"So, wait," Guy asked, his blade dropping an inch. "Is she on our side now?"

Cassandra spun and charged him. Guy yelped and put up his blade to parry, only for Lyn to appear in front of him and block the attack instead. Guy strafed around the two women, moving to a flanking position, and struck again; Cassandra, as ever, parried the blow with ease, and the outcropping was a cacophony of clashing blades and scuffing feet once more. On the other side of the outcropping, Denning fell back, raising his bow at Canas; and Canas, in turn, held an open tome and had his palm out toward Denning. Neither loosed their attack, facing off in what appeared to be a stalemate.

The tactician in Mark took note of all this, yet only just. His attention was on the fallen morph before him. "Renault!" he cried, rolling Peleus's body onto its back. "Quickly!"

The bishop was already making his way around the combatants, staying well clear of the three flashing blades. Even before he arrived at Peleus's side, though, his expression greyed. "It's too late," he murmured to Mark, kneeling next to the body. "He's gone."

"We need to be sure." Mark was already feeling for a pulse.

Renault shook his head. "If my staff could do anything for him, there would be some reaction from it." He held up the staff, its gem glowing steadily, but dimly. "There's nothing we can do now."

All Mark could think to do was scream. He shoved the body away, collapsing backward on the ground. "We needed him!" he shouted, once his tongue returned to him. "We needed to force a surrender so we could fix the morphs!"

"That option is no longer available to us," Renault said plainly. He went to Peleus's bag.

Mark glared at him through his trembling eyes. "I know—"

"Then consider other options." Renault rummaged around in the bag for a moment, then pulled out the two books. "Red saves. Blue enslaves. Canas!"

"I'm rather occupied at the moment, I'm afraid," Canas called back. He and Denning hadn't looked away from each other for a solid minute.

Mark looked up, focusing on Denning. It was impossible to tell what was going on behind those golden eyes, but…

"He won't shoot," Mark called. "Stand down, Canas."

The scholar shot him a look that showed exactly how little he believed that statement. "Are you certain?"

"This is a message," Denning replied. He slowly lowered his bow, trembling all the way.

Canas only spared a moment to gape at the morph before rushing to Renault's side. "You've got the books?"

Renault responded by tossing Canas his staff. "Get this ready. I'll find the relevant passages."

Canas pulled the gem free of the end of the staff, and laid the two pieces before Renault, muttering some kind of incantation. Mark sat back, blinking at the two. "What are you doing?"

Neither answered, too deep into their work. Mark reached over and gave Canas a shake. "What's going on?" he demanded. "What are—"

Canas held up a finger, not stopping in his incantations. As he spoke, the dull crystal began to glow—but not its usual soft white; this was a strange, rusty glow. Mark wasn't entirely sure what they were doing, but he had seen Grace do something similar weeks before. "You're trying to modify this staff?"

The red glow stopped growing and evened out around the crystal. Canas let out a sigh, and nodded. "This is—well, was—a fortify staff. We can use it to cover a wide area."

"For healing?"

"For fixing the morphs."

"What?"

"It's a long shot," Canas said quickly, shooting Mark a pained look. "It would have been much better to force Peleus to make the morphs surrender. Then we do things properly, one by one, just as Cassandra had in the first place." He glanced at the swordswoman, still locked into her duel with Lyn. "But on the ride over here, I thought of using the staff, and when I explained my idea to Renault, he thought it had merit."

"And when were you planning on telling me about this?"

"As soon as the opportunity arose," Canas replied, raising his hand. "Which, as it turns out, was right now."

"Here!" Renault shouted, jabbing the page he was reading with a scarred finger. "Here's where Cassandra picked up my work! Ah, if only she'd been there to help me in the first place."

Mark glanced at him. "What—"

"Please, don't distract me," Renault said without looking up. "I must focus on my reading if we're to save anyone today."

Mark glowered at him. "You're the one who—"

"Leave him be," Canas said, laying a hand on Mark's shoulder. "I'll explain as best I can."

