The bottomless pain in Wynter’s silver eyes lights a spark of compassion in Freyja. She steps toward her, suddenly decided, even though part of her feels as if the Goddess will fly down from the heavens to shake her in censure. “We will petition the queen together,” she vows. “And when we reach the East, Wynter Eirllyn, I will help you find Rivyr’el Talonir. And we will petition the Vu Trin to help your brother and his Second.”

A grateful smile lifts Wynter’s alabaster lips.

The owls abruptly grow agitated, and Wynter’s smile vanishes as she looks to her kindred in confusion, the owls hooting in distress before they fly away.

Freyja lowers her gaze back to Wynter only to find the Icaral’s eyes widening as they lock on something over Freyja’s shoulder.

Freyja unsheathes her rune axe and whips around, shock blasting through her as she takes in what’s just beyond the runic dome.

Alfsigr Elves, white as moonlight. But they’re bizarrely elongated, as if someone has stretched them on a rack.

And their eyes.

Huge and swirling with gray. Almost insectile in shape. And there are runes made of shadow marked all over their white Alfsigr garb and on the hilts of the swords in their hands.

Strange swords with spiraling blades.

A chill flashes down Freyja’s spine as she does a swift count of them. Seven Marfoir assassins.

The Marfoir step toward the dome, their movements unnaturally coordinated.

“Get off our land,” Freyja growls as she advances toward the shield.

“Don’t fight them,” Wynter cries. “They’ll kill you.”

Freyja’s nostrils flare as she readies her weapon. “Get the Amaz Guard,” she orders Wynter with a brief glance over her shoulder. “Get them now!”

Wynter nods, but then freezes as Freyja turns to find huge, spidery legs bursting from the Marfoir’s backs, then clicking inward. Legs as salt white as the Marfoir’s skin.

Freyja’s chest constricts as she takes a step back.

In unison, the Marfoir grin.

Their legs click outward as one, extending then drawing inward once more toward the shield, almost touching it. Curling shadow begins to rise from the tip of each pale spider limb to flow over the dome, hugging its surface and spreading out, the Marfoir’s forms darkening as the fog of Shadow advances.

The last thing Freyja sees of the outside world is the insectile eyes of the Marfoir directly before her, a terrifying smile on his bone-white lips. Horror rises, alongside the ferocious will to save her people as she swiftly weighs attack them versus warn the Amaz.

Decided, she mentally summons her forest green mare, dives into the grove to meet the beloved animal, and jumps astride. Then she prods her horse forward, yanks Wynter up behind her and urges the mare into a gallop toward the queen.

CHAPTER TWO

THE REAPING TIMES

Marcus Vogel

The Northern Spine
Overlooking the city of Cyme, Amazakaraan
Western Realm