The understanding landed in her stomach like a block of ice. The words of the merchant woman echoed in her mind:Avoid the Warlord’s attention. She wanted to groan. It seemedshe’d failed at that. “It’s you. You’re their Warlord. Holden’s son.”
He stilled—whether from surprise, annoyance, or some other emotion he didn’t allow himself to show. But the slight adjustment in his posture, the way the rhythm of his breathing changed, revealed him all the same.
“Perceptive of you, Starling,” he said slowly. “Although, much like you, I too prefer my own name and not my father’s.”
Another shift, the starlight and the sickle moon shining on his face. His expression sent a fire through her. “Blainor.” His words were a quiet stroke of breath. “Not Holden.”
The faint hoot of an owl and the song of crickets echoed in the air.
“That’s my name: Blainor Dewingar,” he continued, louder. “And yes, I’m the Warlord of the Twelve, Master of the Moors.”
She crossed her arms, fixing him a steady look. “Your evasion makes me trust you even less,Warlord. You could have told me earlier. Again.”
“Not truly. Not at the inn. Too many ears, too many mouths. And… there is a price on my head. Suspended for now, or so the Baron’s liege wanted me to believe.”
“Your business with the Baron—it wasn’t for trade.”
“So curious,” he murmured. “I can see how it’s killing you. The not knowing.”
She clenched her teeth. “Does it excite you watching me guess?”
“Another answer you’ll have to live without, I fear.”
He drew a deep breath as though savoring the night’s brisk air, the forest’s piney aroma. “The soldiers will be here soon. You’d do well to keep quiet and out of sight. Your music may mesmerize men, but it’s a double-edged sword, and I do prefer my blades sharp.”
For a moment, she thought to turn on her heels. Almostdecided to pack her belongings and do exactly what he’d warned her about: vanish. Just mount Dapple and ride off into the night. Ultimately, sense called her back.
If Lord Daworth—Blainor, the Warlord—wasn’t lying, a number of hostile soldiers lay in wait. She could only imagine what they’d think, seeing her emerge from the campsite, riding her distinct ash-gray Mearsen horse. A horse that had been witnessed alongside the ruler of Eichlandt, a man with a bounty on his head and a hefty blood toll in his past.
How neatly he’d cornered her. She was stuck. For now, she reminded herself. Only for tonight.
Afterward, she’d weigh whether to accept his offer, though its logic was undeniable.
Damn him, still. Her reference might as well be ash.
4
The worst partabout the looming violence was the wait, the silence—the knowing. Trisha’s whole body was wound like a too-tightly pulled string, ready to snap.
Or maybe it was the fury simmering just beneath the surface, how effortlessly she’d been drawn into a conflict she wanted no part of. Ironic, really. Despite her attempts to avoid these endless struggles for power, fate had come to bite at her.
Thank the nameless gods for small graces. Blainor,Warlord, she reminded herself, did not expect her to join the battle. To do so would mean burning bridges completely. Such a sacrifice she wouldn’t accept, not without a fight.
But she refused to leave Dapple behind. She couldn’t afford to abandon him with the other horses. Even she knew that whatever the attack entailed, the enemy would certainly target their mounts too. Dapple was Trisha’s, and she’d be damned if she didn’t protect him with all her might.
“And what if he panics and gallops in the middle of a fight?” Blainor ground out, pulling on his gloves. Since bringing the news about the approaching attack, he’d changedinto a padded gambeson—unadorned, simple, without any obvious signs of his status. He had kept his sword at his belt, and one of his men had brought him a shield that rested against a rock a few feet away. “I won’t let your horse get my men killed.”
“You should have thought of that before dragging me into your conflict,Warlord! Dapple won’t lose his calm.”
Blainor’s mouth flattened. The stare of his eyes was flint-hard, but she refused to cower or relent. Around them, the soldiers moved, cautious and quiet. The metal of their helmets and weapons gleamed, and their armor pieces clanked as they prepared an ambush with an ease that spoke of years of experience and a clear understanding of what was expected.
At last, Blainor released a breath, yielding—more out of necessity, she knew. “Stay out of sight.” Leaning closer, he raised a finger. The leather of his gloves creaked softly. “But if he runs before my sword, I won’t hold back.”
“He won’t,” she snapped.
She led Dapple out of the clearing. The undergrowth tangled around her calves, and the dark leaves shivered as she took a spot behind a thicket of young trees. It provided just enough coverage to hide with Dapple.
Trisha set her bow against her knee, dangling an arrow from her hand. She prayed she wouldn’t need to use it. The worn leather of the bridle rubbed against her skin. A crack to her right broke through like a thunderclap. She strained her eyes. Was it an animal? Just the wind?
