Queen Alkaia bears down on her cane and raises one green, rune-marked palm to her people. “Free People of Amazakaraan.” Her ancient voice booms out, amplified by the scarlet rune hovering in the air just below her mouth. “The Goddess’s Prophecy is here.” She glances up at the Shadow-coated dome, her emerald eyes narrowing as if sizing it up for battle. Then she sets her fierce gaze back on her people.

“The Mages think they can terrorize us with their Shadow power. Place bonds around our throats. They falsely imagine that the Goddess’s Own True Daughters can be brought to heel.” She straightens, and Wynter can sense the collective will of the people rising around her as the monarch crushes the missive in her fist. “Blessed Daughters. Who here will raise weapons to journey beyond our dome and smite these invaders with the Goddess’s own fury?”

A tremendous roar sounds as every Amaz from thirteen up draws runic weapons and raises them in the air, the weapons’ scarlet runes burning bright as those that mark the city’s dome.

Wynter’s throat suddenly tightens, and it’s not a normal tightening.

It’s a Zalyn’or tightening.

Scared that she’ll lose the ability to speak if she waits a second longer, Wynter fans out her ragged wings and steps forward.

Queen Alkaia and Freyja both meet her gaze in evident surprise. The queen raises a hand for silence, and the cries of defiance settle into a thrum of gathering runic power.

“I seek to send a message!” Wynter croaks out, her wings flapping against the Zalyn’or’s suffocating grip on her voice.

Queen Alkaia’s gaze sharpens. “What message do you seek to send, Wynter Eirllyn?”

“I seek to send my wingeds!” Wynter rasps before she’s choked off. She motions emphatically toward the Shadow-covered dome.

A subversive gleam enters Queen Alkaia’s eyes. “Send your message, then, winged friend of the Amaz,” she says, voice blazing with revolution. “Let the first true volley in this war be sent by a Zalyn’or-marked Icaral.”

Wynter drops to one knee and lowers her head, her ragged wings fanning out to their full breadth as the Amaz step back to give her space. Burrowing into her minuscule surviving ember of Icaral power, Wynter drags in a breath, then forces her invisible sterling aura out.

The incoming rain-sound of wings beats on the air, birds closing in from all directions, some soaring through the shadowed dome: black-throated warblers, silver-crowned sparrows. Crimson tanagers. A host of hawks and owls, eagles and falcons. Flock upon flock circles down, their panicked tweets and caws overtaking the plaza as they descend toward one single target.

Wynter.

The Amaz surrounding Wynter draw back in astonishment as birds land in a thick mass around her winged form.