"You'll have it," Harwick says without hesitation, and for the first time since entering the room, his voice carries something approaching hope. "Whatever our differences, whatever I think of your... relationship... with the prince, I want him home safe. I've loved that boy like a son since his father died, and I'll work with the devil himself if it means bringing him back alive."
"Good." Ivah buckles on his weapon belt, already mentally cataloguing resources and planning routes. The familiar rituals of preparation for battle help focus his mind, channeling fear and fury into something productive. "How many men did you bring?"
"Thirty of our best. Veterans, all of them, loyal to the prince personally rather than the crown. Men who would die for him without question." Harwick's expression grows grim. "I had to be... selective... about who I told regarding this mission's true purpose."
"The Queen doesn't know you're here."
"The Queen thinks I'm conducting reconnaissance along the southern border. If this goes badly, if we're discovered or captured, she can disavow any knowledge of my actions." Harwick meets Ivah'seyes. "I'm already a traitor to my kingdom just by being here. Adding a few more charges to the list seems irrelevant at this point."
The admission speaks to both the man's desperation and his courage. To seek help from his greatest enemy, to risk everything for the sake of one person—even one as important as Bellamy—requires the kind of moral clarity that Ivah has learned to respect in his opponents.
"I'll match that number with my own elite guard," Ivah says, pulling down a detailed map of the Northern Kingdom's mountain passes. "Sixty men should be enough for what I have in mind, if we're smart about it."
He spreads the map across his strategy table, weighing down the corners with ceremonial daggers while his mind shifts fully into tactical planning mode. This is familiar territory—not the physical landscape, though he knows that well enough, but the mental space of preparing for battle, of calculating odds and contingencies and acceptable losses.
Except this time, there are no acceptable losses. This time, failure means watching the person he loves more than life itself suffer and die for the sake of a madman's political ambitions.
"Kent has three major strongholds," Ivah says, pointing to locations on the map. "Ironhold, his primary seat, is here in the central mountains. Heavily fortified, easily defensible, but also where he'd expect any rescue attempt to focus. Drakemoor is smaller but more isolated, built on a peak that's accessible by only one road. And then there's Ravenshollow."
Harwick studies the map intently, his experienced eye taking in the terrain features and tactical implications. "The approaches look difficult."
"They are. But not impossible, if you know the right paths." Ivah reaches for another map, this one hand-drawn and annotated with details that speak of personal reconnaissance. "I've been through those mountains before, during the border conflicts of my youth. There are smuggler's routes, hunter's tracks, paths that don't appear on any official survey but can get a small force close to the castle undetected."
Ivah looks up from the map, studying Harwick's weathered face. "This isn't your kind of warfare, General. Mountain climbing, stealth infiltration, fighting in close quarters with minimal support—it's not what your men train for."
"Maybe not. But I've been fighting longer than you have, boy, and I've learned to adapt." Harwick's smile is grim but determined. "Besides, someone needs to ensure that Prince Bellamy receives proper medical attention once we find him. Someone he trusts, someone who can keep him calm and focused during the extraction."
It's a good point, and one that Ivah hadn't fully considered. Bellamy will have been captive for over a week by the time they reach him. Injured, possibly, or at the very least traumatized by whatever ordeal he's endured. Having a familiar face, someone he trusts absolutely, could mean the difference between a successful rescue and a catastrophic failure.
"Very well. But we do this my way, with my tactics, following my lead. Your men take orders from me during the operation, no questions asked." Ivah's tone brooks no argument. "I won't have this mission fail because of divided command or conflicting strategies."
"Understood." Harwick's voice carries a note of something that might be respect. "We'll bring him home." Harwick straightens, military bearing reasserting itself as the scope of their task becomes clear. "What do you need from my people?"
Ivah calls for Madden, who appears with the instantaneous response of a man who's been waiting for orders. The seneschal takes one look at the maps spread across the table, at the weapons in his king's hands, and seems to understand that major events are in motion.
"Ready my war gear and summon Captain Korrath," Ivah orders. "Full battle kit, but prioritize mobility over protection. And send word to the quartermaster—we'll need supplies for a hard march through mountain terrain. Travel rations, climbing gear, medical supplies."
"How many men, sir?"
"Sixty, split into two forces. And Madden? This mission is classified at the highest level. No one outside this room and my immediate staff knows the true purpose." Ivah's voice carries the weight of absolute authority. "Anyone who speaks of this unauthorized will answer to me personally."
"Understood, Your Majesty. Anything else?"
"Send a message to the border commanders. I want increased patrols along our northern frontier, but keep them subtle. If anyone asks, we're conducting routine security exercises." Ivah rolls up the detailed maps, securing them in leather cases. "And ready my personal armory. If we're riding into the mountains to face desperate men, I want every advantage we can carry."
As preparations begin in earnest around them—weapons being checked, supplies being gathered, horses being readied for hard travel—Ivah finds himself thinking about the last time he sawBellamy. The prince had been laughing at something, his golden hair catching the afternoon light as they'd walked through Ivah's private garden. He'd been happy, relaxed, more beautiful than any man had a right to be.
Now he's trapped somewhere in the mountains, probably hurt, definitely afraid, counting on rescue that may never come. The thought makes Ivah's chest tight with a combination of rage and desperation that threatens to overwhelm his tactical thinking.
"The Queen will need to know, eventually,” Harwick tells him. “About you and Bellamy, about what this rescue mission represents."
"One crisis at a time," Ivah replies. "First we save him. Then we worry about explaining ourselves to our respective peoples."
They mount up as the sun sets behind the western mountains, sixty of the finest warriors from two kingdoms united by a single purpose: bringing Bellamy home alive. The political implications of this alliance, the questions it will raise, the complications it will create for both their realms—all of that can be dealt with later.
Right now, there's only the mission. Only the desperate need to reach Bellamy before his captors decide that negotiation has failed and more direct persuasion is required.
The combined column makes an impressive sight as they ride out from Everitt's capital—Ivah's elite guard in their black armor, Harwick's veterans in the blue and gold of Mirn, all of them united behind banners that speak of temporary alliance in the face of greater threats.