Mark took a deep breath. He didn't have time to be indignant. "How would this even work?"

A scholarly glint entered Canas's eye. "Staves can heal wounds, poisons, magical afflictions… Most only affect one target at a time, though a select few affect a wide area. Ordinarily you don't see those do anything other than healing wounds; the complex energies required for other things would burn through a staff's magic after a single use."

"But?"

"But it's possible. And it's also possible that, if we modify the staff with the information from the books, we can cast their effects over a wide area. The blue book should tell us how Peleus attempted to block their minds, and how to get past it; while the red book, with Renault's own knowledge and Cassandra's additions, should tell us how to free them for good."

Mark's felt the specter of hope looming over him. But—"This is how the morphs were meant to be," he said. "So can we 'heal' them from what may be their natural state?"

Canas averted his gaze. "I did say it was a long shot."

Any reply Mark may have made was cut off by a yelp from the battle. He looked up sharply to see Guy, a fresh gash across his leg, stumbling backward from Cassandra's bloodied blade. She swung at him again, and he parried masterfully; but the impact was too much for his injured leg, and he tumbled to the ground. His head struck a rock, and he went still. Mark cried out, lunging forward before he could think better of it, but he was far too late; Cassandra stood over the prone swordsman, ready to deliver a killing blow.

Lyn blew in like a wind on the plains. Before Mark could even breathe, she was between Cassandra and her prey, blocking the strike that would have ended Guy's life. She shoved their interlocked blades away, then brought her own up for a savage blow. Cassandra blocked it easily, but was forced to take a step back; then another; then another. Lyn bought the unconscious Guy some breathing room, and Mark took full advantage. He rushed in, took Guy by the arms, and dragged his body clear of the battle to where Renault was working. He checked the swordsman's pulse to confirm he was, in fact, alive; but he couldn't rouse Guy, and blood was already seeping from where his skull hit the stone.

Mark glanced up at the two women. Lyn and Cassandra moved like a whirlwind of dark hair and silver blades, ponytail and braid snapping as blades clashed again and again. It would have been beautiful, under different circumstances—and with different people.

It's a race, he thought as Canas leaned over to heal Guy's head wound. Renault and Canas need to finish their work on the staff before Lyn and Cassandra finish each other.

For there was no holding back in this fight. Up against an enthralled morph, holding back meant death. If Lyn won the duel, then Mark lost the woman he loved.

And if Cassandra won, they were all as good as dead.


At the gates below, another soldier fell, and Farina's gut clenched. This was not going well. Farina had forgotten just how hard morphs fought. Mark had hoped they'd be able to capture Peleus and force a surrender by now, but that ship had clearly sailed. There was motion on the mountain near where they'd dropped him and the others off, but no trussed-up or brainwashed morph leader commanding his underlings to surrender. They were going to have to survive this the old-fashioned way. And right now, even that was looking dicey.

She and the other fliers were harrying the enemy from above, keeping them from pressing the attack on any one portion of the ground troops for too long. There was only so much the five of them could do against a force of hundreds, though, especially in a pincer attack like this. If things didn't change soon—

An arrow whistled past her, bringing her attention back to the present. The enemy had some archers among their ranks, because of course they did. Miraculously, none of them seemed as skilled as the sniper Mark had told them about, and so far, she, her sisters, her brother-in-law, and her brother-in-law's crazy ex-commander had managed to avoid their arrows. That didn't mean they could get complacent, though, and the archers were making it harder to keep the pressure off the cavalry.

Still, here was one she could do something about. Tracing the arrow back to its source, she spotted the archer, about twenty yards away and protected by a circle of swordsmen. If she moved quickly, she could dispatch the archer and be out of there before any of them landed a hit. She leveled her lance, spurred her pegasus, and shot forward.

The archer's eyes should have widened, but the inhuman gold pinpricks didn't change at all as she rushed toward them. The swordsmen closed ranks around their ward, blades raised defensively, but Farina soared over the waving weapons like trees rustling beneath her. The moment she had a good angle, she dove. Blades bit at her armor and her mount's barding, but her lance struck true. The archer was thrust back, toppling a few of his guards before Farina managed to wrest her lance from his chest.

