The fire had burned lower, settled now into that stage between flame and ember, when the heat lingers unseen but still holds the room. The wine bottles still stood on the desk, one open, one half-empty. A single cup remained on the edge of the table, the rim stained dark, and as I picked it up, I did not remember whether it had been mine or Astrid’s.
I stood for a while with the cup in my hands, not drinking. The fire popped once, a single sharp snap like something breaking beneath weight.
Then I heard it. A tap.
The sound came soft at first – barely audible beneath the settling of coals and the faint creak of the wood as the fire gave its last breath. Then another, sharper, like the edge of a claw on glass. I turned toward the window.
A raven stood on the sill, hunched slightly against the night wind, its feathers flattened by damp and travel, watching me with one dark eye, as if weighing how long I might take to notice.
I crossed the room and unlatched the window. The bird stepped inside without hesitation, wings tight to its sides, and with a slight adjustment of its stance, let a small scroll drop from its claws onto the windowsill. It lingered only a moment longer, then launched itself back into the dark with a dry rustle of wings and a single beat against the air.
I broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. The writing slanted upward as though drunk on its own impatience.
“We’ve had to relocate, which is bad news for morale and worse for my boots. The new site is wetter and windier and has introduced a new localspecies of biting fly.
The sergeant insists the fresh air is good for discipline. I’ve made a note to report him for optimism.
We’re near enough to hear the bells, but no one agrees which direction they’re coming from. The locals have stopped offering opinions. And food.
I’ve redrawn the supply rota four times, and no one has noticed.
Yours in service and suffering,
- B.”
I read it through once, slowly. Then again, though I already knew the measure of it. The words were scattered as ever—humour stretched thin, details folded into complaints, meaning packed tight in the spaces between. The kind of message only Benni would send. The kind that only I would understand.
The biting flies, the shifting bells, the silence from the locals – it might have read like idle nonsense, but he’d told me exactly what I needed to know. He was south of the ridge, near the old grain route. I could see the camp already: half-sunk tents pitched along the wet bank, officers muttering about logistics while the lower ranks argued over half-rusted cooking pots. I could see it so clearly it almost felt like I was there myself.
I sat with the weight of it for a moment – the room, the letter, the morning I knew was coming. I could already see my Mother in that chamber of hers, standing over a bowl of root and blood, speaking the words that invoked the old magic as if they were a kindness. I saw myself there too, still and obedient, as I had been before. As she expected me to be again.
But the thought of it met something in me that did not bend.
I still carried the weight of the ceremonial armor—not heavy, but present. Polished for the occasion, fitted to impress rather than protect. It had always felt wrong against my skin, like a borrowed story I hadn’t agreed to tell.
I rose and started to unbuckle each piece with care. The clasps gave easily, the straps uncoiling in a slow, deliberate slide. I laid the breastplate across the bench, followed by the pauldrons and the polished gloves still faintly scented with clove oil. Beside them, the old tunic still held the faint creases of the road. I pulled it straight. Fastened the worn bracers. Found the blade belt without looking.
The travelling cloak was still folded where I’d left it days ago—heavier than the court’s silk-lined drapes but built for weather and wear. I swung it over my shoulders, fastened the pin, and felt it settle into place like an old friend.
There would be no audience in the morning. No charm traced onto bare skin. She could keep her compounds, her broth, and her gentle warnings – I had heard enough.
I crossed to the door and lifted the bar, the wood creaking softly in its frame. Benni was out there, setting camp. The lines were shifting, and he was nearly ready. The next part of the campaign would come soon, and I intended to meet it from the front – not behind a closed door, waiting for someone else to decide what to do with me.
Let them wake to find me gone. I was going where I belonged.
Back to war.
Chapter Thirteen: Frejara
The light was hesitant, creeping slowly over Irongate like it had forgotten how to rise. I had never liked leaving at dawn. It felt like stepping into the unknown before the world had even caught up with itself.
The horses in the stables were shifting lazily in their stalls, the soft creak of leather and the quiet thud of hooves against stone the only sounds breaking the early hush of the morning. I moved through the space without hurrying, collecting the things I’d need for the road – saddlebags, a blanket, a waterskin, and rations for the journey.
The stablehand, a boy with straw-blond hair and eyes too old for his years, offered a silent nod as I hefted the saddle onto my mare. She was a narrow-bodied roan, smarter than most men I’d led and about as stubborn.
“You’re leaving already?”
I heard Daen before I saw him.
