Senna's silver threads flickered like dying candlelight as they crested the final ridge. Her hair, dark since entering dragon territory, suddenly blazed with fractured light—not the steady glow of successful divination, but something broken, scattered, like looking through shattered glass.

"Wait." She pressed her palms against her temples, eyes rolling back until only whites showed. "I see... something wearing truth's face. Familiar shapes hiding unfamiliar hearts."

The words came out slurred, distorted by whatever visions fought through the magical suppression. Her divinations rarely came with specifics, and this was no exception.

"What kind of shapes?" Theron asked, but Senna was already returning to herself, the silver light fading from her hair like stars at dawn.

"I can't... the dragons' influence muddles everything. But something feels wrong. Like looking at a friend and finding a stranger behind their eyes." She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm sorry. It's not clearer than that."

Another flare painted the horizon in desperate reds and golds. The sounds of battle carried across the frozen landscape—screams of pain, genuine terror, the wet crunch of ice breaking bone. Real sounds. Desperate sounds. Not the organized chaos of a drill, but the ragged symphony of people fighting for their lives.

But Senna's warning settled uneasily in Ember's chest.

"Could be resistance fighters," Lysa said, though uncertainty colored her voice.

"Or survivors who've been hiding," Daven added, consulting his crystals. The devices chimed erratically, their readings spiking as something massive shifted in the distance.

Through Theron's spyglass, the outpost called Ravenshollow showed all the signs of desperate defense. Figures moved along damaged battlements, launching spells and arrows at shapes that swarmed from the surrounding forest. Ice creatures threw themselves against the walls in coordinated waves while defenders fought back with everything they had.

"They're losing," Theron observed grimly. "Maybe an hour before the walls fall."

"Intelligence value alone justifies investigation," he continued, lowering the spyglass. "If there's an active resistance cell, we need to know how they've survived this long. What techniques they're using. What they've learned."

Ember watched the battle, weighing tactical necessity against Senna's cryptic warning.

They'd spent the last week mapping dragon patrols, noting the slow orbits of ancient scales against the sky. They'd marked the servitor settlements, studying the hollow-eyed puppets who shambled through their tasks with purposeful grace. And they'd seen what Nethysara's offer did to people desperate to forget their grief.

They'd come here for information. For secrets the coalition needed to plan its counterattack. And Ravenshollow was full of them.

She looked to her other selves, to Pyra's easy grin and Ash's calculating eyes. Kindle nodded slowly, and Cinder's expression tightened, acknowledging risk.

But the decision had been made when Ember agreed to investigate. They were already committed.

"We go in," she decided. "But we stay sharp. If Senna's right about scripts and actors, we need to know who's writing the play."

Theron nodded grimly. "Corwin, Senna, stay back and provide overwatch. The rest of us will extract whoever's alive and get them to safety before things get messy."

No disagreement followed.

They descended toward Ravenshollow like hunting cats, using every scrap of cover the broken terrain offered. The battlemages maintained concealment spells that flickered weakly in the suppressed environment. Corwin wrapped mental shields around the group—thin protection, but enough to blur their thoughts from casual observation.

The sounds of combat grew clearer as they approached. Steel rang against ice. Men screamed orders with voices raw from shouting. Something roared in the distance—bestial, hungry, too large to be human.

Ravenshollow squatted in a natural bowl, its walls built from local stone reinforced with timber and iron plates. Recent construction, Ember noted. Hasty work by people who knew they needed shelter but lacked time to build properly.

Ice creatures swarmed the outer defenses—crystalline spiders the size of hunting hounds clicking against stone as they scaled the walls. Frost wolves with eyes like frozen stars circled the main gate. Above them, humanoid shapes with icicle spears pressed forward in waves.

The defenders fought back with desperate efficiency. Arrows flew from the battlements, some trailing fire that hissed and steamed. Spells erupted from the courtyard—weak but determined magic that carved through ice constructs. A mage near the keep's entrance wove protective wards, his hands steady despite the chaos around him.

But the defense was crumbling. As they crept closer to the perimeter, Ember saw how the defenders fell back in planned retreat. The walls had already been breached in two places, and the main gate shuddered from repeated impacts. Ice spiders broke through at the east wall, scuttling toward the courtyard like living nightmares.

