I began to shake my head. You said no good-byes.
“Azriel,” Rhys said quietly. Hoarsely. “You lead the remaining Illyrians on the northern flank.” Guilt—guilt and fear rippled in my mate’s eyes at the command. Knowing that Azriel was not fully healed—
Azriel didn’t give Rhys a chance to reconsider. Didn’t say good-bye to any of us. He shot into the sky, those still-healing wings beating hard as they carried him toward the scrambling northern flank.
That armada sailed nearer. Hybern, sensing their reinforcements were soon to make landfall, cheered and pushed. Hard. So hard the Illyrian lines buckled. Azriel sailed closer and closer to them, Siphons trailing tendrils of blue flame in his wake.
Rhys watched him for a moment, throat bobbing, before he said, “Cassian, you take the southern flank.”
This was it. The last moments … the last time I would see them all.
I wouldn’t run. If it all went to hell, I would make it count and use my own last breath to get that army and king wiped off the earth. But right now …
Hybern’s armada sailed directly for the distant beach. If I didn’t go now, I’d have to charge right through them. The Weaver was already slowing on the eastern front, her death-dance hindered by too many enemies. Bryaxis continued to shred through the lines, swaths of the dead in its wake. But it was still not enough. All that planning … it was still not enough.
Cassian said to Rhys, to me, to Nesta, “I’ll see you on the other side.”
I knew he didn’t mean the battlefield.
His wings shifted, readying to lift him.
A horn blast cleaved the world.
A dozen horns, lifted in perfect, mighty harmony.
Rhys went still.
Utterly still at the sound of those horns from the distance. From the east—from the sea.
He whipped his head to me, grabbed me by the waist, and hauled me into the sky. A heartbeat later, Cassian was beside us, Nesta in his arms—as if she’d demanded to see.
And there … sailing over the eastern horizon …
I did not know where to look.
At the winged soldiers—thousands upon thousands of them—flying straight toward us, high above the ocean. Or the armada of ships stretching away beneath them. More than Hybern’s armada. Far, far more.
I knew who they were the moment the aerial host’s white, feathered wings became clear.
The Seraphim.
Drakon’s legion.
And in those ships below … So many different ships. A thousand ships from countless nations, it seemed. Miryam’s people. But the other ships …
Out of the clouds, a tan-skinned, dark-haired Seraphim warrior soared for us. And Rhys’s choked laugh was enough to tell me who it was. Who now flapped before us, grinning broadly.
“You could have asked for aid, you know,” drawled the male—Drakon. “Instead of letting us hear of all this through the rumor mill. Seems we arrived just in time.”
“We came looking for you—and found you gone,” Rhys said—but those were tears in his eyes. “Makes it hard to ask someone for aid.”
Drakon snorted. “Yes, we realized that. Miryam figured it out—why we hadn’t heard from you yet.” His white wings were almost blindingly bright in the sun. “Three centuries ago, we had some trouble on our borders and set up a glamour to keep the island shielded. Tied to—you know. So that anyone who approached would only see a ruin and be inclined to turn around.” He winked at Rhys. “Miryam’s idea—she got it from you and your city.” Drakon winced a bit. “Turns out, it worked too well, if it kept out both enemies and friends.”
“You mean to tell me,” Rhys said softly, “that you’ve been on Cretea this entire time.”
Drakon grimaced. “Yes. Until … we heard about Hybern. About Miryam being … hunted again.” By Jurian. The prince’s face tightened with rage, but he surveyed me, then Nesta and Cassian, with a sharp-eyed scrutiny. “Shall we assist you, or just flap here, talking?”
Rhys inclined his head. “At your leisure, Prince.” He glanced to the armada now aiming for Hybern’s forces. “Friends of yours?”
Drakon’s mouth quirked to the side. “Friends of yours, I think.” My heart stopped. “Some of Miryam’s boats are down there, she with them, but most of that came for you.”
“What,” Nesta said sharply, not quite a question.
Drakon pointed to the ships. “We met up with them on the flight here. Saw them crossing the channel and decided to join ranks. It’s why we’re a little late—though we gave them a bit of a push across.” Indeed, wind was now whipping at their white sails, propelling those boats faster and faster toward that Hybern armada.
Drakon rubbed his jaw. “I can’t even begin to explain the convoluted story they told me, but …” He shook his head. “They’re led by a queen named Vassa.”
I began crying.
“Who apparently was found by—”
“Lucien,” I breathed.
“Who?” Drakon’s brows narrowed. “Oh, the male with the eye. No. He met up with them later on—told them where to go. To come now, actually. So pushy, you Prythian males. Good thing we, at least, were already on our way to see if you needed help.”
“Who found Vassa,” Nesta said with that same flat tone. As if she somehow already knew.
Closer, those human ships sailed. So many—so, so many, bearing a variety of different flags that I could just start to make out, thanks to my Fae sight.
“He calls himself the Prince of Merchants,” Drakon said. “Apparently, he discovered the human queens were traitors months ago, and has been gathering an independent human army to face Hybern ever since. He managed to find Queen Vassa—and together they rallied this army.” Drakon shrugged. “He told me that he’s got three daughters who live here. And that he failed them for many years. But he would not fail them this time.”
The ships at the front of the human armada became clear, along with the gold lettering on their sides.
“He named his three personal ships after them,” Drakon said with a smile.
And there, sailing at the front … I beheld the names of those ships.
The Feyre.
The Elain.
And leading the charge against Hybern, flying over the waves, unyielding and without an ounce of fear …