Almost a year since he’d last seen him. Almost a year since he’d held his gaze across the marble halls of Valemont.
His heart was heavy. So heavy he thought it might break through his ribs and drop into the snow outside.
He sat down heavily, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and pulled fresh parchment toward him. His hand trembled with exhaustion as he dipped the quill.
My lord,
The nights are colder now. Snow buries the camp, but when I look up, the stars burn clearer than I have ever seen them. I imagine you would despise it here. Your silks would freeze in an hour, and the wine would turn to ice before you finished the glass. I like to think of you scolding the sky itself for daring to snow on you.
He paused, pressing a fist against his chest, forcing himself to steady. He thought of Marreck’s blood still on his hands, of the boy Renn coughing through the night, of how many fewer men woke with each dawn. None of that would reach Aerion’s eyes.
His quill scratched on.
I miss the sound of your laughter—even when it was at my expense. It carries in my memory clearer than the wind. When the cold bites deepest, I think of the gardens of Valemont, and I swear I smell roses instead of blood.
Do not doubt this: though the distance grows, you remain nearer to me than anything else. I hope you sleep warm. I hope you still smile sharp enough to frighten your courtiers. And I hope, when next I return, you will scold me for taking so long.
—C
Then he folded it, slid it into an envelope, and pressed black wax over the seal. His hand lingered on it a moment, eyes closed, as though it were more prayer than letter.
Finally, he tied it to the hawk waiting outside, murmured a wordless vow into the feathers, and let the bird fly into the storm.
He watched it vanish into the snow-choked sky until his vision blurred, then turned back into his tent. The cot creaked beneath his weight. He sat with his head in his hands, the silence pressing down harder than any enemy.
And though he was commander, though he was meant to be unbreakable, tonight the hollow inside him threatened to devour him whole.
Chapter thirteen
A Kiss on the Throat
The morning broke red, the horizon smeared like an open wound. Frost clung to the ground in brittle shards, crunching under boot and hoof as the soldiers of Valemont formed their ragged line. Breath smoked in the air, too many eyes wide with hunger and fear.
Clyde stood at the front, helm under his arm, cloak whipping in the wind. He scanned the treeline where the enemy waited—a smear of dark shapes moving like a tide beneath the skeletal branches. His pulse was steady, but the air tasted of iron, and he knew what was coming.
“Shields up!” he barked. His voice cut across the muttering line, grounding the younger men, pulling them into shape. Renn was among them, face pale beneath his helm, his shield trembling faintly. Clyde caught his eye and gave the smallest nod.Hold.
The horns sounded.
Arrows blackened the sky.
Clyde raised his shield, the impact rattling through his bones as shafts thudded and splintered. A man to his right screamed, dropping as a bolt pinned his arm to his side. Another staggered back with an arrow in his throat, blood spraying bright against the snow.
“Forward!” Clyde roared, drawing his sword as the enemy surged from the trees.
Steel clashed. The line buckled, steadied, buckled again. Clyde fought like stone in a river, each blow precise, each step calculated. He cut down one man, pivoted, blocked another’s strike. The world narrowed to the ring of steel, the hiss of breath, the sting of cold on his skin.
Then—
A hiss. A whistle.
He turned his head at the wrong moment.
The arrow sang past his ear, so close it burned. It tore a bloody groove just beneath his jaw, grazing his throat before thudding into the cart behind him. The impact spun him half around, his vision white with shock. His knees buckled.
“Commander!”
Renn’s voice cracked the din. The boy shoved past two older soldiers, shield clattering to the ground as he lunged toward Clyde. He caught him under the arm as Clyde stumbled, blood soaking into the boy’s gauntlets.