"Which dragon patrols this sector?" Daven asked, consulting the map they'd compiled over days of careful observation.

"Should be none," Theron replied. "Khione keeps regular circuits along the southern approaches, closer to Millbrook. Since Ravenshollow was supposed to be one of the destroyed outposts, I doubt they pay it much mind."

"Supposed to be," Ash emphasized, watching the combat intensify. "And yet here it is. Here we are."

A section of Ravenshollow's wall crumbled under concentrated assault. Ice spiders poured through the breach while defenders fell back in fighting retreat. One man—tall, bearded, wearing the remnants of what might have been officer's insignia—rallied his people with sharp commands.

"Form up on the keep! Fighting withdrawal! Mages, give me cover fire!"

Professional language. Military bearing. This wasn't random survival—it was organized resistance with actual leadership.

"Intelligence goldmine," Theron muttered. "We need to know how they've survived this long. What techniques they're using."

"Orders?" Cinder asked.

"We extract them. Fast and clean."

They moved toward the broken gates like falling shadows. The Fragmented Flame took point, their immunity to cold making them nearly invisible against the frozen landscape. Behind them, the battlemages prepared what spells they could manage.

The outer courtyard was a charnel house of shattered ice and spilled blood. Crystalline fragments crunched underfoot, mixing with darker stains that steamed in the bitter air. Bodies lay scattered—some human, some the remnants of ice constructs that had learned too late that desperate people fought harder than anyone expected.

"This way!" A voice called from the inner walls—urgent, desperate, but carrying the authority of someone used to command. "They're massing for another assault!"

Ember launched herself over the debris, flames erupting around her as she landed among three ice spiders. Her fire carved through their crystalline bodies, shattering them into fragments that hissed against the ground. Around her, her sister-selves struck with similar effect, their combined assault clearing a path toward the keep.

The battlemages followed, their weakened spells still finding purchase. Lysa's flames guttered but burned hot enough to melt crystalline limbs. Daven's earth magic created barriers that channeled creatures into killing zones where concentrated fire could destroy them.

"How many of you are left?" Theron shouted as they fought through another wave of constructs.

"Sixty-seven!" The response came from a woman on the battlements, her face streaked with soot and blood. "Started with eighty. They keep coming in waves!"

"We'll get you to safety, but we need to go fast. Where's your commander?"

"Here." A voice answered from nearby—the same one who'd given orders at the wall's breach. A broad-chested man, his brown beard stained red from a cut along his cheek, stood amidst a pile of glittering wreckage. "Name's Torval. Vice-captain. You're not from Belavar. Where's your unit?"

"Coalition forces," Theron replied, his enhancement magic flaring as he carved through an ice wolf. "We received your distress signals."

"Coalition?" The man's voice carried genuine confusion. "What coalition? Captain Morse said the Duke was mobilizing the southern garrisons, but..."

Ember felt the first prickle of wrongness. She looked up at the archer, noting the woman's gear—standard Erebosian issue, but worn in a way that suggested recent acquisition rather than long use.

"How long have you been holding this position?" Ash called out, her flames creating a barrier that forced the ice creatures toward Kindle's waiting blades.

"Eight days," the man replied without hesitation. "Maybe nine. Time blurs when you're not sleeping."

Eight days. But Ravenshollow had fallen months ago, according to coalition intelligence. Ember exchanged glances with Cinder, reading the same unease in her sister-self's expression.

They fought their way into the small keep, following defenders who moved with desperate purpose. The interior showed signs of long habitation—bedrolls arranged with military efficiency, supplies rationed with careful precision. But something felt wrong about the wear patterns, as if everything had been arranged rather than naturally accumulated.

"Captain Morse is in the command room," a young soldier said, directing them toward the keep's heart. His uniform bore sergeant's stripes, but he wore them like they were still new. "He'll want to debrief you."

The command room had been set up in what was once a dining hall. Maps covered the tables, marked with positions and movements that showed tactical thinking. A man in captain's insignia stood over them, his hair gray at the temples, his face bearing the weathered look of long service.

"Captain Morse," Theron said, offering a salute. "Mage-Captain Theron Aldiss, coalition forward reconnaissance."

