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Slowly, Oscovko held out a hand. Andry took it without question, hoisting himself to unsteady feet.
“They don’t allow you to make jokes either, do they?” Oscovko said, thumping Andry on the shoulder. “Good to see you made it out.”
Andry’s jaw tightened. Despite his easy manner, he saw anger in Oscovko’s eyes, and fear too.
“Many did not,” the prince added, glancing to shore.
But there was only blackness behind them. Not even a glimmer of the burning city remained.
It is no use looking back, Andry knew.
“How many men do you have?” he asked sharply.
His tone caught Oscovko off guard. The prince blanched and gestured along the small fishing boat. Quickly, Andry counted twelve on the deck, including Valtik and himself. The other survivors were just as battered as Oscovko. Mortal and immortal alike. Raider, Elder, and soldier. Some wounded, some sleeping. All terrified.
Off the bow and stern, in either direction, tiny lights bobbed alongat their pace. Squinting, Andry made out black shapes in the moonlight, their own lanterns like low stars.
Other boats.
“How many, my lord?” Andry said again, sterner than before.
Down the deck, the other survivors turned to watch their exchange. Valtik remained at the prow, her face turned to the moon.
Oscovko scoffed and shook his head. “Does it matter to you?”
“It matters to all of us.” Andry flushed, his cheeks growing hot against the chill. “We need every soldier who can fight—”
“I gave you that already.” Oscovko cut him off with a wave of one bruised hand, slicing it through the air like a knife. His face fell, torn between sorrow and desperation. “Look where it brought us.Both of us.”
Andry held his ground, unyielding, even in the face of a prince. His days at a royal court were long behind him, and he was not a squire anymore. Courtesy didn’t matter. There was only Corayne, the blade, and the realm now. Surrender was not an option.
“Eat, drink. Tend your wounds, Trelland,” Oscovko finally said, sighing out his rage. His anger turned to pity, his eyes going soft in a way Andry hated. Slowly, Oscovko took his shoulder. “You are young. You have not seen battle like this before, you do not know the toll it takes.”
“I’ve seen more of this than you have, my lord,” Andry muttered back.
The prince only shook his head, mournful. Whatever anger he carried was eclipsed by pain.
“It is a longer journey home for you than it is for me,” Oscovko replied, giving his shoulder a squeeze.
Something caught fire in Andry Trelland. He shrugged off the prince’s hand and stepped into his path, blocking the deck.
“I have no home to return to, and neither will you, Oscovko,” he growled. “Not if we abandon the realm now.”
“Abandon?” Oscovko’s anger returned tenfold. “You’re right, Andry Trelland. You are no squire. And you’re not a knight either. You have no idea how much these men have given. Not if you’re asking them to give more.”
“You saw the city,” Andry countered. “You saw what Taristan will do to your kingdom, to therest of the world.”
Oscovko was a warrior as much as a prince, and he seized Andry’s collar with blinding speed. He glared up at him, his teeth gritted, and dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.
“Let these men go home to their families and die with glory,” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. “War is coming, and we will fight it from our own borders, with the full might of Trec behind us. Let them have this much, Trelland.”
Andry did not waver, staring back at the prince. He matched his furious whisper.
“You can’t die with glory if there’s no one left to remember your name.”
A shadow passed over Oscovko’s face. Then he growled like an animal denied a kill.
“A cracked glass holds no water.”