Dead. Mark wasn't going to like that. But there'd been no other way, and he'd just have to deal with it, same as the rest of them.

She urged her mount upward, only to suddenly slide from his back. She caught a glimpse of a severed saddle strap—an absurdly lucky strike from one of the morphs' swords—and then she was falling. She hit the ground with a jarring thud, momentarily stunned as she tried to right herself and pick up her dropped lance. No sooner did she close her fingers around the haft than there was a sword at her neck. She looked up into a set of merciless golden eyes, backed by a sea of others.

"Oh, crackers," she muttered, as the swordsman flexed to strike.

He never got the chance. There was a loud impact, and he stumbled forward, falling over Farina to reveal a bloody gash in his back. Farina looked up to see Raven raising his blade against another of the morphs. "Come on!" he roared. "Let's see what you're made of!"

They were made, as it turned out, of pretty tough stuff. The swordsmen had Raven outnumbered, and quickly beat him back, but by then Farina had gotten back on her feet and brought her lance to bear. The morphs soon found themselves flanked, and after two of them fell, the rest scattered, trying to reposition themselves for a better attack.

"We've caught a little breathing room," Raven panted, taking Farina's shoulder. "Are you hurt?"

"No," she said. Then she felt her side. "Ow! Ok, a little, but it's just a bruise. I'll be fine."

Raven nodded and turned back to the battle. "It seems we got here just in time."

Farina followed his gaze. Ostian banners flew above a line of infantry, with Dorcas, Karel, Jaffar, and many other familiar faces among them. Leading the charge was Hector, Armads sending morphs crashing to the ground left and right as he roared with the thrill of combat. Behind the front line, mages and archers provided cover, Wil loosing arrows alongside Louise, Erk and even Serra keeping the pressure on with spells. The reinforcements had all but taken the morphs by surprise, attacking their rear lines and putting the pincer maneuver in a pincer of its own. It was just as Mark had hoped would happen, if it came to this.

"You can say that again," Farina said, waving to her pegasus, which was beginning to descend now that he had a clear landing spot.

Hector shouldered his way through the fray to their side. "Farina. Still kicking?"

"Still kicking, milord." She went to the saddle and set about replacing the broken strap. "I'll be ready to get back into it as soon as I fix this."

"First, what's the situation with Mark's team?"

Farina pointed up the mountain. "We spotted Peleus's command post and dropped the team off. There's been no word."

Hector frowned. "You'd better check on them."

Farina opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again. He was right—they needed to know the situation, and with the reinforcements, she was no longer vital down here. Well, no longer as vital. "Yes, milord."

Hector looked down at Raven. The tension between them had evaporated in the heat of battle. "You should hang back with Grace. I'll lead the charge."

"Wait," Farina said, gaping, "Grace is here?" She looked over the sea of soldiers to spot a single short figure riding sidesaddle near the rear lines. "Why?"

Raven shook his head. "With respect, milord, the lines need both our strength. Grace has her escort, and her tome. She'll be fine."

"I'm sorry," Farina said, "is nobody going to tell me why there's a pregnant woman on the battlefield?"

Hector looked dubious. "Priscilla will kill us if we let anything happen to her."

"True," Raven agreed. "But Priscilla will also kill us if we let anything happen to each other."

Hector winced, and nodded. "Good luck, then." He raised Armads, rallied the soldiers, and charged forward.

Raven turned back to Farina, and shrunk under her glare. "Priscilla wanted to come," he explained. "It took both of us, as well as Anastasia and Serra, to convince her that she shouldn't be riding. But she absolutely insisted Grace be allowed to go if she couldn't."

"And you agreed?"

"You try winning an argument against two pregnant women," Raven grumbled.

That did sound like a losing battle. Farina shrugged at him with a smile. "Sisters, am I right?"

"You are right." He turned to go. "Fight well."

