The three things inside those mortal bodies smiled. “We are princes of our realm.”

   “And what realm is that?” She poured her magic into the shield behind her.

   The Valg prince in the center seemed to reach toward her without moving an inch. She sent a punch of flame at him, and he curled back. “A realm of eternal dark and ice and wind,” he said. “And we have been waiting a very, very long time to taste your sunshine again.”

   The King of Adarlan was either more powerful than she could imagine, or the most foolish man to ever live if he thought he could control these demon princes.

   Blood dripped onto her tunic from her nose. Their leader purred, “Once you let me in, girl, there shall be no more blood, or pain.”

   She sent another wall of flame searing at them. “Brannon and the others beat you into oblivion once,” she said, though her lungs ­were burning. “We can do it again.”

   Low laughter. “We ­were not beaten. Only contained. Until a mortal man was foolish enough to invite us back in, to use these glorious bodies.”

   ­Were the men who had once occupied them still inside? If she cut off their heads—­that torque of Wyrdstone—­would the creatures vanish, or be unleashed in another form?

   This was far, far worse than she had expected.

   “Yes,” the leader said, taking a step toward her and sniffing. “You should fear us. And embrace us.”

   “Embrace this,” she snarled, and flung a hidden dagger from her vambrace at his head.

   He was so swift that it scraped his cheek rather than wedging itself between its eyes. Black blood welled and flowed; he raised a moon-­white hand to examine it. “I shall enjoy devouring you from the inside out,” he said, and the darkness lunged for her again.

   •

   The battle was still raging inside the fortress, which was good, because it meant they hadn’t all died yet. And Celaena was still swinging Goldryn against the three Valg princes—­though it grew heavier by the moment, and the shield behind her was beginning to fray. She had not had time to tunnel down into her power, or to consider rationing it.

   The darkness that the Valg brought with them continued to strike the wall, so Celaena threw up shield after shield, fire flaming through her blood, her breath, her mind. She gave her magic free rein, only asking it to keep the shield behind her alive. It did so, gobbling up her reserves.

   Rowan had not come back to help. But she told herself he would come, and he would help, because it was not weakness to admit she needed him, needed his help and—

   Her lower back cramped, and it was all she could do to keep her grip on the legendary blade as the leader of the Valg princes swiped for her neck. No.

   A muscle twinged near her spine, twisting until she had to bite down a scream as she deflected the blow. It ­couldn’t be a burnout. Not so soon, not after practicing so much, not—

   A hole tore through the shield behind her, and the darkness slammed into the barrier, making the magic ripple and shriek. She flung a thought toward it, and as the flame patched it up, her blood began to pound.

   The princes ­were closing in again. She growled, sending a wall of white-­hot flame at them, pushing them back, back, back while she took a deep breath.

   But blood came coughing out instead of air.

   If she ran inside the gates, how long would the shield last before it fell to the princes and their ancient darkness? How long would any of those inside last? She didn’t dare look behind to see who was winning. It didn’t sound good. There ­were no cries of victory, only pain and fear.

   Her knees quaked, but she swallowed the blood in her mouth and took another breath.

   She had not imagined it would end like this. And maybe it was what she deserved, after turning her back on her kingdom.

   One of the Valg princes ripped a hand through the wall of flame separating them, the darkness shielding his flesh from being melted off. She was about to send another blast at him when a movement from the trees caught her eye.

   Far up the hill, as if they had come racing down from the mountains and had not stopped for food or water or sleep, ­were a towering man, a massive bird, and three of the largest predators she had ever seen.

   Five in all.

   Answering their friend’s desperate call for aid.

   They hurtled through the trees and over stones: two wolves, one black and one moon-­white; the powerfully built male; the bird swooping low over them; and a familiar mountain cat racing behind. Heading for the darkness looming between them and the fortress.

   The black wolf skidded to a halt as they neared the darkness, as if sensing what it could do. The screaming in the fortress ­rose. If the newcomers could destroy the soldiers, the survivors could take the tunnel and flee before the dark consumed everything.

   Sweat stung Celaena’s eyes, and pain sliced into her so deep that she wondered if it was permanent. But she had not lied to Rowan about saving lives.

   So she did not stop to doubt or consider as she flung the remnants of her power toward Rowan’s five friends, a bridge of flame through the darkness, cleaving it in two.

   A path toward the gates behind her.

   To their credit, Rowan’s friends did not hesitate as they raced for it, the wolves leading the way, the bird—­an osprey—­close behind. She poured her power into the bridge, gritting her teeth against the agony as the five rushed past, not sparing her a glance. But the golden mountain cat slowed as he charged through the gates behind her, as her chest seized and she coughed, her blood bright on the grass.

   “He’s inside,” she choked out. “Help him.”

   The great cat lingered, assessing her, and the wall, and the princes fighting against her flame. “Go,” she wheezed. The bridge through the darkness collapsed, and she staggered back a step as that black power slammed into her, the shield, the world.

   The blood was roaring so loudly in her ears that she could barely hear when the mountain cat raced for the fortress. Rowan’s friends had come. Good. Good that he would not be alone, that he had people in the world.

   She coughed blood again, splattering it on the ground—­on the legs of the Valg prince.

   She barely moved before he slammed her into her own flames, and she hit the magical wall beneath, as hard and unforgiving as if it ­were made of stone. The only way into the fortress was through the ward-­gates. She swiped with Goldryn, but the blow was feeble. Against the Valg, against this horrible power that the King of Adarlan possessed, the army at his disposal . . . it was all useless. As useless as the vow she’d made to Nehemia’s grave. As useless as an heir to a broken throne and a broken name.

   The magic was boiling her blood. The darkness—­it would be a relief compared to the hell smoldering in her veins. The Valg prince advanced, and part of her was screaming—­screaming at herself to get up, to keep fighting, to rage and roar against this horrible end. But moving her limbs, even breathing, had become a monumental effort.