Morse returned the salute, his eyes sharp with intelligence. "Coalition? I wasn't aware Duke Casric had authorized—"

"Duke Casric is dead," Ember said quietly. "Or converted. Belavar fell months ago."

The words hit the room like a physical blow. Morse staggered, one hand gripping the table's edge. Around him, other defenders went pale, their faces reflecting genuine shock and grief.

"That's... that's impossible," Morse whispered. "We received word just three days ago. Duke Casric was rallying the southern armies. He was coming to relieve us."

"What word?" Senna asked, her silver threads beginning to flicker with returning power. "From whom?"

"Courier bird," the young sergeant said. "Standard military protocol. We've been getting regular updates."

Ember felt the wrongness crystallize into certainty. No courier birds flew in dragon territory now. Not in the winter. Not since the initial attacks.

"Show us the messages," Corwin said, already probing at the room's mental landscape.

Morse produced a leather pouch from his belt, withdrawing several small scrolls. The parchment was wrong—too clean, too fresh for messages carried across a war zone. The ink hadn't faded despite exposure to winter air.

Corwin's probe deepened, threading through the captain's mind with surgical care. What he found there made his eyes widen.

"Ember," he said quietly. "They believe every word they're saying. And I'm not sensing the dragon's influence. It's not there."

Ember looked around the room, noting the surprise on every defender's face. No sign of hollow eyes, no hint of the compulsion that bound the servitors they'd seen in the villages.

Just normal grief. Normal despair.

"They've been freed," Ember said, the pieces clicking together in her mind. "Recently freed. But they don't know it."

Around the room, the defenders continued their discussions of supply ratios and defensive positions, unaware that their entire reality had shifted beneath them. Captain Morse traced patrol routes that no longer mattered, planning for relief forces that would never come.

"How recently?" Theron asked quietly.

Corwin's probe deepened, sifting through layers of memory with surgical care. "Days. Maybe a week. Before that..." He paused, his mental shields flickering as he encountered something that made him recoil. "Before that, months of nothing. Blank space where their minds should hold memories."

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Senna's silver threads pulsed with returning strength as they moved away from the dragon-heavy territories. "A gap. Like someone cut out pieces of their lives and left the edges to heal wrong."

"Sir?" The young sergeant approached Captain Morse, his face creased with worry. "The eastern wall won't hold much longer. Should we fall back to the inner courtyard?"

Morse looked up from his maps, and Ember saw the weight of command settling on shoulders that didn't remember carrying it through winter's worst trials. "How many wounded?"

"Seven serious. Three won't make another retreat."

"Then we hold," Morse decided, his voice carrying the authority of a man who'd never learned that some positions couldn't be defended. "Signal the reserves. We'll make our stand here."

Ember exchanged glances with her sister-selves. These people would die fighting for a position that meant nothing, defending against enemies that served a larger purpose they couldn't see. They'd throw their lives away because someone had given them just enough memories to be brave and not enough to be wise.

"Captain," Theron said carefully, "we need to evacuate your people. Now."

"Evacuate?" Morse's voice sharpened. "Soldier, this position is vital to the southern defense. Duke Casric specifically ordered—"

"Duke Casric is dead. The southern defense collapsed months ago. You're not defending anything."

The words hit the room like thrown stones. Several defenders stopped their tasks to stare, confusion and denial warring across their faces.

"That's impossible," the sergeant said. "We've been getting reports. Regular updates. The Duke's forces are advancing from Millbrook. They'll be here in a couple of days."

Theron met the young man's eyes squarely, his tone unfaltering. "They're not coming, son. They can't come because they're dead or converted. Ravenshollow fell before winter set in."

Around the room, the defenders exchanged uneasy glances.

"You're lying," Morse whispered. "You're... you have to be."

But his voice shook with the first cracks of belief, the walls of his mental fortress crumbling under Theron's relentless barrage of truth.

"The Duke's gone," Theron said again. "And we need to get you out of here before the dragons realize what's happening."

The wall shuddered under another impact, sending chunks of masonry cascading into the courtyard. Through the gaps, ice spiders pressed forward with renewed hunger, their crystalline legs clicking against stone as they sensed weakness.

"We leave. Now." Ember's flames flared as she turned toward the defenders. "Everyone who can walk moves to the rear courtyard. We'll cover the retreat."