"You too." She finished with the strap and swung herself into the saddle. "Oh, and, uh… thanks for the save."

"Don't mention it." He looked back at her, and the shadow of a smile passed over his face. "And for what it's worth, I think blue's a good color on me, too."

Raven turned away before she had a chance to turn crimson. She leaned down, and muttered in her pegasus's ear, "Remind me to punch Fiora when this is through."

He shook his mane, and she spurred him back into the air.


"There!" Renault shouted, his hands trembling. "We've done it!"

Mark sprang to his feet. "You have?"

"Well, probably," Canas said, running a hand through his increasingly unkempt hair. "The spellwork is certainly sound, but these aren't exactly ideal working conditions—"

"We won't know for certain until we try it," Renault interrupted. He rose, cradling the now-reassembled staff in his arms. He turned to the combatants. Mark followed his gaze to where the rocks were slick with sweat and blood. Mark could hear Lyn panting between the clashes of blades; and while Cassandra showed no outward signs of weariness, she was definitely moving slower than he'd ever seen her in combat.

"Well?" Mark demanded. "Do it!"

Renault frowned. "We can't. Not here."

"What?" But even as he sputtered, he understood. "Because the staff will burn out?"

It was Canas who nodded. "If we use it here, it might—might—work on Cassandra, but the rest of the morphs would be unaffected, and we don't know if we'd be able to use it a second time. We need to get them all within range."

Mark looked down at the battlefield. The infantry reinforcements had arrived, thank the gods. Now the morphs were either defending the garrison or trapped between the infantry and cavalry lines. They were indeed all concentrated in a small area, perhaps even small enough for the modified Fortify staff to cover them all. They were also a long ways off, down a steep mountain, and in the midst of a deadly melee. Getting the staff into the midst of all that was going to be difficult enough. Getting Cassandra down there…

"Mark," Renault said, quietly, not softly. "We need a plan."

Every second the battle went on, more fell on both sides—friends and comrades, no matter which way Mark looked at it. In time, they could subdue Cassandra, but how many would die in the battle below before that happened? Was her life worth all those that would be lost? His heart said yes, but his mind screamed against it. The tactical decision was obvious.

The decision Cassandra would want him to make was obvious.

"Renault, cast your flashiest spell," Mark called. "We need to signal the fliers and get one of them up here."

"Actually," Renault called, "one of the pegasus knights is already on her way."

"Really?" Mark turned to find a distant white speck flying toward them. "Oh, good. Perhaps you shouldn't—"

Renault raised his arm, and the mountainside erupted with a pillar of light. Mark flung up his arm to shield his eyes, but it still took several seconds of blinking before his sight returned to normal. Renault cast him an apologetic look. "I figured I should still signal our location."

Mark had to admit he was right. But I don't have to like it.

It wasn't long before Farina landed on the outcropping. "I saw your light show," she asked. She looked at the swordfighters, eyes widening. "Are any of you going to help her?"

"I am," Mark said. "But first, you have to get Canas and this staff into the middle of the morph army."

Farina leaned forward in the saddle as Renault gave the staff to Canas. "Is today the 'nobody makes sense' festival, and I just forgot?"

"I'll explain on the way," Canas interjected before Mark could say anything. "But I'm afraid time is of the essence."

Farina motioned to the saddle. "Well, hop on, then. What's one more crazy gambit today?"

As soon as they were off, Mark turned to Renault. "How's Guy?"

"Stable, but I'm not going to be able to wake him up anytime soon."

"Then we'll have to deal with Cassandra without him."

"Agreed." The old bishop pursed his lips. "I don't suppose you have a plan for that, too?"

Mark turned back to the duel, still raging. Lyn still looks fresh, but I've been through enough battles with her to know her limits, and she's nearing them. I need to stop this now.

There was only other figure still standing on the rock, his eyes and his bow both lowered. Mark clenched both his fists, took a deep breath, and called out to him.

"Denning," he said, "I need you to shoot me."


