Thorne watched through his drone feed as the last of the Omaticaya gathered on a narrow ledge high in the floating mountains. They were trapped—cliffs above, cliffs below, nowhere to go. Perfect.
"Move in," he ordered. "Finish them."
The drop-ships descended.
But something was wrong. The Omaticaya weren't running. They weren't hiding. They were standing in formation, weapons ready, faces turned toward the sky. Waiting.
"For what?" Thorne muttered.
Then he heard it.
A cry. Not human, not mechanical. Something ancient and terrible and beautiful all at once. A sound that vibrated in his chest and made his teeth ache.
The sky darkened.
Not with clouds—with wings.
Thousands of them. Ikran, banshees, every flying creature on Verath, rising from the mountains, from the forests, from the hidden valleys where they had been waiting. They came in waves, a living storm of teeth and claws and fury.
And on each one, a rider.
"The clans," Thorne breathed. "They called the clans."
The battle in the sky was unlike anything he had ever seen. The ikran tore through the drop-ships like they were made of paper. Riders leaped from one ship to another, killing soldiers with arrows and knives and bare hands. Ships spun out of control, crashing into the mountains, exploding in balls of fire.
And at the center of it all, on a dark-winged ikran with scars on its hide, rode Kaelen.
"Get me ground forces," Thorne snarled. "Get me—"
Too late.
The Omaticaya on the ledge weren't trapped—they were bait. And the trap had just sprung.