And of course he followed. Of course he knows me well enough to understand I wouldn’t stay behind while others bleed for my kingdom.
Mylo shakes his head, though there’s a faint smirk pulling at his mouth. “The stubborn bastard’s got a way with words, I’ll give him that.”
Dante doesn’t even look at him. His gaze stays locked on mine, steady and unyielding, as if the rest of the world could crumble and it wouldn’t pull his attention away. “I’m not here to stop you. I’m coming with you.”
I lift my chin, though the corner of my mouth betrays me with the hint of a smile. “I figured as much.”
And I don’t stop him. Not that I could.
We travel all day, stopping only to give the horses a rest and to fuel our weary bodies with food. There’s so much I want to talk to Dante about, but the small moments we have on our journey don’t feel like the right times. It’s not just about wanting him to hold me, or to be reminded of what his lips feel like devouring mine. We haven’t discussed the fact that I pushed Torbin from the tower, that the king plans to legitimize him, that we are to be betrothed once the mourning period ends. I don’t know how he feels about any of it. For all I know, he’s opposed to the king’s plan. For all I know, he blames me for Torbin’s absence from his life, just like his father does.
If anything, the journey gives me plenty of time to think.
Night has fallen by the time we reach the meeting point. In the stretch of the rocky hillside, tucked beneath the shadow of an abandoned, wooden watchtower, the air hums with quiet anticipation—the kind that always comes before battle. Even from a distance, I spot the flicker of a whetstone against steel, the faint glow of campfire embers pulsing like a heartbeat in the dark.
We guide our horses through the tall grass, and the sound of our approach stirs the figures huddled near the base of the tower. A blade flashes as Aila stands first—always the quickest to reach for a weapon. Isaac follows, pushing to his feet with a low grumble, his sandy hair ruffled by the night breeze. Giorgi, crouched near the fire, narrows their eyes as they straighten—until recognition settles in, and their mouth falls open.
“Commander?” Giorgi’s voice carries just enough disbelief to make me smile.
Isaac lets out a low whistle. “Well, shit. Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
Aila doesn’t wait for permission. She closes the distance between us in three quick strides, staring up at me and shaking her head. “Commander. We thought you’d be locked up tight under the king’s watch until the mourning ended.”
I shrug, dismounting with an ease that belies how fast my heart still beats from the ride. Since she mentioned the mourning, word must havealready reached Delasurvia about Torbin’s supposed death.
“The king doesn’t decide where I go,” I say, my chin held high. “Not when the full moon is upon us.”
She embraces me, patting me on the back in camaraderie.
Isaac snorts, bending over his sword to resume sharpening the blade. “If you’re hungry, you’re out of luck. It’s Giorgi’s turn to cook.”
“Ungrateful bastard,” Giorgi mutters, though there’s no real bite in their tone. They lift their chin toward Mylo. “Brought the big guy with you, too, I see.”
Mylo swings down from his horse, brushing a hand over the pommel of his sword. “Someone’s got to keep you and Isaac from killing each other.”
Aila’s focus shifts to Dante, still straddling his chestnut-brown stallion, and the warmth in her expression cools to something of bemusement.
As Dante sweeps his gaze over the squad with quiet intensity, the glow of the fire catches on his features—the sharp angles of his face that momentarily leave me breathless. He doesn’t speak. Just gives them a nod, one they return with the same quiet gravity. They’re not exactly friends. I don’t think they can dismiss the fact that his blood ties him to a ruthless king and a prince who turned malicious. But after what we’ve faced together, what we survived the night the carnoraxis tore through Ivystone, they are still allies. And in battle, that means everything.
Giorgi sets down the stick they were using to stoke the fire and makes their way to the horses. Dante mutters his thanks as Giorgi gathers the reins and leads the animals toward the narrow stream trickling nearby. The sound of hooves fades into the quiet, leaving the rest of us in the faint glow of the fire.
Aila is the first to break the silence. “How’s the general?”
At first, I can’t answer. I don’t have it in me to tell my squad that his condition is getting worse. And a part of me is afraid to bring up Ezra’s elixir, for fear it was the wrong decision.
“He’s holding on,” I answer instead. “The magister is doing everything he can. He and Nadya are watching over him while I’m here.”
Isaac drags the whetstone along the edge of his blade, the scrape loud against the hush settling over the camp. “Good. The old man’s tough. I’m betting on him to pull through.”
Aila grins faintly. “If anyone can survive being half-poisoned, it’s your uncle.”
Mylo and I exchange a glance, neither of us willing to clarify just how bad it’s gotten. Maybe if we don’t say it out loud, the gods will reward us by bringing my uncle’s condition back to normal.
Aila jerks her chin toward the top of the tower, where a lean figure descends the ladder, an axe strapped to his back. “You remember Lorne, don’t you?”
My gaze follows hers, and once the man reaches the ground, I catch the familiar gleam of amber eyes beneath a fall of silver-blond hair. His features are still young, perhaps a year or two behind my own, but there’s a maturity in the quiet way he moves. His face is spattered faintly with freckles, his expression closed but alert.
He brushes ash from his trousers before giving me a half-bow with practiced ease. “Commander.”
