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“I wanted to.” The confession was worn and honest. “But it was a risk. For me to speak the truth, and for you to know it.”

Njall gave a quiet hum. “I have been thinking.”

“Of course you have,” Gavriel muttered, a trace of old familiarity returning.

“I do not want to repeat the mistakes I made with my father.”

Gavriel regarded him with open skepticism.

“You trained me,” Njall went on, uncertain of his footing. “You made me stronger because you told me the truth, even when it stung. That is how this began.” He drew a slow breath. “And you were right about Astriyed.”

Gavriel’s head snapped toward him. “What happened?”

Njall’s silence was explanation enough.

Gavriel winced. “That may be partly my fault.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I confronted her. I might have raised my voice. Possibly threatened to throw Sarvo off a balcony.”

Njall stared at him.

“Very well,” Gavriel amended. “I did not threaten either of them. But I did tell her she was cruel. Watching her use you as a piece on her board made me furious.”

Njall exhaled slowly.

“I know it came from loyalty,” he said after a beat. “If she had cared for me, your words would have changed nothing. In the end, she betrayed me.”

Gavriel’s voice softened. “Some people lose themselves surviving power. Others lose themselves chasing it. She may have done both.”

They walked a little farther before Njall spoke again. “I thought becoming the King’s Champion would bring respect. That it would make Selenar less lonely.” His focus blurred briefly. “It did not. Then you arrived. You reminded me what it felt like to stand beside someone who was not judging my worth by tradition.”

Gavriel said nothing, but the look he gave him urged him on.

“Pietre or Gavriel, it does not matter,” Njall continued. “The friend who challenged me, who listened when I spoke of my father, who made the last few years easier to endure—that was you.” He stopped and faced him fully. “I will not let distance grow between us over a name.”

Gavriel slowed as well. “You made those years easier to bear for me as well,” he said quietly. “The thought of losing you because of a lie forced on me...”

Njall extended his arm.

Gavriel hesitated, then swallowed and clasped it with a firm grip. Warmth passed between them despite the cold, and the strain that had followed them across the mountains eased—not entirely, but enough.

They continued walking in companionable silence until Elara gasped ahead. She stood on the ridge, small against the sweep of mountains and sky, brown eyes wide as though trying to contain something too vast to understand. Her knees weakened and she caught herself against the ice. Kalaetzu stood beside her, gone still as stone.

“What in the Three Moons…”

Njall ran to her.

He followed her line of sight.

The ridge fell away into a sweeping view of the western coast curving around Lunnholm Bay, its black water dulled beneath mist. It should have felt like hope—the promise of leaving the Niverna Mountains and their tragedy behind.

Instead, Njall’s stomach dropped. The ridge beneath his boots felt suddenly insufficient.

A column cut through the snow. Long. Orderly. Endless. Violet torchlight ran along it like molten metal, flashing across shields, spearheads, and helmets. Thousands marched in disciplined formation from Lunnholm toward the east.

Tens of thousands.

“Cursed moons, Njall. I told you Oorlon was building an army.” Gavriel reached them.

An army vast enough to swallow the horizon.