“What about—” she hesitated, her eyes sliding to Ronan.
“My knowledge of Caisleán Cósta is unrivaled,” Kordislaen said confidently. “I am the one who built it up. I know how to tear it down.”
Her ice-blue eyes narrowed. “Be sure it does fall, or it will be on your head.”
Kordislaen returned to his letter, not bothering to give her the dignity of looking at her as he spoke. “If that’s all, I think it’s time we rest.”
Cuilinn crossed her arms as she considered Kordislaen. Without a word, she left the tent.
“You dismissed a Tinelannian chief,” Ronan said.
Kordislaen continued to write. “I would dismiss a king if he dared doubt me.”
The general dropped his quill, folding the paper neatly before sealing it with wax. When he was done, he turned back to Ronan. “Tell me, are you prepared to take your blade against Prince Domhnall? Against Princess Clíodhna?”
Ronan’s back straightened.
“I’ll do as I must.” His answer was carefully crafted. “It’s as you said—I’d be alone either way.”
The chair scraped against the cold dirt as Kordislaen rose. “I understand it will be hard. Ambition can never stop your heart from feeling. I know the guilt that eats at you, and the memories that feed it. I have my own that used to keep me up at night. However, I’m sure you’ve learned, as I have, that battleis the only thing that can offer true clarity. True peace. Morality and doubt all fall away when a sword is coming for your neck.”
Ronan nodded, focusing hard on keeping his breathing even. His face straight. Another second in this tent, and Kordislaen would see right through him.
“If it’s all right with you, I think I should take some rest. Where’s my tent?”
“You’ll be staying here, with me.” Kordislaen pointed to a bedroll in the corner, and Ronan’s heart dropped. “It’s the easiest way for me to guarantee your safety.”
It was interesting how easy it was to spot Kordislaen’s lies now that he knew the general’s true intentions. This wasn’t an attempt to protect Ronan—for all of Kordislaen’s talk of belief and pride, he still didn’t trust Ronan. Not entirely.
Knowing Kordislaen was watching, Ronan prepared for bed and then closed his eyes to feign sleep.
***
IT TOOK HOURS. BUT ONCERONAN WAS SURE THE GENERALwas asleep, he rose silently from his bedroll.
It was strange, seeing Kordislaen so vulnerable. The legendary general. His stories made him sound more fable than man. Could he even bleed?
One swipe of his blade, and Ronan would find out.
The metal of his sword was cool under his fingers.
He could do it. He could end him, and maybe end the doubt and questions that had taken root in him.
His hand fell.
Coward, he thought as he left the tent, and Kordislaen, behind.
The camp was entrenched in the darkness of winter night. Ronan walked through the lines of tents carefully, breath catching at every rustle of fabric in the wind, every creak of a tree branch. Enemies surrounded him on all sides; he couldn’t be caught unawares.
He needed to get out of here. To return to his friends.
It was at the bottom of the hill that he realized his mistake. Scouts paced the hillside, ready to take out any threat.
Which meant he needed to be seen as an ally.
Ronan took a few steps forward into the open. He whistled three notes, praying to the gods that he remembered them right. He could barely hear the scout’s whistle back over his heart pounding in his ears.
Ronan made it to the top of the hill before a scout approached him. He couldn’t see the warrior clearly in the dark, except for the moonlight that illuminated their drawn bow.
