By the time Kham reached her side, the icy shell encasing the woman had melted away, leaving a mortal Wintercraig beauty who watched Kham’s approach with pain-glazed blue eyes. She lifted trembling hands.

“Please . . .” she begged on a shallow breath. The word came out weak and thick. Blood was already filling her mouth and throat, making it difficult to speak. Kham’s had been a death blow, striking lung and heart. “Stop . . . her . . . stop . . .” She broke off, coughing blood.

Kham set the ice spear on the ground, well out of reach, and gripped the woman’s shoulders. “Who are you? Who do you want me to stop?”

“Reika . . . she never meant to help me get the sword. . . . she wanted the Ice Heart.” The woman’s fingers clutched weakly at Khamsin’s robe. “She has . . . unleashed him.”

“What are you saying? Did Reika drink the Ice Heart? Did she bring Rorjak back to life?”

“P-please . . . tell . . . him . . .” One trembling hand dropped to the woman’s chest, fingers closing weakly around the pendant at her throat. “Love . . . him.” Then her body went limp, and her head lolled to one side. The hand clutching the pendant fell away, revealing a gold circle carved with the image of a falcon, soaring through beams of sunlight, a rose clutched in one claw.

Khamsin sat back on her heels.

She recognized the pendant. She’d looked forward to seeing it—or rather the man who wore it—every day as a child in Summerlea. It was her brother’s personal crest.

The presence of that sigil could only mean that the woman Khamsin had just killed was Elka Villani, Wynter’s former betrothed, Reika Villani’s sister—and the woman Khamsin’s brother had started a war to possess.

“Oh, Falcon.” Her brother must have sent Elka to the Temple of Wyrn to retrieve Roland’s sword. Apparently, Reika had come along, too, only she’d used Roland’s sword as the pretext to gain access to her real goal: the power of the Ice Heart.

Kham’s heart slammed against her chest. If Reika was the one who’d summoned the Ice King—if she was the reason for the ice thralls—there was still a chance to save Wynter.

For the second time that day, Kham sent up a prayer. Please, Helos. Please, Wyrn, let him be safe. Let him still be my husband.

Hands shaking with pent-up emotion, Kham slipped the pendant from Elka’s throat and put it around her own neck for safekeeping. Then she stood, pulled the sword from Elka’s chest, and wiped the bloody blade on the still-damp fur of her coat.

She cast one final look at the Ice Heart. Without the heat of Blazing hidden in its depths, what was held in the well was liquid no more. The immortal, indestructible essence of Rorjak, the Ice King, had returned to the solid, frozen state that Thorgyll’s spears had put it in so many millennia ago. She hoped it would stay that way for many centuries to come.

The crack and tinkle of splintering ice behind her chimed a warning. She spun back to find the corpse of Elka Villani once more fully encased in ice and rising to its feet. In an instinctive response born of memories not her own, she stabbed Roland’s sword at the rising corpse and cried, “Burn!”

The diamond in Blazing’s hilt flared with sudden light. The rose on her wrist went red-hot. A great gout of flame shot from the tip of the sword and engulfed Elka. The Winterlady’s arms lifted like a startled babe’s, and she burst into flames. Within moments, the body of Elka Villani turned to char, then crumpled to the floor as a formless pile of ash.

“Wyrn and Helos protect me.” Kham stared at the sword in her hand. Bright and golden in hue, with a clear, brilliant white diamond the size of a goose egg in its hilt, the Sword of Roland was everything the legends had foretold.

And now, many thousands of years after Roland’s death, Khamsin Coruscate Atrialan held the same sword the god Helos had forged for her legendary ancestor and prayed the sword would grant her the power to save her Winter-born love, just as Roland had saved his.

Though, hopefully, with a happier outcome.

He walked through a field of fresh snow. The world was white, crisp, pristine. The sky a blue so deep and rich it dazzled him.

The sun shone high in the sky. A bright, golden white globe.

All around, the trees grew tall and strong, their evergreen branches laden with snow.

He moved silently through the powdery snow. It swirled around his calves, deep enough that he could not see his feet when he walked but so powdery, it was like walking through fog.

Ahead, on the crest of a small hill, stood a large snow wolf. Its fur riffled in the breeze. The wolf howled.

The call caught at a place deep inside him, singing to him in wordless communication, urging him to follow. He walked towards the wolf.

The snow grew thicker. It was up to his knees now. Then up to his thighs. His waist.

The wolf was just ahead now. Its call wrapped around Wynter like a fisherman’s net, hauling him closer and closer still.

The snow had reached his chest.

More wolves began to howl. Their howl was a song of warning, sharp and fearful, made up of many voices. He glanced to his left and right, then behind him. Dozens of wolves had gathered on the surrounding peaks. All were barking, howling, baying at him.

He turned back to the wolf he was walking towards.

The snow was shoulder deep now.

The wolf on the hill turned with shocking swiftness.

Only it wasn’t a wolf. It was a garm.

Malevolent red eyes gleamed. Rows of sharp, pointed teeth gaped in a ferocious snarl. Past the garm, down in the valley on the other side of the hill, he caught a glimpse of a mighty army. Frost Giants. Garm. Ice thralls. They looked up at him and roared.