“No one had orders to leave tonight,” the scout said, their voice low and rough.
Ronan’s hand inched upward, closer to his sword. “My orders are new, from General Kordislaen.”
“And it couldn’t wait until morning?”
Ronan sighed, hoping he played the part of the inconvenienced messenger well. “Have you ever tried to tell General Kordislaen to wait?”
The Tinelannian warrior loosened their grip on their weapon. “Go on, then.”
Ronan didn’t look back as he walked down the hill. He would risk no cause for suspicion.
When Kordislaen had brought him to the camp, Ronan paidclose attention to each landscape and landmark they passed. But in the dead of night, everything looked the same. He could only pick a direction and go.
For miles, he walked. He walked until finally his knees gave out and he stumbled down to the frost-coated forest floor.
Rolling into a seated position, he rested his elbows on his knees and wrapped his cloak tightly around himself. There were still hours of traveling left before he would reach Caisleán—assuming he was right about his location. He had to keep going.
Rising to his feet once more, he ignored the pain lancing through every inch of his being.
It was after he crested another hill that he heard the footsteps behind him.
A figure stood only twenty feet away, dark cloak pinned with a familiar gleam of silver.
Kordislaen had found him.
“You should have killed me,” the general said.
Ronan drew his sword. “You were awake.”
“I wanted to see what you would do. If you could do it.” Kordislaen’s arms widened, gesturing to the open land around them. “You made it far, boy.”
Ronan’s sword bit into his palm as he clenched it tighter. “Is everything a test with you?”
The frozen grass crunched under Kordislaen’s boots as he stepped closer. “You had your little rebellion. You don’t want to feel the bite of my disappointment—it’s time for you to follow your fate.”
“The fate you laid out for me,” Ronan said. “The previous captain of Domhnall’s guard—you killed him.”
“I did what I had to do to get you into position.”
“All of this—sending me to the palace, training me—it was all so I could be your pawn.” When Ronan’s hand shook, he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain, the cold, or the rage rushing through him.
“I gave youeverything. What did they call you? Gods-blessed? The only blessing you have ever received was my goodwill,” Kordislaen growled. “What would your life have been without me? Wasting away in Calafort? If you even survived. I made you who you are.”
Ronan lunged at Kordislaen. The general sidestepped his attack easily.
“I know you’re better than that, Ó Faoláin.” Kordislaen’s sword fell toward him, forcing him to roll out of the way.
Ronan’s legs protested the movement.
He was tired. He was in pain. And while he was a strong fighter, he didn’t have as much experience as Kordislaen. Strength and skill would not win him this fight.
But he couldn’t die here. Not tonight.
Domhnall was back at Caisleán, a perfect target. The fool would be determined to save his kingdom at the cost of his own life. He needed Ronan.
And Clía. Would she still be at Caisleán, or traveling back to Álainndore? She would remember him as another person who betrayed her.
He had to win.
