“Keep your head, or you’ll get us all killed.” His tone is flat, almost bored, but the bite behind it is impossible to miss.
I hold his gaze for a fraction of a second longer, but there’s nothing to read—no cracks, no tells. With an abrupt turn, I head for the camp, the cold air biting at my skin as I move. Behind me, the sound of his boots follows at just the right distance.
By the time I step into the main tent, the air is heavy with anticipation. The lanterns sway slightly, their restless light spilling across the map spread wide on the table. Its curling edges seem ready tofold in on themselves, like even the parchment can’t bear what’s coming.
Alias leans casually over the map, a grin plastered across his face as if he’s the only one in on some private joke. Gwyn stands beside him, arms crossed, her eyes fixed on the map. She radiates focus, her steady presence grounding, a stark contrast to Alias’s irreverence.
Malachi lingers near the edge of the room, his silence a constant. His light eyes scan the room as if seeing every angle we’ve yet to consider. I stride toward the table, my focus zeroing in on the inked lines and markings.
“Striden’s territory,” I mutter, jabbing my finger against the border with enough force to smudge it. The motion is a deliberate release for the irritation simmering just beneath my skin. “We’ll make it in five days if we push hard. A week at most.”
My voice is steady, but the weight of the journey—and everything waiting on the other side—settles heavily in the room.
“We’ll move the army through the west side,” I continue, my voice steady though the irritation bleeds through. “The forest will shield us from the sun during the day. It’ll let us cover more ground without slowing down.”
Across the table, Alias leans closer, a lazy grin playing at the edges of his mouth. He nods as if he’s listening, though I can see the gleam of mischief in his eyes.
“A week on the road with Lord Striden,” he says, drawing out the name like it’s an insult. “You going to make it without strangling him, or should we start digging the grave now?”
“Don’t,” I snap, glaring at him.
Before I can say more, Gwyn reaches over and smacks him hard across the back of the head. The thud is satisfying, even if it wasn’t my hand that landed the blow. Alias straightens with an exaggerated wince, rubbing the spot with mock indignation.
“You know I love it when you’re rough with me, Gwyn,” he purrs, leaning closer to her with a growl that’s equal parts playful and irritating. “Say the word, and we’ll ditch this whole army thing. Just you, me, and?—”
“Your corpse,” Gwyn snaps, cutting him off with an eye roll. “If you don’t shut up.”
Her cheeks flush slightly, and she pointedly avoids his gaze as she leans back over the map, trying to refocus. Alias, of course, takes the reaction as encouragement and grins even wider.
“Can we focus?” I growl, dragging their attention back to the task at hand.
Alias raises his hands in mock surrender, his grin still firmly in place. Gwyn doesn’t spare him another glance as she shifts her attention to me, more focused now.
“I’ll attend the wedding,” I say, pulling the conversation back to what matters. My voice lowers, the weight of the plan pressing heavier on my shoulders as I speak. “Clyde will expect me to be there. After tonight’s theatrics, Vanessa will be coming into play. That’ll keep Clyde distracted long enough for Callum to slip into his office and find what we need.”
Callum, silent up to this point, doesn’t even shift. He’s leaning against the tent pole, arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed somewhere beyond us. For a moment, I wonder if he’s even listening. But I know better. Callum hears everything.
“Callum,” I say curtly, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Brother,” he replies, his tone calm but laced with that familiar, cutting edge as his gaze meets mine.
I step back from the table, crossing my arms as I keep my eyes fixed on him.
“Just don’t get caught.”
Callum shrugs, dismissive, as if the idea itself is beneath him. The tension in the tent grows, straining against the walls like a living thing. Callum doesn’t bother with a response. Instead, he adjusts the knife at his belt before leaning back against the pole.
Gwyn glances between us, her brow furrowed, but she doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to focus on the routes laid out in front of us. Malachi steps closer into the tent without a word, his dark coat trailing behind him like a shadow. He stops near the edge of the table, his presence quiet but heavy.
“You’ll stay behind with the princess,” I tell him, meeting his gaze. Malachi doesn’t speak—he never does unless it’s absolutely necessary—but he nods once, his expression calm as always. His silence feels more reassuring than any words could.
Alias raises an eyebrow, glancing between me and Malachi with a grin that’s all teeth and no sincerity.
“What, you don’t trust me with her?”
“I don’t trust you with anyone,” I deadpan, not bothering to look up from the map.
My tone earns a wide grin from Alias and a quiet, stifled laugh from Gwyn, though she quickly calms her expression.
