The pass swallowed them whole.
Zekar rode at the head of the column, Ash's black feathers blending with the dark rock walls until they seemed part of the mountain itself. Behind him, the army stretched like a serpent—thousands of souls who had trusted him to lead them into battle, to bring them home, to make their sacrifices mean something.
Druvkaur fire-bearers, flames dancing in their palms. Zathrîkul thunder-warriors, their spears crackling with barely contained lightning. Khursaga heavy infantry, solid as the earth they worshipped. And Velanthri—a small contingent of water-callers who had volunteered after seeing Emery in the council, after seeing what one songbird could do.
They had come because of her. Because she had shown them that survival was not enough. That they could fight back. That they could win.
He touched the dragon-glass at his chest. Warm, always warm.
