Killian and I shared a look as Niero drew his crescent-shaped blades and looked at each of us fiercely, then over to Bellona. “Whatever you do, do not leave the Remnants unguarded,” he grit out. “I shall return.” But even as I agreed, Raniero had shoved off, the toe of his boots creating divots in the loamy soil. He dashed headlong into the thick of the trees, and I felt a wave of warmth wash over my arm cuff then. Somehow, some way, he was not alone. There were unseen warriors with him. But my eyes narrowed in on those we could see, emerging through the trees. Sheolites, caped in red. I glanced over at my fellow Knights of the Last Order, wondering how we were to defend ourselves, just three against what looked like twenty, no, thirty warriors emerging from the trees. We heard the mewling cry of a newborn inside, and shared a grim smile. So the child was born — the newest, tiniest victory. “Ronan,” Bellona said, gesturing with her head toward thirty or so Aravander warriors gathering behind us, all armed with bows and arrows and led by Jezre, the chief’s husband.
