Aerion’s eyes flicked to him. “And what do you suggest, Sir Clyde? I arm the gardeners with pitchforks and prayers?”
“If it kills soldiers, it’s a matter for knights, not farmers,” Clyde said evenly. “You should send a hunting party.”
“I should do nothing that risks a panic,” Aerion snapped back, then exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “If the people start believing the old stories again—demons in the woods, cursed fields—the harvest will rot in the barns before fear does the rest.”
Thorne exchanged a glance with another aide, but neither spoke. Aerion pushed away from the table, pacing toward the tall windows. Beyond them, the mist clung to the horizon like smoke, obscuring the far hills where the border faded into uncertainty.
“The east threatens war,” Aerion said quietly, almost to himself. “And now the west whispers of monsters. Tell me, Captain, are there any corners of this realm that don’t wish to devour us?”
“None that I’d wager coin on, my lord.”
Aerion laughed once, bitterly. “Then perhaps we should stop calling this peace.”
He turned back to the table, eyes bright and hard. “Keep watch on the border. But send a small company north of the forest. Discreetly. I want to know what hunts our men.”
Thorne bowed and began gathering the maps, murmuring orders to the aides.
When they were gone, the chamber fell quiet. Aerion leaned against the edge of the table, fingers tracing absent circles in the dust where the pins had been. “You think me a fool,” he said without looking up.
Clyde’s voice was level. “No.”
Aerion glanced over his shoulder. “Then what?”
“I think you’re afraid.”
The air stilled.
Aerion’s laugh came sharp and soft, like glass breaking. “Afraid? My dear Hound, I’m many things, but never afraid.”
Clyde met his gaze, unflinching. “You care for this land more than you pretend. That’s what frightens you.”
Aerion’s smile froze, faltered, then returned—tighter, brittle. “You mistake caution for care.”
“Do I?”
“Leave, Sir Clyde.”
Clyde inclined his head and obeyed. But as he stepped into the hall, the faint echo of Aerion’s laughter followed him; a brittle sound that cracked before it reached the door.
Night came late to Valemont that evening, the sky refusing darkness until the last streaks of gold had drowned behind the mountains. When it did fall, it fell heavy, thick with mist that curled around the ramparts and muffled the world to breath and shadow.
Aerion sat alone in his father’s solar, a single candle burning low beside an untouched goblet of wine. The great hearth crackled but threw little warmth. Maps still littered the table from the morning’s council; their edges curled with wax drips and the faint smell of ink. He traced one idle finger along the border marked in red, following it until the parchment ended and the uncertainty began.
The sound of boots echoed faintly from the corridor; guards changing post. Beyond that, silence.
Aerion leaned back, rubbing a hand across his eyes. His father slept fitfully these days, leaving the estate’s weight to him, and though Aerion wore it lightly in daylight, with laughter, mockery, and jewel-bright defiance, tonight it pressed down like chainmail. The laughter was gone. The mask was gone. Only the man remained, and the man was so very tired.
He rose and moved to the window.
Below, the courtyards lay drowned in fog, torches flickering like drowned stars. From somewhere in the distance came the low moan of a horn—one of the night watch, signaling nothing more than the passing hour. And yet the sound dragged through him like a warning.
He sipped his wine at last, the bitterness grounding him.
When he looked east, toward the unseen front, he thought of Redmere’s banners gathering like crows. When he looked west, toward the forest, he thought of the beasts the captain had spoken of—wolves that didn’t bleed, boars split open by something older than teeth.
“Not Redmere,” he murmured to the dark. “Then what?”
The candle hissed as its wax reached the end. Shadows crawled long across the floor.
