t do this!”

The falling line of valkerax comes closer and closer, the ground trembling and roars crescendoing. A line of writhing white cuts the high blue sky in two. The impact’s going to kill us all. I can see them now, their whiskers and their scales and their eyes—every valkerax with six ghost-white eyes and no pupils, and fear crystallizes into horror as I realize every single one of them is looking right at Varia. No matter which way their body is twisted, no matter how twisted or how fast they writhe, every massive wolf-maw head is focused dead on her. Like they’re going to eat her whole rather than obey her.

There are so many. So many more than I ever thought.

Time behaves badly again—someone pulls me away by the hand, and even through the clamminess of their skin I know the feel of those fingers, those callouses. Lucien. A flash of white hair as Malachite pulls us both away from Varia, and Fione’s broken sob as she raises her crossbow higher. Toward Varia.

The valkerax are close enough for me to smell their collective rotting breath.

Time slows. Impossibly slow, for all of one quick second. I turn my head over my shoulder, my neck bobbing at the force of Malachite’s simultaneous yank, but my eyes strain to stay on Varia. A Varia standing alone in a muddy wasteland, looking at us. Betrayal, anger—all the burning emotions on her face melt away to something quieter. Lonelier as we flee from her. From it. White feathers and scales from the valkerax rain down like animal snow.

A lonely princess stands there and stares as the world falls down on her. A single white feather lands delicately in her outstretched palm.

The shadow of the valkerax eclipses her.

Impact.

The first bodies to hit the ground break instantly under the others, flesh and bone and valkerax screams. Blood vaporized by sheer speed explodes out, a fine, hazy red mist hanging in the air for a split second. And then the earth heaves, force rippling the mud like waves, and all four of us are flung off our feet like rag dolls.

Someone reaches for me in the air, gripping frantically and curling around me. We hit mud, not hard ground, going skidding for what feels like miles. Malachite to my side, Fione on top of me, Lucien around me, and then the ground gives way, and we fall into nothing. Fione’s scream, Malachite’s beneather swear, and Lucien’s hand around my waist, his golden fingers turning black at the tips, up the knuckle, to the palm.