Farina looked back at Canas, hoping she didn't appear too dubious. The way he'd explained it, the entire outcome of the battle might hinge on this weird shaman and his weird staff. The idea that he might be able to put a stop to all of this with just a healing spell seemed… unlikely, at best. But then, she knew very little about staves. There was a reason she wasn't a scholar herself.

Well, more than one reason. A lot of reasons, really.

"You've a better eye than I," Canas called. "For this to work, we need to get as close to the center of the morphs as possible. Where should we land?"

Farina wasn't sure why the passenger was giving the rider permission to pick out a landing spot, but she peered down at the battle regardless. Luckily, the demand made the spot an easy one. The morphs had their cavalry trapped between them; therefore, the center of the morph forces was in the midst of the human cavalry.

Actually landing in the middle of a bunch of warhorses struggling to deal with melee combat was another matter entirely. But she'd done more with less.

"Hold on," she called, the only response Canas got to his question. She tucked into a dive, and Canas grabbed the saddle with a startled cry as they plunged forward. She was keeping a close eye on the movements of the horses; Sain falling back as Isadora moved forward, and just for a brief moment, there was enough space between them to fit a pegasus. And that's where Farina fit her pegasus, gliding in and kicking up a torrent of dust and mud as they braked and landed in the narrow spot. Several of the horses around her reared in surprise, and she caught more than a few dirty looks form their riders, but they were soon distracted by the continuing battle. Nobody was hurt—just like she'd planned all along—and that was the important thing.

"Will this do?" she asked, craning her neck around to look at Canas.

The scholar had turned a little green during their descent, but he shook himself back to his senses and looked around. "I suppose it'll have to," he said at last, slipping from the saddle. "We're not going to get a better chance than this."

The reinforcements had helped ease the pressure on the cavalry, and they in turn were now pressing the attack harder than ever on the garrison, pushing to retake the carts of wounded humans the morphs had gathered. More and more enemies fell before them, some to their weapons, some to the non-lethal poisons Legault had provided. Farina even spotted Matthew himself weaving his way through the morph forces, bodies falling unconscious to the ground in his wake.

Kent and Sain were on them within moments of their landing. "What's going on?" Kent asked.

"We're going to try to solve all our problems with magic," Farina explained.

"Ah." Sain exchanged an uneasy glance with Kent. "Can we… help?"

Farina shrugged.

Canas shut his eyes and held up the staff, and Farina could feel the knights holding their breaths. It took her a moment to realize she was holding hers, too. Canas stood, still as a statue, the tip of the staff high in the air. His brow creased, and Farina felt hope slipping away. He lowered the staff and opened his eyes, and Farina realized this was the first time she'd ever seen him angry. "It's not working."

Silence seemed to reign, the noise of the battlefield suddenly seeming very distant. "Can you fix the staff?" Farina asked, without much hope.

"It's not the staff," Canas said. "It—" He put a hand to his forehead. "Fortify only affects allies. It's designed that way to avoid healing any enemies within range. It's the same thing that prevents you from accidentally using a sleep or berserk staff on an ally, only in reverse."

The riders glanced at each other. "How does the staff know?" Farina said.

"It doesn't," Canas replied. "It goes off the user's perception. Unless I see the morphs as allies—and they me—it won't work."

"Can you get around it?" Kent asked.

Canas held the staff at arm's length, glaring at it like a misbehaving child. "Perhaps, but it'll take time. I'll need you to protect—"

"Wait!" Farina shouted, taking a step back. "Wait. I have a really bad idea." She turned and swung herself into the saddle before anyone could say anything. "Don't take apart that staff until I get back, ok?"

"What are you doing?" Canas called, reaching for her.

"Don't worry!" She tugged the reins, and they were in the air, the others shielding their faces from the wind and dust from the wingbeats. "I'm going to bring a pregnant woman into the center of a battlefield!"

Everyone who heard those words turned to stare at her.

"I said it was a bad idea."


