Stars burst in my eyes even as I heard explosions punctuating the air as Angoulême and Marc fought. Magic ripped Roland off me, tossing him into some bushes, but he was back in a flash, body turning to mist as he ran through Marc’s defenses, solidifying just before he struck. I rolled, his fists striking the earth where my head had been seconds before.

But he was on me in an instant, fingers clawing and bruising my legs as he clamored up my body, reaching for my throat. Then Martin appeared out of nowhere, wrapping his arms around Roland’s waist, and pulling him off me. Prying open the boy’s lips, he emptied a handful of gleaming blue liquid into Roland’s mouth and let go of him. Roland stood gaping at him for a heartbeat, then a tear opened in the world and Martin stepped through, dragging the troll prince with him.

But I wasn’t out of danger yet.

Angoulême and Marc battled on, magic flaring bright with concussive blasts that made my ears ring. Swaths of trees were leveled while others were reduced to a smoking ruin. And beyond, I could see the twins had brought the battle to the camp to keep Angoulême’s people from helping their master. Ignoring the aching pain of my body, I rolled behind a boulder, keeping my head down as I watched.

For all of the Duke’s bluster, it seemed an even match, both dripping sweat as they dodged and attacked. But like Pénélope, Angoulême had spent his life avoiding any chance of injury, and that sedentarism had come with a cost. His breath came in great winded gasps, and he began to trip and stumble as he dodged Marc’s blows.

“Come on,” I whispered. “Come on.”

Then he fell, landing on his side in the mess of blood the spell on Roland had left behind. He struggled backwards, barely deflecting Marc’s next attack.

“There’s a long list of people who wanted this honor,” Marc said, pulling out a sword. “I hope they forgive me for taking it myself.”

“No!” The scream sounded like breaking glass, and Marc barely turned in time to block Lessa’s blow. She wore her own face, and it was coated with blood, her hair a tangled mess, and her clothes torn. She attacked with a mad ferocity, not giving Marc a moment’s respite.

Which was why he didn’t see Angoulême move, or the knife that appeared in his hand.

But I did. And I also saw that his face was smeared with Roland’s blood, blood that was steeped with all the iron I’d pulled from the boy’s body. I reached for the power, for the magic, and said, “Bind the light.”