As the days passed and the season latened, Chancellor Ivescent had been hoping the throne wouldn’t bloom. How long until they stood no chance, until they didn’t reach Northvel in time to break the siege? How long until he was forced to witness the end of his dream?

  No, that couldn’t happen. He needed to see it through to the end. He needed to see a nation whole again, to restore the idyll of his younger years. He’d settle for nothing less. Perhaps he could arrange a desperate defence of Vel Aerdeil instead, rallying a new contingent of elves to his cause.

  More and more Aerdians gathered around the city, and now, among vast contingents of infantrymen, there were swathes of Aerdian horsemen grazing in the fields, too. To hide from them, their scouts, their prying messengers, he spent most of his days in the Summer Palace, helping organize ration distribution and keep the morale of the marshals high.

  Conversations were easy. He could offer them empty reassurances, and after his many years, he was getting good at telling people what they wanted to hear.

  But today, when he returned to the main hall of the Summer Palace, he saw what he dreaded most.

  A crown of leaves appeared at the top of the old throne, vibrant and green despite the season. Workers, soldiers, and marshals all gathered around it, staring up. As Ivescent watched, colour bled into the branches, then leaked down to the moulded chair and the floor. A coat of leaves sprang up all across the throne’s fanned tail, bleeding vibrant green into the room. It was late at night, but the leaves glowed with Essence.

  Chancellor Ivescent winced and exhaled, then stepped into the room and walked toward the throne. Marshals turned toward him, looking for orders and commands—even Marshal Velbor.

  Ivescent was at a loss for words.

  If they went this late, if they charged the Dominion lines, there was a high chance of failure. But he’d promised Pirin…

  Fabric ruffled outside the hall, and a shock of white fabric descended outside the vestibule. Ivescent spun to face it. An airship had just settled down on the terrace outside. Doors on the side of its control gondola slid open, and its passengers sprinted out. Two Aerdian soldiers, an Aerdian marshal in ornate ambersteel armour, and Myraden—with Kythen close behind.

  “Marshal The?mir!” she announced. “He is here to see you, chancellor.”

  The marshal stormed into the hall, past the opening of the vestibule, and stopped after a few paces. “The throne…” he breathed.

  Myraden beamed, and Kythen bleated excitedly.

  Ivescent turned back to the throne. Crimson flowers bloomed in rings around it, tracing the strongest veins of Essence in its form. Marshal Velbor turned to the chancellor, looking on with curiosity. Myraden’s gaze burned into the back of his skull, and Marshal The?mir stood sternly, arms crossed judging.

  There was no choice.

  “Muster your men, The?mir,” Ivescent said. “We ride to Northvel. Gather the horsemen in an advanced column. I…I will travel with them. Marshal Velbor, I need you to lead the infantry behind us. You and the weavelings will clean up the stragglers. Understood?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Velbor said.

  A smile crept onto The?mir’s face. “Ivescent. You’ve changed.” He paused. “Or you’re better at hiding it. But either way, I will gather the Aerdians.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Pirin met a middle aged mortal elf called Marshal Teanor in the main plaza behind Northvel’s gates. He was taller than average, and a few inches more than Pirin in all directions, but his battered, dented silver armour still cut an imposing figure among the crowd of Sirdian soldiers and weavelings.

  With the citylords deposed, this marshal was in charge of the city, and Pirin intended to let him lead the siege. He’d know the tactics better than Pirin, and besides, Pirin had a wizard to slay. Sooner than later, Lord Three would show up.

  The weavelings and Sirdians all muttered cautiously amongst themselves, watching Pirin and the marshal. Snowflakes fluttered down, tinted slightly magenta in the moonslight, and torches blazed. In the distance, bows still twanged, and crews scrambled around the walls, readying the trebuchets.

  “Marshal Teanor,” Pirin said, “I grant you control of the Sirdian army, and of the defense of this city. Please, to the best of your ability, hold off the Dominion.” He held up the section of throne-branch. Green veins ran along it, and leaves sprouted out its ends. The sides stayed smooth and pale, but it didn’t matter. He’d fuelled the throne.

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  “You dealt with the city lords, I take it?” Teanor asked, tilting his head toward the palace. “Damn fools nearly had me give up the city for their pride and appearances.”

  Pirin nodded. “They won’t be a problem.”

  All around the edge of the plaza stood houses, shops, and apartments, and civilians and refugees watched out the windows. They all knew the situation, and pretending it wasn’t happening did nothing.

  “Are the trebuchets ready?” Pirin asked.

  Marshal Teanor motioned to a soldier on the wall with a hand signal, and the soldier motioned back.

  “Trebuchets are armed and ready, your majesty,” said Teanor.

  “Wonderful. Let’s send the Dominion a welcoming gift.”