Lyn felt like she was fighting her own shadow. Cassandra could have been made using the quintessence of a Sacaean, the way she moved and fought like one of Lyn's own tribeswomen. Every time Lyn thought she had an opening, Cassandra would snake out of the way and counterattack; and every time she saw the blade coming, Lyn had parried it perfectly before she could even think. The two of them were evenly matched, and Lyn wasn't sure how this stalemate was going to break. Both of them were tiring, and even a morph was, in a sense, only human.

Except Cassandra would push herself to the breaking point and beyond. Which meant Lyn had to do the same, or she was as good as dead.

Their blades clashed, and Cassandra leaned in, her leering face filling Lyn's vision. "You never did go all the way with him, did you?" she asked. "A pity. He may not be much of a specimen, but he's useful as a distraction."

Heat rose in Lyn's chest, but her stance remained solid. She changed the angle of her blade, trying to slide it free.

Cassandra matched her, pressing back and keeping their swords locked. "Do you want to know what he smells like?" she said, a smile crossing her face. "Do you want to know what he tastes like?"

Lyn suddenly stepped back—a dangerous gambit, but one that paid off. Cassandra lost her balance, and the split-second it took her to recover and press the attack was enough for Lyn to reverse her angle and swing forward, forcing the morph to take the defensive again. "We shared a tent for weeks," Lyn growled. "I've smelled him plenty."

Cassandra's gold eyes darkened, and Lyn couldn't help but smile. Is she actually offended on his behalf? She danced forward with a series of strikes, not putting enough strength into them to penetrate Cassandra's defenses, but forcing her opponent to focus on parries, not giving her another opening.

Even as she was driven back, Cassandra kept up the taunting. "It's a shame your new man wasn't up to the challenge," she said. "You must be so disappointed."

Despite herself, Lyn's eyes flicked to Guy for a moment. Renault was tending to him, along with the fallen Luther, but her heart still ached at the sight of his unconscious body.

"Don't worry," Cassandra went on. "I'll kill him before he ever gets a chance to mourn you." She put on a pondering expression, at odds with the lightning-fast motion of her blade. "I'm not sure what I should do with Mark once you're all dead, though. Keep him as a plaything? Or just be rid of him? The boy's more trouble than he's worth, wouldn't you say?"

Lyn responded with a sudden thrust. Cassandra parried, but Lyn slid the blade forward and changed the angle, managing to slice into the morph's side. She showed no sign of pain, but Lyn's sword came away bloody, and she smiled at the small victory.

When Cassandra spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. "Or perhaps I should just—"

There was the snap of a bowstring, and both of them jumped backward on instinct. Only when she heard Mark's cry of pain did Lyn realize who the shot was meant for. Looking up, she saw the tactician clutching his neck, blood trickling under his fingers, as Denning nocked another arrow to his bow.

Lyn moved like the wind; Cassandra moved like lightning. Before Lyn was even halfway across the outcropping, Cassandra was at Denning's side. The archer was forced to abandon his shot as he ducked under Cassandra's swing, dancing backward to try and get enough room for a shot. She didn't give him the chance. Watching her blade was like watching a tornado tear across the plains, and Denning was just barely able to stay out of her reach.

Lyn stopped short, staring in disbelief. Even after seeing Cassandra impale Peleus, it was a shock to see her going after one of her own allies with even more ferocity than she'd fought Lyn with moments before. She was silent as the grave as she struck again and again, her face betraying no emotion; yet her frantic attacks spoke of an inner fury hot as the sun. Denning took another step back, then another—drawing ever closer to the edge of the outcropping. The mountainside wasn't sheer, but it was steep enough that falling down it would break you. If Denning went over the edge…

"Cassandra!" Mark shouted, waving his hands. His wound was uncovered now, and Lyn could see that it was truly just a scratch, hardly bleeding at all. Was that deliberate?

Cassandra halted in her attack, though she didn't turn from Denning or lower her blade. The archer likewise fell still, his hand twitching for his quiver, but remaining at his side.

"He's one of your people," Mark called. He took a step toward Cassandra, now holding his arms up in a calming gesture. "You have to protect your people."

