He lets out a sigh. “The king couldn’t be dissuaded, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
His hand drifts down to mine, and our fingers brush against each other, slow and soft, a whisper of a caress igniting something deep in my chest. For a moment, I forget where we are, forget that we’resupposed to be careful. There’s only the sound of our breathing, the distant chatter of stableboys, and the way his gaze locks on to mine with something longing to be said.
The sound of boots crunching on gravel causes us to take a step back from each other. I turn toward Thora’s stall, where Paul emerges, leading my horse toward me. Another stablehand brings Mylo’s horse along with two others, and Sir Holden appears beside me to take their reins.
“Thank you, Paul,” I say while admiring by raven-black mare.
Paul gives me a nod. “Your Highness. May the gods watch over your journey.”
When we exit the stables, Sir Donovan stands beside Dante. The Royal Ward steps aside to give us room, but not before allowing his gaze to linger on me, assessing my every move. It makes my skin itch, but I don’t let it show.
“I wish you a safe journey,” Dante says, “and a safe return.”
I hate that our conversation has to be this short. I would love to ask him what’s going on behind the closed doors of the council chambers, to ask him how he’s handling this impossible situation he’s been forced into. I want to tell him about my powers, even about the pain it causes me. But there’s no fucking time.
I force the emotion out of my voice and incline my head. “Thank you, Lord Stregasi.”
Though I know I should avert my gaze as I pass him, I can’t break the hold he has on me. He shifts, as if he’s about to turn to head in the opposite direction, and it takes every ounce of control I have not to run up to him and throw my arms around him, to capture his face in my hands and press my lips to his. But I don’t. He gives me one more long look—a look laced with a plea to be careful—before he turns and strides away.
As Sir Holden and I head toward the castle gates to meet with Mylo and my uncle, I brush a hand along Thora’s neck. Her coat is warm, the rise and fall of her breath steady beneath my palm. The morning air carries the scent of damp hay and old wood, and a breeze whispers a cool greeting against my cheeks.
As the softthudof hooves against packed earth echo behind us, I peer up at the sky, feeling positive that we’ll have good weather for our journey. The sunlight has brightened to a pale gold, gleaming against the dewy grass.
By the time we reach the gates, Mylo and my uncle are already waiting with all our gear. Uncle Kormak wears a thick riding cloak, the hood pushed back to reveal the shadowed hollows of his cheeks. His uniform was ruined, bloody and torn, and had to be disposed of, so he now wears borrowed clothes from the Hederan court. His skin is less pallid now, but there’s a rawness behind his eyes that speaks of how recently he was near death. Still, he takes the horse’s reins from Sir Holden with his usual authority, chin high, his gaze sharp as it flicks toward me.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
I glance up at him, then tilt my head. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? I’m not convinced your lungs won’t collapse halfway to the border.”
Mylo, already on his horse, smirks. “I told him that. As the interim commander,” Mylo says, pausing to emphasize the title, “I take my job to look after all regiment soldiers seriously. But he just grumbled something about being harder to kill than a weed in spring.”
Uncle Kormak’s brows rise in a gesture that lands somewhere between amusement and warning. “That weed still outranks you.”
Sir Holden checks the cinch on his saddle with quiet focus, but when I glance at him, I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch. He meets my gaze briefly, and I catch the faintest gleam in his eye before he looks away. The man’s carved from stone, but even the granite of his demeanor can crack under a well-aimed joke.
I swing up onto Thora’s back with practiced ease, adjusting the fall of my cloak so the wind doesn’t rip at the hem. Mylo takes the lead, urging his horse forward. The guards at the gate give Sir Holden a nod, clearing the way without ceremony, having been informed of our departure ahead of time.
The sound of hooves on stone fills the air as we ride through, a steady rhythm that thrums through my bones. The castle looms behindus, ivy-strung and towering, its high ramparts casting long shadows over the road. I don’t look back, but a part of me remains behind.
A day and a half later, the gates of the Garrison rise into view just as the sun tips behind the hills, casting long, bronze shadows across the earth. Familiar banners ripple in the breeze—a brilliant, gold phoenix, its wings spread wide against a bronze backdrop.
Home.
The stone walls, though weatherworn, still stand proud. The scent of fresh earth, saddle oil, and pine wraps around me as we approach the outpost. Beyond the gates, I catch the bustle of soldiers lining the courtyard, armor glinting in the fading light, weapons strapped but peace lingering in their stance.
The sound of hooves on gravel alerts the guards. A shout hits the air, and the portcullis begins to rise.
“You sent word?” Uncle Kormak asks.
“Yes. They’ve been expecting us,” I respond.
He nods stiffly beside me, his cloak pulled tight around his shoulders. The ride has taken its toll, but he’s masked it well. That same steady look of command hasn’t left his face since we crossed into Delasurvian territory. His soldiers will see a general, not a ghost dragged back from the brink.
As we ride into the courtyard, the shift in energy is instant.
There’s a heartbeat of stunned silence, and then the cheers rise.
“General Kormak!”