"I won't abandon my post," Morse said, but his voice lacked the conviction it had carried moments before. The truth about Belavar had carved something essential out of him, leaving him hollow.

"Your post doesn't exist anymore," Theron replied gently. "But your people do. Get them out."

The young sergeant—barely old enough to grow a proper beard—looked between his captain and the coalition forces. "Sir? Orders?"

Morse stared at his maps for a long moment, seeing defensive positions that had never mattered, supply lines that had never existed, reinforcements that would never come. When he finally looked up, his eyes held the particular exhaustion that came from learning your life was built on lies.

"Signal the retreat," he said quietly. "All units to the rear courtyard. Prepare for evacuation."

The order spread through the keep like wildfire. Defenders abandoned their positions, gathering wounded comrades and what supplies they could carry.

Ember helped a wounded soldier to his feet, noting how his injuries seemed fresh despite claims of days-long siege. Puncture wounds from ice weapons, burns from frost magic—all real, all recent. But the calluses on his hands spoke of months wielding weapons he claimed to have picked up last week.

"How many dragons have you seen?" Cinder asked the sergeant as they moved toward the rear exit.

"Dragons?" The young man's face went blank. "None, miss. Just the ice creatures. Captain says the dragons are busy with the main army to the north."

Another lie layered over stolen memories. Ember wondered how much of their recent past was fabrication, how much was fragments of truth twisted into new shapes.

They reached the rear courtyard as the eastern wall finally gave way. Ice spiders poured through the breach in a glittering flood, their mandibles clicking with anticipation. Behind them came the frost wolves, and behind those, shapes that had once been human.

"Defensive line!" Theron commanded. "Mages, give me everything you have!"

The battlemages spread out, their weakened spells still potent enough to thin the enemy ranks. Lysa's flames carved through crystalline limbs. Daven's earth magic created chokepoints that forced the creatures into killing zones. Senna flickered between positions, her limited teleportation providing tactical advantage.

The Fragmented Flame moved like dancers in a choreographed piece, each sister-self complementing the others' movements. Pyra's raw power shattered constructs that slipped past the mages' blockade. Cinder's precision fire cut holes in the advancing wave. Kindle's distractions drew off attackers threatening to flank them. Ash used bursts of blue-white fire to create openings for defenders to retreat.

But something felt wrong. The creatures pressed forward without the desperate hunger Ember had seen in previous encounters. They attacked, yes—but with restraint that spoke of orders rather than instinct.

"They're herding us," Ash called out, cutting down a frost wolf that had gotten too close to the wounded. "Driving us toward the rear gate."

"Why?" Pyra asked, even as she incinerated three ice spiders with a sweeping gesture.

The answer came as a rumble from beneath their feet.

The courtyard stones cracked. Then split. Then exploded upward as something massive burst from the earth below, sending defenders scrambling for safety.

A dragon.

Not Nethysara—too small for that, though still large enough to crush buildings beneath its claws. This one was young, its proportions suggesting adolescence rather than ancient wisdom. But the intelligence in its eyes burned with cruel delight as it settled onto the courtyard stones.

"Heroes are so wonderfully predictable," it said, voice carrying the sound of avalanches and cracking ice. "Mother said you'd come if we made the bait pretty enough."

Cryax. The youngest of the thirteen. The one who hunted for sport rather than efficiency. But... his territory was supposed to be miles from here. And his patrol routes had been carefully mapped and charted.

The dragon's tail swept through retreating defenders, sending them flying against stone walls. It turned its attention to the coalition forces, its lips drawing back in what might have been a draconic smile.

"Magnificent performance, wasn't it?" Cryax continued. "My little actors played their parts so well. Such genuine emotion. Such believable desperation."

The defenders stared in shock and horror as understanding dawned. Captain Morse's face went white as memory—real memory—began to surface through the false layers.

"The servitor camps," he whispered. "We were... we were in the camps. For months. And then..."

"And then I gave you new memories," Cryax finished, lowering his massive head to examine the captain with predatory interest. "Fresh purpose. Heroic resistance. The chance to die fighting instead of living as slaves. Wasn't that kind of me?"

"You used them as bait," Ember said, flames wreathing her fists as fury built in her chest.

