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“We are the glory of Old Cor reborn. There is no denying our victory, our conquest, is the will of the gods,” Erida said to the table, pointing down the long line of chairs to the open tent flap. “Tell me that is not proof of it. A lethal army. Adragon.”
She kept her hand raised, careful to use her wounded hand. It wasstill bandaged, the gash beneath never quite healing. Her lords did not miss it, a symbol of their queen’s own sacrifice.
“There is no kingdom that can stand against us now,” Erida said, rising from her seat. Every eye followed her movements, even Ronin’s unseeing stare. “Not even the Temurijon. Not even the Emperor and his Countless.”
Silence spread down the council table, punctuated only by the whistle of wind sweeping through the foothills. The camp echoed like an empty graveyard, her soldiers exhausted by the climb down the pass, and the fear of a dragon overhead.
Thornwall leaned back in his chair.
“I’ve had reports, Your Majesty,” he said, his lips twisting.
“Reports?” she spat back at him, mocking his grave tone.
Down the table, a few nobles flinched, but her commander did not.
“Reports,” Thornwall said again, sharpening each letter. “The Temurijon on the move. The Countless crossed the mountains, perhaps months ago.”
In her head, Erida loosed a string of curses, and What Waits cursed with her. She warred against the urge to run from the tent, holding herself steady as her own lords sputtered and complained.
“Crossing the mountains?” “This is war!” “Ascal is undefended!”
“If they march across Galland, they will cut a line of destruction across our entire kingdom,” one of her lords said. “They could raze Ascal before we even make it back to our own borders.”
Thornwall looked grim and worn, his face going gray. “We do not know their aim. There’s word of an armada with them, to ferry the Countless by sea.”
Too many voices wound together, almost drowning out Erida’s thoughts in her own head. She leaned heavily, a hand to her brow, willing them to be silent andobey.
If the Temur take Ascal, I will simply take it back, she thought, laughing at the prospect.The Emperor does not know my wrath, nor my power.
“Send word to Lenava,” Thornwall urged. “Demand the King of Calidon kneel or be destroyed.”
Erida stared at him, his face softened by her veils and a haze of candlelight. Quickly, she weighed her options in her mind.
“Fine, send what letters you must,” she finally muttered, twisting her hand.
One of the lords made a scoffing sound, his eyes wide. “Then we—turn around. March back to Ascal and ram through the Countless ourselves.”
Whispers rippled down the table, rare smiles loosed on pale faces. Erida scowled at them.
“Hardly,” she snapped. “Our battle is with Iona.”
Thornwall squinted at her side, his own confusion palpable. “The Elder enclave?”
Erida’s head thumped, a dull ache beginning in her temples. Dimly, she wished she had left her lords in the mountains and let them freeze to death.
“Dragons and Elders, what madness is this?” One of them mumbled, hissing under his breath.
Taristan speared him with a glare.
“Madness, my lord?” he snarled, and the whispers dropped. “Are you accusing the Queen of something?”
“Never,” the lord stammered back, terrified. “It is only—yours is a mortal empire. We have no cause to bother with immortals, hidden in their ancient holes. Few as they are. Inconsequential to the rest of us. Especially not while our grand city hangs in the balance. The jewel inyourcrown.”
With a smack, Erida slammed her bandaged hand down on the flat of the table. The sound rang through the tent, the pain of it shooting up her arm like a spike. A low groan escaped her lips. Around the table, her lords winced, cowed into silence again.
“Yes.Mycrown.”
Shaking, Erida raised her fist again, her meaning clear.
