"They'll blame us," Casteel said bitterly. "The Silver Wolf who abandoned them."
Eryken shook his head, surprising Casteel with the certainty in his eyes. "Not all of them. Word is spreading about what really happened on that balcony—how the Silver Wolf's mate took arrows meant for him, how Doran tried to force you to enact laws that would enslave half the kingdom." He leaned forward, voice dropping. "People are choosing sides, and not all favor the High Priest."
"But the prophecy—"
"Was always a tool," Eryken finished. "First for the royal family, then for Doran. The question is: whose tool will it be now?"
Casteel's hand tightened around Nero's. "No one's. I'm not a weapon to be wielded."
A ghost of a smile crossed Eryken's weathered face. "That's exactly what I expected you'd say." He shifted in his chair, wincing as the movement jostled his injured arm. "But prophecy or not, you have power, Casteel. The Silver Wolf is real. People saw you transform. That gives you legitimacy no rebel leader could ever claim."
"I never asked for this," Casteel whispered.
"Neither did he," Eryken replied, nodding toward Nero's still form. "Neither did any of us who watched our families starve while kings and priests grew fat on 'divine offerings.'"
Casteel glanced at Eryken wondering for the first time what had brought him to this point.
Beneath Casteel's fingers, Nero's pulse quickened slightly. Through their bond, he felt a flicker of consciousness—not awake, but closer to the surface than before.
"He's responding to your voice," Casteel said, hope threading through his words.
Eryken moved closer, his gruff demeanor softening as he looked down at his former lieutenant. "Always was a light sleeper. Saved our lives more than once when he heard patrols before anyone else." His voice took on a reminiscing quality. "Remember that night at Blackwater Ford, Nero? Six royal guards stumbled into our camp, and you had three down before the rest of us even woke."
Another pulse through the bond—stronger this time. Casteel felt Nero's mind reaching toward consciousness like a drowning man stretching for air.
"Keep talking," Casteel urged. "He can hear you."
“How about you tell me about you?” Eryken countered.
Casteel hesitated, surprised by the request. “Me? I’m just a stable boy.”
“A stable boy who turns into a silver wolf and bonded with my best lieutenant,” Eryken said dryly. “I very much doubt you’re ‘just’ anything.”
Through their bond, Casteel felt Nero’s consciousness stir again—a flicker of curiosity. He took Nero’s hand with both of his, drawing strength from their connection.
Casteel began in a low voice. “My ma got a job in the palace kitchens.” He glanced down, unable to look Eryken in the eye, and not because he was ashamed, but because he was angry. "Johannes raped her like so many others, and so I guess I was one of many royal bastards.”
"And then?" Eryken asked.
"I was a stable boy and to be honest I loved it. I even got to exercise the horses once the head groom trusted me." He'd loved two of them the most. Princess was a strawberry roan bought for the Emperor Johannes's granddaughter, and he was one of a few small enough to train her. Magic was an aged battle horse once belonging to a general that his rider's widow refused to sell. He made sure Magic got to spend his days in the sun with as many stolen carrots as Casteel could get. "When there were horses," he added.
Eryken shook his head. “I’d left for Cadmeera seven months before the victory. We had bigger problems developing there and in Rajpur. If I’d stayed, maybe Aidan would still be alive.”
Casteel remembered the day the local rebel leader had died. “At least you fought,” Casteel muttered.
Eryken raised a brow. “How old are you?”
Casteel huffed. “Twenty summers, but don’t tell me I was too young to have fought in the rebellion.” He hesitated. “Ma was sick. She had been for a long time, and if it wasn’t for me, she would have been turned out. I didn’t get wages. We got food and she got a pallet with the other maids.”
At that moment, Nero’s fingers twitched against his palm. His eyelids fluttered, fighting the pull of unconsciousness.
“Nero?” Casteel leaned in, heart pounding. “Can you hear me?”
A weak squeeze, then the faintest whisper: “Yes.”
Relief crashed over Casteel like a tidal wave. Through their bond, emotions surged that were too powerful for words—gratitude, fear, hope, and something deeper neither would name.
“Don’t try to move,” he whispered, brushing dark hair from Nero’s brow. “You were shot with an arrow to the lung. You’ll heal, but it’ll be slow.”
