Page 43 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

Garrett drags himself upright and I bite back a smirk. His golden hair sticks up in seventeen different directions and there are pillow creases on his face. He looks nothing like the composed commander who questioned Valorians yesterday.

“This better be gods-damned important or I’m demoting someone to latrine duty for a month,” he mutters, his emerald eyes barely slits against the morning light streaming through his chamber windows.

I’m already moving toward the door, hand instinctively checking for the knife at my belt. Even in Garrett’s own chambers in the heart of Elvarstyne Keep, I don’t take chances. The hammering could be urgent news. It could also be an excuse to get the door open, to catch us vulnerable and unprepared.

I pull it open just wide enough to see out, my body blocking the gap.

A young guard stands there, barely old enough to shave. The Valorian insignia gleams on his chest, freshly polished. His eyes are wide with the self-importance of bearing news, but there’s genuine anxiety underneath it.

“Speak,” I say, my voice still rough from sleep and ale.

He swallows hard and looks past me, trying to peer into the room at Garrett. Protocol demands he address his commander directly, but I’m in the way and I’m not moving.

“Commander, sir, we found something. About Marcian.”

That wakes Garrett up faster than a bucket of cold water. He’s on his feet, already reaching for his shirt. The blankets tangle around his legs and he kicks them away impatiently. “Where?”

“Near his house, sir. At the outskirts, by the eastern farms.” The guard swallows again, and his hand trembles slightly where it rests against the doorframe. “There’s... There’s blood. A lot of it.”

Garrett’s face goes still. I’ve learned that it means he’s pushing emotion down, locking it away where it can’t interfere with what needs to be done. “Who found it?”

“His wife.” The guard’s voice cracks slightly on the word. “Eithne went looking when he didn’t come home. The healers gave her something to help her sleep. But she won’t stop crying.”

I can imagine. Finding that much blood, knowing it belongs to your husband. The mind goes to terrible places and conjures images you can never unsee.

Garrett is already pulling on his boots, his movements quick and efficient. “Get my horse saddled and one for Wolf. We leave in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” The guard salutes fist to chest and hurries off. His footsteps echo down the hallway, fading quickly.

Garrett doesn’t look at me as he buckles his sword belt. His jaw is tight, muscle jumping beneath the skin.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken things.

“He could still be alive,” I mutter, though I’m not sure why I’m offering comfort. That’s not what his father pays me for.

Garrett’s hands go still on the buckle. When he looks up, there’s something bleak in his gaze when he finally meets my eyes. “No, he’s not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” He finishes with the belt and moves to his wardrobe, pulling out riding clothes.

I want to argue, but he’s probably right.

I move to my own pack, checking my weapons. They’re enough to handle most threats. Garrett watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turns away, gathering his own weapons. The keep is quiet this early. Most of the household is still sleeping.

The stables smell like hay and horse and leather. Our mounts are already prepared, saddled and ready. A young stablehand holds the reins, offering them to Garrett.

“Commander,” he says,

Garrett takes them with a nod of thanks. His horse is a beautiful creature, a gray gelding with intelligent eyes. The animal nickers softly, recognizing him. Garrett runs a hand down its neck in greeting.

My mount is darker, more skittish. It eyes me with suspicion when I approach. Horses and Noctrals don’t usually like me. Something about my scent maybe, the Wolven blood making them nervous. We took horses instead of Noctrals. The village is close enough that speed doesn’t matter, and horses are easier on supplies for a short trip.

Garrett’s hangover seems to have vanished entirely, replaced by that focused intensity I recognize from the Hall of Valor. We ride out within the hour, leaving the capital’s white towers and marble walls behind.

The city’s outer districts give way to farmland. We pass neat rows of crops, golden in the morning sun. A farmer looks up from where he’s mending a fence, hammer in hand. He sees Garrett’s golden hair and the Valorian insignia on his cloak and straightens. Garrett lifts a hand in acknowledgment, his expression softening just slightly. The farmer waves back before returning to his work.

Out here, the air smells fresh and clean. Nothing like Tiamat’s chemical reek or even the city’s concentrated humanity. If I wasn’t watching for threats, I might find it peaceful.