The wagon jolted over a particularly rough patch of road, and Nero didn't seem able to hold back a groan, his hand tightening around Casteel's. Through the canvas covering, they could hear Eryken speaking in low, casual tones to someone—likely a checkpoint guard.
"Papers for the grain delivery," came an unfamiliar voice, gruff with authority.
"Right here," Eryken replied smoothly.
The rustle of papers was followed by a pause that stretched too long for comfort. Casteel held his breath, feeling Nero tense beside him despite his weakened state. Through their bond came a pulse of readiness—even wounded, his mate was prepared to fight if necessary.
"Thought you'd have stayed inside with all the guards about," the man observed suspiciously eyeing the cart.
"Lot of coin for grain," Eryken countered with a merchant's pragmatic chuckle. "My customers don't ask questions when their children are hungry."
He heard the sound of papers rustling again, then heavy footsteps walking around the wagon. Casteel pressed closer to Nero, both of them trying to become invisible beneath the canvas and straw. The footsteps paused near the back of the wagon, and Casteel's heart hammered against his ribs.
"What's in the back?" the guard called.
"Empty sacks and packing straw," Eryken replied without hesitation. "Delivered the grain yesterday—this is the return trip."
More footsteps, then the creak of leather as someone climbed up to examine the wagon bed. Through a gap in the canvas,Casteel caught a glimpse of silver armor—one of Doran's elite guards, not a simple gatekeeper who might be bribed.
The guard's hand reached for the canvas flap. Casteel felt the wolf stir within him, responding to the threat with predatory awareness. Beside him, Nero's breathing had gone completely silent, every muscle coiled despite his injuries.
Then came the sound of hoofbeats approaching at speed, and shouted orders from somewhere behind them.
"Captain!" a voice called urgently. "Silver Guard dispatch from the palace—priority orders!"
The hand on the canvas hesitated, then withdrew. Heavy footsteps moved away from the wagon as the guard went to receive his new orders. Through the gap, Casteel watched armed riders in pristine silver armor conferring with the checkpoint guards, their voices too low to make out specific words.
"Move along," came the gruff command, and so, hearts somewhere in their throats, they did.
Casteel turned to Nero but fear caught and held his tongue. The bandages on his chest were red with blood.
Chapter Fourteen
The wagon rolled throughthe northern gate with agonizing slowness, every revolution of the wheels carrying them farther from immediate danger but deeper into unknown territory. Nero lay still in the straw, fighting waves of pain and nausea as the cart jolted over the rough road leading away from Abergenny's walls.
Through their bond, he felt Casteel's relief mixed with lingering terror. His mate's hand remained clasped in his, a lifeline anchoring him to consciousness as his body threatened to surrender to the trauma of their escape. He was bleeding and he knew Casteel had noticed but they couldn't stop.
"How far to the first way station?" Lucan asked softly once they were well clear of the city.
"Eight miles," Eryken replied, consulting a map by the fading daylight. "There's an inn called the Copper Kettle—rebellion sympathizers run it. We can rest there until dawn."
Eight miles. Nero closed his eyes, calculating. At the wagon's current pace, nearly three full bells of jolting over increasinglyrough roads. He could feel fresh blood seeping through his bandages with each bump, his body's reserves depleting with alarming speed.
"I need to examine his wounds," Makim whispered urgently, noting the spreading crimson stains. "If the bleeding doesn't stop soon..."
"We can't stop here," Eryken's voice carried back to them, tense with the knowledge that Silver Guard patrols might be following. "Too exposed."
Nero felt Casteel's growing desperation. His mate was torn between the need for speed and the fear that the journey itself might kill Nero. The younger man's anguish cut deeper than any physical wound.
"Don't worry," Nero managed, though speaking required tremendous effort. "I won't let you die."
He missed the incredulous look Casteel sent him because even as he spoke the words, darkness crept at the edges of his vision. The constant drain of pain, blood loss, even with the magical energy flowing through their bond, was taking its toll. He felt Casteel pouring more of his own strength into him—strength they might both need before this journey ended.
He woke occasionally as the cart jolted and tried to keep the hiss of pain in. Eryken rolled up the sides of the cart as if seeing the scattered farmsteads, most showing signs of the ongoing drought—withered fields, empty livestock pens, wells that had run dry—made the journey bearable.
"There," Eryken pointed ahead to where smoke rose from a chimney nestled among a grove of oak trees. "The Copper Kettle."
Nero pried his eyes open as Eryken spoke—a modest two-story building with a stable yard and several outbuildings. But it looked prosperous enough, with well-maintained walls and glassin all the windows. More importantly, it sat far enough from the main road to offer some concealment.
