“I’ve been looking for you,” Martin said, winding his way through the islanders as they stirred. He started to say something else, but his voice was drowned out by the blare of a horn. Not the horn Angoulême’s followers had used in their attack, but the great horn of Trollus. It blared again, then I caught sight of movement in the trees and trolls broke into the open, sprinting our direction. Hundreds of them.

“I brought reinforcements,” Martin said. “Now let’s get out of the way.”

The citizens of Trollus descended on Trianon, some stopping to pluck the oath-sworn islanders up, drawing them back and holding them steady, while others leapt though the breaches in the wall, attacking Angoulême’s followers. They showed them no mercy, ripping them to pieces, and once the soldiers and half-bloods realized they were allies, not enemies, they roared a rallying cry. Not long after, it turned to cheers of victory.

The battle was over, and against all the odds, we had won.

But not without cost.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Cécile

The rows of bodies seemed to go on forever.

A drop of sweat dripped into my eye, and I wiped a grimy hand across my forehead, not caring that I’d probably left a streak of blood, dirt, and worse behind. The soldier before me was breathing steadily, his chest now a network of scars rather than open wounds, but what was saving one compared to the hundreds who’d died because of my choices, my actions?

I sat back on my haunches, watching yet another cartload of sleeping islanders trundle past, headed to the prison, which had been deemed the only safe place to keep them. Except for the children – Marie had insisted they all be brought to the castle, where she’d enlisted several of the newly arrived trolls to watch over them in case any woke.

But it was a stopgap. Asleep, they could neither eat nor drink, and we hadn’t the resources to tend to each individual as we had with Aiden. The young lord remained under my spell – and Zoé’s watchful eye – his mother insisting he remain so until we’d won the day. And if we lost, well… It wouldn’t matter at that point if the King’s compulsion had destroyed his mind or not.

“Is Tristan still unconscious?” Marc knelt next to me, handing me a steaming tin cup.

I nodded, trying not to let my fear show. Too easily, I conjured up Vincent’s face, devoid of all that made him him, and wondered if the same had happened to Tristan. Whether he lay somewhere, alone, with a head injury so traumatic that even his seemingly endless power hadn’t been able to overcome it. After all, his power hadn’t been able to help Vincent.

“Victoria and Chris are looking,” Marc said. “They’ll find him.”