Others hold on until the last bitter wind collects them from the trees and scatters them along the forest floor. The Fallen.
Octavia drinks. “It can’t be long now” she whispers. The trees, their limbs bare and exposed, beseech the sky for answers. There are none. The Queen looks toward the hills above and knows that Tala is there. Soon, the Queen of Winter will ride forth and the cold will be upon her.