I grumble under my breath, claws digging deep gouges into the window sill.
“What if it’s too late?” I ask, voicing the concern I’ve been keeping to myself since we started planning our coup against Farandir. It’s always been a possibility that the reach is too far gone for a rebound, but it’s something we’ve left unspoken between us until now.
“It’s not,” Val says firmly, abandoning our plans to join me at the window. “Not yet.”
It’s hard to imagine the frozen wastelands beyond this castle ever returning to the rich and vibrant farmlands that once existed there. With the chill of endless winter seeping deep into my soul, it’s hard to envision the sun shining, even harder to remember its warmth.
“As long as this tree stands, there’s still hope,” he says, a challenge in his feline eyes that dares me to argue.
As worthless as I feel, he’s right. Crownwood still stands; its roots still span the reach. While the canopy is bare, the leaves all dried and gone to dust, the tree is only dormant, waiting for spring to return before sprouting new leaves.
“Come on,” Valenar says, tilting his head away from the window. “Let’s go grab some steel. Your mind always works better when your feet are in the dirt.”
“That’s the best idea you’ve had in a month,” I say, already feeling lighter as we walk in the opposite direction of the throne.
“The best one you’veheard, you mean,” he teases. “I’ve had one stroke of brilliance after another, you’ve just been too distracted to notice.”
He’s joking, but it hits a little too close to the heart of things. What kind of king can’t even pay attention to his most trusted advisor?
The air outside the keep is sharper than the moist chill that permeates the halls. In the open bailey, it feels like the air is angry for the lack of sun and knows to take it out on me. Each breath makes my chest hurt, knives slicing through my lungs.
I take a deep breath before following Val to the sparring ground. When we served with the Emerald Wardens together, no matter what post or camp we found ourselves at, the sparring ring was always a beehive of activity. In my mind, the king’s guards should be just as, if not more, diligent about training and improving than the rank-and-file soldiers, yet when we make our way to the sparring grounds, we find them abandoned. No clash of steel, no thud of training dummies being pummeled.
It’s deserted.
Val and I exchange a look, wordless understanding passing between us—this will not stand.
“Let’s—”
“No,” I cut him off. He’s going to suggest we spar before I hunt down my worthless guard. For their sake, he thinks I should expel some of this frustration on a target who won’t take it personally. As my advisor, he’s probably right. As my best friend, he knows it’s a waste of breath to finish his thought.
“We deal with this now,” I grumble. The Wardens would never show such disrespect, and if the situation at the borders was any less dire, I’d have a company stationed here. As it is,the Wardens are stretched too thin, and what’s left of the king’s guard—those who survived the coup and didn’t defect in the wake of Farandir’s demise—are merely the undisciplined rabble who answer only to their feckless whims. Men whose sole loyalty lies with their own skin.
It’s a vulnerability I can’t afford with the reach in such a precarious position.
Stalking across the frozen grounds, through the empty armory, there’s no one to greet me, no one to stand in my way. When I burst into the barracks and find them throwing bones and roughhousing around a roaring fire, my entrance goes unnoticed. The stench of old ale fills the gaps between body odor and smoke from the hearth. Upended tankards, blades more rust than steel strewn about, boots untied—it’s worse than I thought.
It’s not until the cold catches up to us that anyone even looks our way.
“Hey, shut the rotted—” The slurred words of the young guard trail off, his eyes widening as his jaw goes slack. The air in the room shifts, tension winding tighter as the guards turn their attention toward me one-by-one.
Val stands back, arms folded, silent.
The fire crackles.
No one moves.
“This is the king’s guard?” I ask, voice booming.
Silence.
“Not a sword drawn. Not a man in armor. You huddle around the fire like grain-fed mice, growing fat and soft, while the reach freezes and the wolf sharpens his claws.”
One of the older guards stands, trying to puff up his chest despite his glassy eyes and wobbly stance.
“With respect, we weren’t told—”
“Do you need orders to act like soldiers?” I bite back.
