Orrin grouses, but clanks his tankard against Ronyn’s again. “Must be time to find a whore, me thinks.” He raises his eyebrows, a perverted smile splitting his lips.
Filthy fuck.
But Ronyn forces a laugh.
“Don’t wear yourself out, big fella. We have a very important order to work on,” Ronyn quips sarcastically, gut roiling at the insinuation.
But Orrin is already stumbling for the tavern’s door. “Don’t be fucking late!” he calls over his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ronyn says, quieter this time.
The superior glares at him, suspicion catching on his features. “Must be time for you to turn in for the night, boy. Find someplace to rest your head.”
Ronyn doesn’t push his luck.
“I was thinking the same thing myself. Any inns nearby?”
The superior only jerks his head toward the door.
Ronyn drains his tankard.
“It’s been a pleasure,” he bows, and strides for the door, embellishing his gait with a sway and stumble.
Because Thalmyr’s Guard is disguising their trips to Vyrhal as weapon runs.
And Ronyn’s going to figure out why.
Because secrets like this don’t stay buried. They just wait for the right person to dig.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The sea can teach, the blade can train
Neither can bargain fate’s domain
The clearing iswide and bare, the grass worn thin from use and neglect alike. Far enough from Elarion Castle that the city cannot pretend this is formal.
Seren stands just off to the side, hands clasped behind her back, hair pulled back in the style of a warrior, watching as the soft light of dawn rises over the clearing.
They’ve gathered in uneven rows—farmers, archivists, dockhands, peacekeepers. A poor excuse for an army. Bodies unused to being arranged this way. A nation that has always believed distance and diplomacy would be enough.
And Teddy.
He doesn’t rush to the center. He lets the quiet settle first. Lets the wind off the sea comb through the clearing. Lets the people grow uncomfortable with their own noise. Then he steps forward.
He does not hurry. Does not intentionally intimidate. He simply steps forward, and his presence dominates the space.
A force.
“From this moment on,” he says, voice low, steady, carrying without effort, “you will address me as General Ashborne. Or General.”
That’s all.
No explanation. No softness.
“Is that clear?” he demands, his voice unyielding.
“Yes, General!” the army bellows in poorly timed and disorganized responses. But more than that, their voices shake.
