“This point on the Aegis River is one of your major weak points,” Crushward says. “Wild magic flows right into Emerald before being carried to Thorn.”
“That is the same river that feeds our orchards,” I point out. The wild magic is part of what creates such an abundance in Emerald, but we’ve always had Crownwood’s roots to keep it from polluting our lands.
“Which won’t do you any good if those orchards are claimed by the Wilds, will it?” Cragborne snaps, like I’m a new recruit needing to be reprimanded, not the king of this great reach.
Sensing the tension growing, Sundercrest steps in.
“Diverting or damming the river will slow the incursion enough to give you time to heal your lands before it’s too late. Dormant orchards don’t do anything to keep it at bay, but thriving ones will.”
As much as the high generals’ suggestion makes sense, it will be controversial in the reach. Emerald’s populace has always taken pride in living harmoniously with the land, not bastardizing it like Thorn or carving it to our will like Iron. In Emerald, we are the ones at the whims of nature, not the other way around. To go against that is to go against everything my home stands for. It will feed into the worst rumors about how unfit I am, and it won’t be a long-term solution. At best, it’s a desperate bandage on a bleeding wound.
And yet… The longer I look at the map and feel the heavy silence of the room bearing down, the less I’m able to deny that it’s our only course of action.
Spurred by my hesitation, Crushward straightens, the dozens of notches in his stone horns showing how many times he’s prevailed over those who’d challenge his place in the hierarchy. His hard gaze meets mine, unwavering, unflinching.
“Right now, your homeland is a battlefield, Your Majesty. We have to approach this as we would other operations. This riverexpands the Wilds as much as it feeds your farmlands. Cut it off and you’ll cut off the infection at its source.”
“The Wilds are not a beast you can tame or starve,” comes a croaking voice from the opposite side of the table—Archdruid Iskra Thornveil. She’s been so still and quiet this whole time that I forgot she was present. Her layered shell of furs, mosses, leaves, and feathers makes her look like a part of the swamp she calls home, more a thing of nature than of society. It’s a look that does her the favor of camouflage at most times, but makes her impossible to ignore when she chooses to make herself known.
Teeth and bones swinging from her horns like charms or trophies, Iskra stands, the difference in her height unnoticable. “The Wilds are patient. They are hungry. And they will drink the blood you spill with your foolishness.”
Cragborne scoffs, looking to his fellow high generals for commiseration. “Have a nibble of the wrong mushroom before joining us?” he taunts.
Iskra pays him no attention, her shining black eyes glowing from within the recesses of her cloaks and scarves, digging into me like boring beetles. “Your tree is dying, false-king. What are you willing to sacrifice to save its roots? Your own blood, yes. But whose else? You think you can choke a river and not hear it scream? That you can break it to your will and not drown in its blood?”
“Why was she even invited?” Cragborne asks, whatever patience he had long gone now. “Does she even know where she is right now? You’re not going to take this seriously, are you?”
This is getting away from me, and I’m still bristling from ‘false-king.’ The archdruids have a habit of speaking in riddles and prophecies, but there’s no wondering what she means by that.
“The flood will come,” she warns, dangling bones clattering around the crown of her head as she turns her gaze to the generals, her disappointment louder than anything else she’s said.
The generals may not understand, butthisis why I wanted a representative from Thorn here. I know the Iron generals will have an unbeatable strategy, but it’s Thorn that shares our affection and appreciation for the land. Both sides are equally important here.
But as the moment stretches on, the silence growing more palpable with each breath, we can all feel the tide shifting. The generals’ plan is the only one I have right now. Iskra has nothing to offer in the way of alternatives, only warnings, and I can do without those.
“The flood will come,” she says, shaking her head as she turns from the map, beetle-eyes back on me. “If you would save them, false-king, turn into the current. Swim.”
Those are the last words she speaks before turning and leaving the war room, the generals all exhaling some variation of humor or bemusement.
All I feel in her absence is dread. Were her words the nonsensical ravings of a madwoman?
If so, why do they leave me feeling so unsettled?
I have the overwhelming urge to chase her down and demand an explanation, but I know that any answer she gives me will only be more cryptic and confusing.
“We should hammer out the details,” Sundercrest says, as if Iskra was never here and her outburst never happened.
Against my better judgement, I agree, turning my focus back to the generals and the map of my reach spread before us.
With dwindling reserves and soldiers at their breaking point, we have just enough for one final push. With the help of Iron’s troops, I hope it’ll be enough.
It has to be.
Chapter Fourteen
Ingrid
With the newfound refuge of my spinning room, I’m able to avoid running into Xandril again for nearly a fortnight. He’s known for his habit of spending far too many hours at the training grounds, so as long as I avoid that area and am careful about my comings and goings in our hallway, I don’t have to put much thought or effort into the matter.
