Page 129 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Her shoulders lowered.

Njall rubbed a hand along his jaw. “I might know someone who can get into Oorlon’s rooms without raising suspicion,” he said as his thoughts slid, unwillingly, to Astriyed.

Gavriel’s warning bent his mind insistently. He had never doubted Astriyed before. Now doubt shadowed every memory of her.

But she could do this. Oorlon summoned her often. No one would question her near his chambers. If she could be trusted.

If.

“I will handle it,” he said at last, though unease moved under his ribs.

Elara’s eyes brightened immediately. She threw her arms around him again, and this time he did not hesitate. He pulled her close and let the warmth settle through him like a blessing he had no right to claim, but could not bring himself to refuse.

“Strange turn of fate, isn’t it? The King’s Champion, plotting to undo the very order he swore to defend. Freeing prisoners he once hauled in himself.”

Her expression softened. “Because you have a heart.”

He grunted. “A dangerous thing in a place that worships cold logic above all else.”

“No,” she said gently, shaking her head. “It is what keeps cold logic from becoming cruel. And logic keeps a good heart from breaking under its own weight. I have known too many people who are only one or the other. Too hard. Or too soft. But you…” Her brown eyes held his, not knowing the chord she was striking. “You have both. My favorite thing about you.”

Njall’s heart jolted. No one had ever spoken of the fracture in his blood, the pull of two worlds inside him, as anything but flaw or threat. No one had ever called it a strength. He turned away and swallowed hard, fearing she might see the shine gathering in his eyes.

“There is one more thing,” she added, tucking herself beneath his arm again, moving on as though she had not just altered his entire regard for his existence.

He drew himself back, forcing composure into his voice. “What is it?”

“When we return to the castle,” her smile tilted toward mischief again, “we must send a message to a duke.”

Then she winked. It was a small gesture, but large enough to draw the jagged halves of him a little closer together. Not whole. Not seamless. Yet Njall still felt as though he had drawn a full breath at last.

Chapter 61

Duncan

Duncan struggled to breathe.

Reports on troop movements and supply counts continued, the steady pulse of an army pressing at his command. Yet to him, the war had receded into irrelevance. Even food had become an afterthought. Sleep no longer existed as a concept he could grasp. He could not recall the last time he had shaved or bathed.

Only Kora’s breathing held him captive. Shallow. Fragile. Like a winter bird fallen into reeds, hoarding the last trace of warmth left in its small body. For over a week he had kept vigil at her side, one hand always within reach of hers, never quite daring to close the distance.

Between counting her breaths, he unfolded the same scrap of parchment and read it again. And again. His thumb traced the strange hand until the letters blurred.

Kryovarre conspires with Norrelia.

A spy hides in Vaelstrom Palace.

An army comes in the winter.

Beware.

Kryovarre and Norrelia. The Council had already suspected as much. Oorlon’s sudden hunger for iron, Valdir’s relentless pressure through Ardennesse, the alignment of their timing—none of it felt accidental. Though the confirmation brought no relief, only grim clarity.

But a spy in Vaelstrom. The heart of the Empire, compromised. A serpent coiled at Wolmer’s feet, waiting for winter. That chilled him to the bone.

He turned back to Kora, and the cold dread of politics instantly vanished before something far more immediate. The parchment slipped from his hand as he noted the veins beneath her skin had darkened, branching like black vines through marble.

He had never seen anything like it.