  Marshal Velbor flicked his finger out away from the wall, and a shout rang out across the ramparts. The trebuchets’ counterweights dropped, and with a wooden creak and metallic clatter, they flung chunks of stone and rubble out into the field beyond. Pirin couldn’t see if it hit, but with how large the Dominion’s army was, they had to have hit something.

  “Keep them firing,” Pirin said. “Can we inspect the gate?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Marshal Teanor. “This way.”

  He led Pirin across the plaza, then down a main thoroughfare lined with weavelings and hasty, improvised defenses—in case the outer wall fell and they had to fight in the streets. Barricades of wood, intertwined logs, and leaning walls of stakes would slow an enemy army if they breached the outer wall.

  But Northvel had no main gate. At least, not in its wall. The thoroughfare sank beneath a retaining wall, and the paved cobblestone street entered a tunnel. It dipped down beneath the now-frozen river and its culvert, then descended a few more storeys while widening into a cavern wide and tall enough to fit the Featherflight. A gate stood at the very end, with two broad wooden doors currently held open in case the defenders at the bottom of the walkway had to retreat.

  Here, more weavelings stood on either side of the hall, forming neat rows with the shields and spears, but leaving a channel for inspectors and marshals to walk through.

  “They’ll form up if we have to defend the gate?” Pirin asked.

  “Indeed,” said Marshal Teanor, walking a few steps behind Pirin. “Many of these are the weavelings from Dremfell, ready to prove themselves and hold the wall.”

  “Who is in command of them?”

  “I…I am, my lord.”

  Pirin nodded. “I am going to appoint a secondary marshal to give direct control of the street-bound weavelings,” he said. “He’ll be under your command, too, and will listen to you, but we need someone who can make an immediate response to threats here—threats at the gate.” Pirin motioned toward the open doors. “When the shoddy wall at the base of the cliff falls, we won’t have much time.”

  “I understand,” said Marshal Teanor.

  Pirin rose up on his tip-toes and surveyed the crowd of weavelings. None of them moved, but the middle-marshals were clearly visible with their dark blue pauldrons. They stood at the front of their army.

  At the very end of the hall, in an unassuming position, was Skell, with his soft features and vaguely recognizable face. Pirin ran over to him, Teanor and Gray close behind, and said, “This one.”

  Skell ruffled and clicked in his weaveling language. It was an expression of confusion and misunderstanding, so Pirin repeated what he’d told Teanor, then added, “Skell fought at Dremfell and helped rally the army so we could retreat. We wouldn’t be here without his valour. I’m making him vice marshal of the city defenses.”

  Marshal Teanor nodded, then reached out and clasped Skell’s wrist. The weaveling beamed beneath his helmet.

  “All of you!” Pirin shouted, then jumped up on a heap of scrap wood. They were probably going to brace the door with it, but it made the perfect place to speak to the crowd from. Sirdians gathered at the top of the entrance cave to watch, and the weavelings inched closer. No pressure, though.

  Even Gray looked up at him with her beady black eyes. Make it count, Pirin.

  “All of you know me as the Embercore king, the failure, the boy who you were supposed to pin all your hopes on. I have bad news. I am still an Embercore, and furthermore, the people who told you I was of noble blood? They are false. I wasn’t chosen by anything but a few desperate men. Well, I’ll not have my destiny controlled by others, nor something out of my grasp.”

  The crowd looked on with confusion. A few of the Sirdian soldiers let out dismayed sighs.

  “But know this: an Embercore can change his destiny.” He turned toward the open doors and launched a Shattered Palm out the city gate. The blue handprint raced through the air and grew to nearly twice his height. A shockwave rolled across the crowd, and just activating the technique was enough to exert pressure on the mortals around.

  They fell silent.

  “Northvel isn’t destined to fall. The throne blooms, and the Aerdians are coming to our aid. We need to survive until then. Get the civilians to the inner city, and hold fast. We can do this. I’ll be at your side, but I need all your help. I need every hand I can get. Are you with me?”

  Skell raised his spear and shouted, and Gray fluttered and chirped. The rest of the crowd burst out into shouts. They raised their spears and pounded their shields, or drew swords and raised their bows.

  Pirin grinned, then hopped down from the stack of wood. He turned to Marshal Teanor and said, “I leave the micromanaging to you, Marshal. As quickly as I can, I need to imprint the Charges on my armour, and I need a forge. Could you send a messenger to the palace and arrange that?”

  “Charges?” Marshal Teanor tilted his head. “My lord, if we’ve got any of those relics left, they’ll be in the store-tunnels beneath the palace.”

  “I understand,” Pirin replied. “I’ll be quick and use them, then join the battle with enchanted armour—and a powerful sword.”

  Teanor raised his eyebrows. “There’s a problem. They’re barricading the store-tunnels. Those tunnels had access routes at the base of the Sheercliff, and they Dominion could use them to invade the city. They’re going to collapse the entrance…”

  Pirin glanced at Gray. She chirped confidently.

  He said, “We’ll be fast.”