"I used them as themselves," Cryax corrected. "They wanted to be heroes. I gave them the chance. Isn't that what your coalition offers? Hope? Purpose? The opportunity to fight for something greater?"

His laughter shook the courtyard walls. "The only difference is that my version comes with a guarantee. They'll die as heroes instead of living as disappointments."

The ice creatures pressed closer, cutting off escape routes with crystalline precision. But now their movements had purpose beyond herding—they were positioning for slaughter.

"Get everyone out!" Theron commanded, his enhancement runes flaring despite the magical suppression. "Fighting withdrawal to the outer walls!"

"There is no withdrawal," Cryax said, almost conversationally. "The exits are blocked. The walls are trapped. This courtyard is where your story ends."

Magical suppression intensified around them like a physical weight. Daven's crystals went completely silent. Lysa's flames died to barely visible flickers. Even Senna's teleportation magic sputtered and failed.

Only the Fragmented Flame remained unaffected, their internal fire burning steady against the dragon's overwhelming presence.

"Curious," Cryax mused, noticing their immunity. "Mother was right about you. Not quite human anymore, are you? Something new. Something... evolved."

"We're human enough," Ember replied, launching herself at the dragon's face with flames streaming behind her.

Her fire struck Cryax's snout and left actual scorch marks—shallow, but real damage that made him recoil with surprise.

"Interesting," the dragon said, amusement replacing surprise. "But can you protect your new friends while fighting me? Such a delicious choice."

The ice creatures surged forward, targeting the defenders with renewed aggression. Frost wolves bounded toward the wounded while ice spiders descended from the walls. The constructs that wore human shapes advanced with icicle spears aimed at hearts.

Captain Morse drew his sword—plain steel, no enchantments—and placed himself between the creatures and his men. "Form up! Protect the wounded!"

"We can't protect them and fight!" Cinder called out, already burning constructs that came too close to the line.

"We have to try!" Kindle replied, positioning herself between a wounded defender and an advancing ice construct.

The battle became chaos. Three separate fights—the Fragmented Flame engaging Cryax, the battlemages trying to maintain defensive positions, and the remaining defenders struggling to survive under the onslaught—all tangled together in the confines of the courtyard.

Ember slammed into Cryax's neck, flames erupting around both hands as she tried to find purchase on his scales. The dragon hissed, more in annoyance than pain, and swept his wing around to scrape her off against the courtyard wall.

She rolled clear just as stone cracked from the impact, debris raining down where she'd been moments before.

Around her, the battle raged on three fronts. Ice spiders swarmed the defenders, their crystalline legs clicking against stone as they sought gaps in the hasty defensive line. Captain Morse and his remaining soldiers fought with the desperate skill of men who'd remembered how to be heroes, even if they couldn't remember learning.

The battlemages tried to maintain some semblance of coordination, but the suppression field made every spell a struggle. Lysa's flames guttered like candles in a hurricane. Daven's earth magic responded sluggishly, stone flowing like cold honey when it should have erupted with volcanic force.

Three ice spiders coordinated their attack on Corwin, forcing him to abandon offensive magic for conjured minions of his own—small, translucent figures who engaged the arachnids like spectral gladiators. But the ice creatures kept coming, breaking his concentration even as he dealt with them.

"Senna!" Theron called out. "Can you get the wounded to the rear gate?"

"Trying!" The diviner flickered between positions, her teleportation working in stuttering bursts. She appeared beside a fallen defender, grabbing his shoulders to port him to safety. The magic held for perhaps three seconds before failing, dropping both of them halfway to their destination.

A frost wolf bounded toward them, jaws wide enough to bite a man in half. Senna threw herself between predator and wounded soldier, silver threads blazing as she burned the last of her divination magic.

The vision hit her like a physical blow—Cryax's claw sweeping down, her own death written in crystalline clarity. She could dodge, save herself, let the soldier die. Or...

"Down!" she screamed, shoving the wounded defender aside. The dragon's talons passed through her torso like she was made of morning mist. The claws left her in three pieces that hit the ground in different places, her silver threads flickering once, twice, then going dark forever.

"SENNA!" Daven roared, his earth magic erupting in fury. Stone spikes lanced upward from the courtyard, slamming into the dragon's underbelly. They shattered on impact, leaving the beast's scales stained gray.

