“Brace yourself,” Marc said, and a heartbeat later, a horn blared and everything turned to chaos. Pistols fired and then men surged at their targets, steel blades in their hands. I saw a dozen trolls or more go down, but Báthory was not one of them. One hand pressed over the spurting hole the bullet had left when it exited her chest, she screamed and spun, catching Fred’s blade as it descended and wrenching it from his hand. Plucking it from the air, she sliced with a speed no human possessed, catching him on the arm. He went down, the crowd falling over him, and I screamed his name.

“Báthory,” Marc shouted, then he was over the wall, landing amongst the humans, who even in their stupor seemed to know enough to move. The air charged, magic smashing against magic; then the Comtesse was flying through the air, landing some distance away. Marc sprinted after her, sword in hand, and with a cruel slice, separated her head from her neck.

But none of that mattered. Not caring about the risk, I hung half over the wall, searching for Fred amongst the teeming mass. “Fred,” I screamed again. “Marc, find him!”

His silver eyes searched with no more success than mine, but before he could do more, stone shattered and a section of the wall collapsed. Shaking his head at me, he ran in the direction of the breach.

I didn’t know what to do. Even if I didn’t break both my legs jumping from this height, I was likely to be crushed by those beneath, most of whom were significantly larger than I was. But my brother was down there. My brother.

There was only one thing I could do, and if it gave away that I was alive, that Tristan was alive, then so be it.

I began to sing.

The islanders stilled, then sank down into the mud, their faces serene as they listened. I searched amongst them for my brother, relief crashing through me as I saw him struggle out from under the limbs of a pair of men, then drag himself away from the crush of humanity. His arm was bleeding profusely, but he was alive.

For now.

Because amongst the seated humans, there stood several cloaked figures who were unaffected by my magic. Not all of Angoulême’s followers had been killed. Not even close.

As one, they attacked, hammering against the half-bloods’ shields, and when those fell, the thick rock beneath. Sections of the wall crumbled or were blown inwards, and everywhere, everywhere, there was screaming. Great pieces of stone fell on the islanders below, their serene faces never registering fear as they were crushed, maimed, and killed. The soldiers behind me fought valiantly against the trolls who strolled in through the breaks in the wall, stepping on fallen humans like they were cobbles of a paved street. I hazarded a glance back and saw Marc fighting amongst them, but he was only one against dozens.