Haul rode for Enora at full speed. When the kingdom gates came into view, he urged his horse harder, burst through the entrance, dismounted before it had fully stopped, and ran straight into the castle.

  Theodore met him at the threshold.

  “How many surround the kingdom?” Haul demanded as he moved, never slowing.

  Theodore fell into step beside him, walking with haste. “My lord, three hundred ships at the least—possibly four hundred.”

  They passed through the inner yard and climbed the border walls. From the heights, Haul looked out to sea.

  Hundreds of ships dotted the waters like a black tide.

  Haul drew a slow breath and turned to Theodore. “Do we have any means to counter such an attack?”

  Theodore shook his head grimly. “We do, my lord—but the cannons cannot reach them. They are rendered useless. And House Velastra has no ships to spare.”

  “I understand,” Haul said quietly. “Leave the rest to me.”

  Theodore bowed and hurried back into the castle.

  Haul remained on the wall, eyes fixed on the fleet below. He turned to the soldiers manning the cannons and shouted, “Man your positions. Fire on my mark!”

  “My lord!” they cried, rushing to load and aim.

  Haul raised his hand. “Aim—fire!”

  The cannons roared. Cannonballs tore through the air—then fell short, crashing uselessly into the sea.

  A moment of silence.

  Then Haul saw it.

  The enemy fleet answered.

  More than three hundred flaming cannonballs streaked through the sky.

  “Move!” Haul shouted—but it was too late.

  The wall exploded.

  Stone shattered. Fire consumed the air. Haul and the soldiers beside him were hurled forty feet downward, smashing into stone below. Darkness swallowed them whole.

  Haul could hear it—the destruction of his castle, the screams of noblemen—but his body would not respond.

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  Then a voice entered his mind.

  Awake, Haul Blackmoor. This is not the end.

  His fingers twitched.

  Pain flared as Haul forced himself upright, dazed and broken. He staggered toward the ruined wall, staring through the breach at the burning sea.

  He raised his arms and bellowed, “God—aid me in this moment of need. Destroy my enemies!”

  Nothing happened.

  For a heartbeat, the world held still.

  Then Haul looked skyward.

  A holy light gathered within the clouds.

  The heavens split.

  A blinding pillar of divine fire tore through the sky and struck the fleet below. Ships erupted into flame and splintered apart, dragged screaming into the depths. The sea boiled with fire and death.

  Haul stood unmoving, arms still raised, eyes wide as the enemy fleet vanished beneath the waves.

  He lowered his arms, turned, and walked back into the castle.

  “The ships are dealt with,” he told Theodore.

  Theodore bowed deeply. “I am glad to hear it, my lord.”

  Haul mounted his horse once more and rode hard—back toward the battle.

  Eamon and Edward carved their way through enemy lines, blades rising and falling without pause.

  “Where do they find these soldiers?” Eamon mocked as another foe fell. “If you can even call them that. They fight like children.”

  Edward laughed. “Careful, Eamon. Words like that have a way of returning.”

  “I doubt it, Master Edward.”

  They cut through wave after wave until one of the captains of House Duskreach stepped forward.

  Eamon smiled. “Leave this one to me.”

  Edward grinned and veered off toward another captain.

  The Duskreach captain dismounted. “You’re a cocky one.”

  “I am,” Eamon replied. “It comes from never losing a fight.”

  The captain laughed. “Is that so?”

  Steel rang as the captain charged. Eamon dodged each strike, their blades clashing again and again, neither finding an opening.

  I’ve fought strong swordsmen before, Eamon thought, but this one is different. I need to end this—now.

  Their swords locked. The captain smirked. “For a scrawny boy, you’re something else.”

  Eamon kicked off the man’s chest and surged forward again—but as he flipped, the captain caught him midair by the leg and slammed him into the ground.

  Eamon’s vision blurred.

  The captain loomed over him and drove his sword into Eamon’s side.

  Eamon screamed as the blade dug deep.

  Blood poured freely. His hands slipped as he tried to pull the weapon free.

  “You were worthy,” the captain said with a laugh. “Shame you fought for the wrong side.”

  I can’t die like this, Eamon thought. But I can’t pull it free…

  Then an idea struck.

  He scooped blood and dirt and hurled it into the captain’s face. The man cursed, recoiling just long enough.

  Eamon grabbed the blade and ripped it from his gut.

  He staggered to his feet, blood spilling freely, his stomach torn open.

  The captain wiped his eyes and smiled. “Clever, boy. But look at you—I can see your intestines. Do us both a favor and die already.”

  Eamon hunched forward, blade hanging low. “You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he said. “Now I’m going to kill you—and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

  The captain laughed. “Dream on.”

  Eamon remembered Haul’s movement.

  “My lord… what was that move?”

  He raised his blade before his face, set his foot back, and launched forward.

  Slow—but enough.

  His blade flashed, carving deep into the captain’s neck.

  The man clutched his throat, head hanging by flesh. “You bastard—”

  He turned to strike—

  —but Eamon slid beneath the blow, seized the man’s head, and twisted.

  Darkness took the captain.

  Eamon dropped the body and collapsed beside it, blood soaking into the ground.