"Such passion," Cryax observed, lowering his head to examine the big abjurer. "But passion without power is just noise."

Ember coordinated with her sister-selves, all five attacking in perfect synchronization. Their flames struck the dragon from multiple angles, each impact leaving scorch marks that proved their fire could hurt him. But the wounds were shallow, barely more than annoyances to a creature his size.

Cryax's wing swept around in a massive arc, forcing all five to scatter. The motion created enough wind to extinguish what remained of Lysa's guttering flames.

"Pitiful," the dragon said, lowering his head to examine Daven. "Is that truly the best your coalition can manage?"

Daven threw everything he had into one final spell—not attacking the dragon directly, but reshaping the courtyard itself. Stone flowed like water, creating barriers and channels that forced the remaining ice creatures into killing zones.

The effort left him swaying on his feet, magical exhaustion taking its toll.

Ash tried to shield him, her flames forming a protective barrier. But Cryax's frost breath erupted like a geyser of absolute cold, overwhelming her defenses and slamming into the battlemage.

Daven threw up his remaining wards, geometric patterns of light that blazed with his last reserves. They held for perhaps three seconds against Cryax's onslaught, and when they failed he went with them, his flesh freezing solid instantly.

For a moment, he remained standing, mouth open in a defiant shout that would never complete.

The statue toppled backward with a sound like breaking bells.

Lysa screamed—wordless fury that carried all her theoretical knowledge into blazing reality. Her flames roared back to life despite the suppression, fire magic that should have been impossible erupting around her like a miniature sun.

She launched herself at Cryax's face, streams of concentrated fire carving shallow furrows across his snout. The dragon reeled back, more surprised than hurt, steam rising where superheated air met ancient ice.

"Clever little flame," Cryax said, almost admiringly. "But—"

His wing swept around in casual backhand, catching her mid-spell. The impact sent her tumbling across the courtyard to slam against the keep's wall with enough force to crack both stone and bone.

She slid down the wall, leaving a red smear on gray stone. Her chest rose and fell twice, then went still.

Theron howled in wordless rage, enhancement magic straining against the suppression field as he charged toward the dragon. His blades flashed through Cryax's talons, severing the tipmost digit on each foreclaw.

"Run," he told Captain Morse, the rune on his cheek pulsing like an angry heartbeat. "While you can."

"Not without you," Morse replied, positioning himself beside the mage-captain despite having no magic to contribute.

Cryax's attention shifted to them, amusement glittering in reptilian eyes. "Such loyalty. Such pointless nobility. Tell me—does courage taste different when it's borrowed from someone else's memories?"

Frost breath erupted again, aimed at both men. Theron threw himself forward, using his body as a shield.

Ash lunged from the other direction, picking up Theron and Morse before the full power of that frost breath hit, moving both men away from danger as fast as she could.

Ember's flames burned white-hot as rage consumed her rational thought. Around her, she felt her sister-selves sharing the same fury—at Cryax, at themselves, at the cosmic joke that made caring about people into a tactical weakness.

But fury wouldn't bring the dead back. Wouldn't save the defenders still fighting with borrowed memories and honest courage.

"Ideas?" Cinder called through their shared consciousness, her voice tight with controlled emotion.

"Kill the dragon," Pyra replied, not helpfully.

"With what?" Ash demanded, carving through ice spiders that pressed toward Captain Morse's position. "We're barely scratching his scales."

It was true. Their flames could hurt Cryax—the scorch marks across his scaly hide proved that—but the wounds were shallow, more annoyance than injury. He was simply too massive, too well-armored, too ancient for their normal fire to threaten.

And he knew it.

"Still burning, I see," Cryax observed, settling back on his haunches to watch them fight. "Still struggling. How wonderfully stubborn. But surely you understand now—you cannot harm me with those pretty flames."

Ember narrowed her eyes at the dragon. "Ash's got the right idea. Kindle, help her evacuate everyone else. You two focus on that. When all the survivors are safe and far enough away from here... you know what to do."

Kindle nodded, reading the same understanding in the other's expressions. She ran to pick up Corwin and carry him out of harm's way.

There was only one way forward.

Their normal fire, their normal speed, their normal coordination—none of it sufficient. They needed more power.

They needed what the Mnemosynes had taught them.

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