Page 106 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“Just that. Nothing since.” Duncan paused. “I hope the lad still lives.”

Isander blew out a breath. “Why turn men into weapons when fae already hold such power?”

“I’ve asked myself the same,” Duncan said. “I don’t know how to act on the warning.”

Isander folded the letter and handed it back with a frown. “There’s enough to worry about here as it is.”

They sat in silence, watching the rise and fall of Cairon’s chest, the fragile proof he still clung to this world.

“Do you remember the summer your father set us to work the forge with Ronnie?” Isander said at last, slipping into Alaric’s cadence with a nostalgic smile, “‘Iron learns strength in fire, and so do men. Do not fear the heat. Fear leaving it unchanged.’”

“You nearly burned your brows off trying to prove it.”

Isander laughed softly. “I was never meant for the forge.”

“No,” Duncan agreed quietly. “But we learned what he meant.”

“That we did.” Isander sat for another moment, then stood, brushing dust from his sleeve. “I came to fetch you, in truth. The Council has returned from Merrenfield.”

Duncan looked once more at Cairon, acknowledged the guilt and fear knotted in his chest, then followed Isander into the cooling light.

The command tent was modest: hooded lamps hung from the poles, chests of dispatches lined the walls, and a single table stood at the center, covered in maps pinned at rivers, mines, and red lines marking enemy encampments.

Osric, Garric, and Brannoc bent over the spread while Rensaya sat nearby, eyes distant but attentive. Nelsyn and Turrel derFostrail, Baron of Trivolen, stood beside them and bowed at once when they entered. The others only straightened, ceremony long abandoned. War had a way of burning such things away.

Duncan nodded. “Report.”

Brannoc planted his axe against the ground. “Ninety men lost. Eighteen horses. Twice that wounded.” He paused and took a deep breath, as if he felt every casualty pass through him. “Kryovarre bled harder, but the western flank faltered. I plan to run drills with them to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

“See that you do.” Duncan turned to Garric. “How do we keep the pikes from breaking our line?”

Before Garric could answer, Nelsyn spoke.

“We must place our archers on elevated ground.”

“And alert their scouts before we strike?” Garric countered, annoyed. “They will send reinforcements before the first arrow flies.”

Duncan lifted a hand. “Archers placed in the treelines, not ridges. Enough cover to strike without advertising our intent.”

The tent fell quiet, canvas snapping in the wind.

“Did we catch sight of Kryovarre himself?” Isander asked, a restless edge to his voice.

Osric shook his head. “No sign of him, as always. His captains lead the assaults.”

“Coward,” Isander muttered.

Duncan could not disagree.

“I’ll send men to track him. He cannot be far,” Garric said, earning a round of grim nods.

Nelsyn shifted, leaning over the map. “With Merrenfield, we’ve reclaimed a third of the region.” His fingers hovered over Grayhollyn and Alewyn. “But the two largest mines remain in enemy hands.” He glanced between them. “We spoke of Herrenford before, but I believe Grayhollyn should be our next move instead.”

Turrel inclined his head. “It sits at the heart of Ardennesse. A stronger position for command. And if we sever the Kryovarre supply line there, we may shorten this war.”

“Grayhollyn is heavily fortified,” Osric countered, his gaze flicking to Duncan. “We would lose men for ground we may not hold. Herrenford is smaller, closer to the river. Take it, and we disrupt their river routes without overreaching.”

“Herrenford,” Brannoc agreed. “It’s achievable. We can’t afford another slaughter like Trivolen.”