Keres pointed to the red glow on the listening device. “Skerren has reached the mountains of the Dragoncryst. That’s why his fleet has slowed. A fierce storm roils there. He had intended to wait it out.”
Frustrated, Wryth curled his hands into fists, wanting to throttle Skerren for such caution.
Especially when you’re so close to the enemy.
Keres noted Wryth’s aggravation and lifted a brow. “But then Skerren got a reading on his sphere. Just the barest flicker of those tiny lodestones.”
“What?” Wryth stiffened. “When?”
“About the time I noted the earlier flare. That’s why Skerren dispatched his message.” Keres grinned in excitement. “He lost the signal after it faded, but he and the fleet are invigorated and excited. They’re readying their ships to brace the storm.”
“So, they intend to head onward?”
Keres pointed to the crystal sphere. “They’re already on their way.”
Wryth stared for a long breath. The red glow of the fleet looked like it hadn’t moved, but he trusted Keres’s sharper eyes, especially as the man had been monitoring the device from the start.
Wryth leaned closer, his heart pounding, no longer tired. He intended to wait out that coming battle right here.
After so long …
But it seemed the night of interruptions wasn’t over.
A loud bang drew his attention to the chamber’s door. Phenic, the gangly-limbed acolyte, burst into the chamber, searched around, and spotted them.
“Shrive Wryth!” he called out, breathless. “I must speak to you!”
Wryth frowned and waved Phenic to join them. “Calm yourself and come over.”
Phenic looked aghast at violating the inner sanctum, a sacred place reserved for only a handful of the Iflelen. But he knew better than to disobey Wryth’s command. The acolyte squirmed and twisted his way to join them. By the time he reached the heart of the great machine, his face ran with nervous sweat.
“What has you so excited?” Wryth asked.
“Word from the Southern Klashe,” Phenic gasped out. “Spies report that the emperor has dispatched two warships, captained by a pair of his sons. They’re heading north, aiming for the kingdom.”
Wryth scowled. “The imperium is just posturing. After the bombing of Ekau Watch, the emperor must respond in some manner or lose face.”
Still, Wryth knew the reason behind the emperor’s volatile act. He cursed Prince Mikaen for the hundredth time. Before the prince’s warship had left Azantiia, King Toranth had ordered his son to only harangue the outpost, to set fires and leave. Such an attack was meant to voice the king’s fury at the empire—not only for sheltering Kanthe, but also for the betrothal to the emperor’s daughter.
A message had to be sent to the empire.
Only Toranth had dispatched the wrong herald.
Mikaen had taken it upon himself to drop the massive Hadyss Cauldron atop the small outpost, killing everyone below and setting fire to a large swath of Tithyn Woods, which continued to burn. He claimed his ship had been attacked, requiring a violent response. Toranth could hardly scold his son upon his return, especially with the reception Mikaen received by the king’s legions, who celebrated his victory.
Of course, now Emperor Makar had to retaliate in kind, sending warships north. Wryth could only hope Makar’s sons were more reasonable and even-tempered.
Phenic shifted on his feet, clearly not done with his report.
“Out with it,” Wryth ordered.
“Prince Mikaen intends to meet them,” Phenic blurted out. “To attempt an ambush within the smoke-choked stretch of the Breath.”
“No! The king would never allow it.”
Phenic cringed at his outburst. “The entire legion is rallying for action. Stoked by the faction of the Vyrllian knights who support the prince.”
“His Silvergard.”