"He attacked one of my people," Cassandra growled. "I—"

"It's your purpose, right?" Mark took another step. "You have to protect me. In all that time, I turned from being your prisoner to being… yours."

Cassandra's golden eyes narrowed.

"But Denning is one of your people too," he said. "You have to protect him. And I'm confident that means you can't attack him."

Her sword wavered for the first time that day. Lyn reached for her own blade, ready to attack if needed.

"I have to protect Denning," Cassandra agreed. "But I have to protect you, too."

"It's a paradox, isn't it?" Mark said. "You have to protect me from Denning, but you also have to—"

"No!" she snarled, turning away. "No. I am allowed to punish insubordinates. He will pay for hurting my people."

Denning's eyes widened as she lunged. He dove to one side, dropping his bow and barely avoiding her blade. Lyn ran forward, trying to intercept her, but she'd have had better luck chasing down the wind. Both morphs were too fast—but Denning was defenseless, now, and Mark's screaming wasn't doing anything to dissuade Cassandra. Unless he could think of something else, someone was going to die—and Lyn had to make sure it wasn't one of them. She gritted her teeth, raised her blade—

Again the bowstring snapped, and again Lyn instinctively ducked her head. She brought it up a moment later to a sight which, at first, she didn't quite believe. Cassandra had gone still, and before her stood Denning, a confused look on his face—and an arrow protruding from his chest.

Lyn turned to see Mark holding the bow, his whole body shaking. "I'm so sorry, Denning," he sobbed. "I'm so—"

Cassandra charged. Lyn moved to intercept, making a desperate slash to try and stop her, but all her blade came away with was hair; she'd cut the end of Cassandra's braid, but the morph charged on unhindered, her hair coming loose in the wind. Mark dropped the bow as she swung.

The blade came to a halt a hair's breadth from his throat. Cassandra herself all but stopped moving. She'd almost be still, were it not for the fact that she was trembling all over. Mark looked like he might drop dead of fear on the spot. But he, too, didn't move.

"All right," he said at last. "All right."

Cassandra gritted her teeth, and, as though with great effort, pushed the blade forward. Mark winced, and a line of blood appeared at his neck. Lyn stepped forward, but stopped herself from intervening. Tears were filling Cassandra's eyes, and she was trembling more and more with each passing second.

Mark focused all his attention on Cassandra, and for a moment, the pain left his eyes. "I love you."

Cassandra screamed.

And her blade fell to the ground.


"They've broken the lines!" Sain shouted excitedly. "They've—gods, is that—"

Canas whipped around, following Sain's gaze to the rear line of the cavalry—the direction Farina had flown. There was a mighty tumult in the morph ranks, and in a moment, the reason for it became clear. Hector and Raven burst through the morph lines, each wearing an identical expression of battle fury and all but trampling the foes before them. "Try to run!" Raven roared.

"Try to hide!" Hector answered, sending a morph flying with a swing from Armads.

Sain let out a low whistle. "I never thought I'd see the day when those two worked together."

Canas was less interested in the fighters than in the rider behind them. Grace, still seated side-saddle, nevertheless was coaxing all the speed she could from her mount as she charged down the path Hector and Raven had cleared for her. Farina followed behind, making sure no morphs pursued Grace as she thundered past their lines.

"Special delivery," Hector said, slinging Armads over his shoulder as he strode up to Canas. "Farina said you needed Grace?"

"Yes, er, well," Canas said, glancing down at the staff. "It's rather more complicated than that, to be honest. What we actually needed was—"

"We don't have time for complicated," Raven interrupted. He pointed to the staff. "Is that it?"

"That's it," Canas affirmed.

Grace rode up, not even bothering to dismount, and all but snatched the staff from Canas, inspecting it closely. She couldn't have possibly discerned everything they'd done to it, but after a second of study, her eyes widened. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, this just might work."

Without a moment's hesitation, she lifted the staff. "Let there be an end."

The gem blazed with light.