Dalric shrugged. “Never.”
True enough. Most Regulation soldiers, even unit commanders, never met with the warlord. I, on the other hand, had met with him dozens of times. He probably has news from my father.
I kept my face neutral. “That’s probably because of your stench.”
“You sowrutter.” Dalric shook his head. “You’re confusing me with that bear.” He pointed at Thorne.
We left the din of the Rookery and exchanged our training swords for our personal ones at the entrance. I’d blackened my sword’s hilt when I’d arrived from Ederyn to make it less obvious. A Pendaran with an excellent blade wouldn’t raise suspicion, but a gold-hilted sword would.
Outside, the brisk air hinted at the coming winter. The leaves had begun changing a month earlier, not that it mattered here in Pendara. Once harvest ended, any lingering warmth would vanish. Pendara, the northwesternmost realm, claimed the icy mountains Ederyn hadn’t wanted.
After two years here, I understood why Pendaran soldiers made up the bulk of the army. Their realm was devoted to warcraft, and they could outlast nearly all other Liriens in harsh elements. Other realms had soldiers, but only the Askaris of Doba, near the Great Wasteland’s deserts, knew such extremes. Unlike Pendarans, though, most Dobans were peaceful scribes and scholars.
“Where are you two going?” I asked as Thorne and Dalric flanked me on the path.
Thorne squinted, amused. “To find out what the hell you did.”
I smirked and didn’t argue. They wouldn’t be admitted to Warlord Ellison’s quarters anyway. Would Ellison want to discuss my upcoming departure?
My father had ordered me home in a few weeks. I planned to request command of a Regulation unit. I also expected my father to remove the Seal … though I wasn’t sure I wanted that anymore.
I had no wish to return to being Prince Calix Warrick.
The Seal had honed my warcraft powers—I didn’t want to lose them now. Though I missed the other powers I’d possessed before my father gave me the Seal, my training had changed me. No more accidental fires. No more latent simmering at the edge of my veins. No magic I couldn’t control.
In truth, no magic at all.
We hurried in silence toward headquarters, following the path that wound near the forest. Regulation soldiers joked that Cairn Hold’s training grounds were so close to the Dreadwood to serve as a buffer between Lirien and the monsters rumored to live there.
Jokes aside, they weren’t wrong.
The Dreadwood was for the lawless. Monsters—human and beasts alike—dwelled there. No one who entered came out alive. The forest was forbidden. The fortress at Cairn Hold had been built after the fucking Viori began their raids several hundred years ago, meant to safeguard the Pendaran border.
Even the soldiers rarely ventured from the path.
Light filtered through the brilliant gold- and red-leaved trees, dappling onto mosses and twisting vines. Beautiful, really.
Hardly the nightmare legends spoke of, but I restrained a shudder. The only time I had set foot inside the forest, near Doba’s border, it hadn’t gone well. I didn’t want to remember that now.
We were halfway to headquarters when the forest went unnaturally quiet.
The narrow, uneven path skirted the Dreadwood’s edge. Dalric walked slightly ahead. Thorne was at my side. He adjusted his bearskin cloak, the faint jingle of his sword hilt breaking the silence.
“This feels wrong,” I muttered, scanning the dense undergrowth.
Thorne glanced at me, his eyes narrowing. “Now you’re paranoid, too? Gods help us.” But his hand drifted to his weapon. He’d sensed it too.
Dalric slowed. “Quiet.” His voice, sharp and low, cut through the air.
Ahead, the shadows shifted, wrong and deliberate.
Four figures emerged from the forest like wraiths, their movements unnaturally smooth. Bone-white masks obscured their faces, each one carved with eerie precision.
Thorne stiffened. “Viori.”
Dalric didn’t hesitate. “Yes?” he called, his tone deceptively casual.
They didn’t answer. Behind us, a faint rustling drew my attention. Two more masked figures stepped onto the path, cutting off our escape.
