I fight the knot forming in my throat. It feels like the last time I’ll stand on this side of the command, but I remind myself it isn’t permanent.
Aila turns to me. “Come on, get washed up. The kitchens have been working on a welcome meal. It’s not comparable to the royal feasts you must be used to, but the ale’s strong and the bread’s soft, and I figure that’s enough to count as a celebration.”
I nod, letting out a small laugh. “Sounds perfect.”
I make my way to the small room I called home when I lived here. It’s unchanged—plain walls, a narrow bed, a low chest for storing gear. But when I glance out the window, I catch sight of the distant castle beyond the stretch of fields. Its towers are just visible in the fading light, draped in violet dusk like a wound hidden under fine silk.
Taking in the shadowed windows, I remember Bennett, and my chest tightens. He never lived to see what became of me. Never learned of my betrothal. Never met Dante. Was gone long before Torbin fell.
I close the curtains gently and sniff back the threat of tears.
After washing and changing into dark trousers and a cream blouse, I re-braid my hair and roll up my sleeves. My dagger rests at my hip, familiar and steady. It’s the first time in weeks I’ve felt like myself. No silk gown, no veil stitched in mourning lace. No heavy-handed king telling me what I can and cannot do.
The regiment’s dining hall is already buzzing by the time I enter. Thesprawl of tables is simple—rough-hewn benches, mismatched cutlery—but the scent of stew and baked bread fills the air. Roasted root vegetables, salted meats, buttered rolls. More than I’ve ever seen on the Garrison tables. Not as decadent as Hedera’s feasts, but a far cry from what we had when Delasurvia was starving.
I slide onto the bench beside Aila, across from Giorgi and Isaac. Mylo and Lorne sit farther down with Uncle Kormak, who only nibbles at a roll and drinks sparingly from a tin cup. His eyes seem far off, as if still watching a battle play out behind his eyelids. He’s here, but only just.
Isaac lifts his mug, his eyes on me. “It’s great to have you back, Commander.”
I give him a nod. “How about just ‘Celeste’?”
“Nah. You’ll always be ‘Commander’ to me.” He chuckles before tossing back his mug, his throat bobbing as he finishes the entire contents in one go. When he’s done, he slams the mug on the table and lets out a long, loud belch.
“Nice one,” Aila says, deadpanning. “Real proud.”
“Shut up,” Isaac says. “You’re the one who can belch the entire Delasurvian motto.”
Giorgi laughs so hard, they almost choke on their ale.
Beside me, Sir Holden approaches, his hair still damp from washing up. He takes the spot to my left and lets out a groan.
“Everything all right, Sir Holden?” I ask, pouring him some ale.
“It’s been a long day, Your Highness.” He takes the ale and gives me a nod.
“You thinkyourdays are long,” Isaac begins. “Try being attached at the hip to this guy for most of it.” He juts a thumb at Lorne.
Hearing him, Lorne shakes his head, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Why are you so mean to me?”
“Have you met you?” Isaac bursts into laughter before Lorne can respond, but then he shoves Lorne’s shoulder playfully.
Mylo leans closer to Lorne. “Just say the word and I’ll make sure his eyes are so black, they match his boots.”
I shake my head, leaning my elbows on the table and facing Lorne. “I take it you’re finding your place all right with my squad?”
He shrugs, amber eyes glinting in the firelight. “Yeah. Isaac only pulls a prank on me everyotherday, so things are improving.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” Isaac says. “You know you’re not really part of the squad if you’re not putting up with our shit.”
“I’m honored, then,” Lorne replies, lifting his drink.
Before anyone tosses out another jab, a shadow appears at my side. A young courier, dust still on his boots, holds out a sealed parchment.
“Message for Commander Westergaard,” he says. “Came in not long ago.”
“By nightfeather?” I ask, taking it from him. It’s heavier than a usual scroll—weighted. “It must have been strong to carry something like this.”
“No, Commander,” he says, brow furrowed. “Not by nightfeather. Came by griffon vulture.”
