Page 105 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“Brannoc!” he roared through the smoke. “Hold the west. If they—”

“Aye, my Grace!” Brannoc’s grin flashed beneath his helm. He charged with a roar, rallying his soldiers in a sweeping arc of his axe.

Garric thundered past, sweat cutting tracks through dust on his face. “The square is ours, but their pikes are flooding the north!”

“I see it,” Duncan called back. “Small units only. Split them before they regroup.”

Garric nodded once and vanished into the smoke.

Duncan wheeled toward a cluster of fighting near a toppled shrine. His shoulder burned from hours of combat as he cut through soldiers. Blood spattered his cheek. He hoped it wasn’t his own—or from a wound too grave.

“Loose!” he called to his archers.

Arrows swept the sky, a dark surge that found its marks.

Victory, when it came, was bitter. It always was.

Duncan dismounted and walked the wreckage, steadying shoulders, clasping forearms, offering what little comfort could exist amid ruin. His attention caught on the toppled shrine again. Smoke streamed from it, winding through broken bodies and stone. Despite his misgivings about the Sanctum, he found no comfort in its destruction.

“Garric,” he called hoarsely. “Secure the town. I’ll ride ahead to Trivolen.”

“I’ll see it done,” Garric said, emerging from the shadows of the damage. Duncan wasn’t certain where his father had found the man, but he was grateful for his talents.

When he reached Trivolen, he went straight to the healer’s tent. Rows of men lay wrapped in linen dark with old blood or new. Herbs hung in the air alongside the sharp scent of churned dirt. The noise of camp faded to low groans of suffering and murmured pain.

Guilt clawed at him as he moved between the cots. He was brilliant in battle—he always had been—and he despised that gift. Every order carried the risk of death. Every sound decision marked a wound yet to be made. These men lay here because he had sent them.

He walked past a young soldier with a splinted arm. The boy tried to rise.

Duncan pressed him gently back down. “Rest,” he said quietly, forcing it past the knot in his throat.

Then he set to work, holding cups while medicine was poured, wiping brows, changing bandages himself when the healers were occupied. There was little he could offer in answer for the cost he had exacted, but he gave what he could.

In time, he reached Cairon’s cot. The blacksmith lay still, face pale as wax. Duncan sat beside him and took his hand. “You missed the fight,” he murmured. “Indolent bastard.”

He waited for a laugh, a cough. Any reply at all.

None came.

Duncan exhaled slowly and unfolded the letter in his cloak, the parchment worn soft where his thumb had passed over it too often.

“No improvement?”

He looked up.

Isander was still marked by battle: hair unkempt, sweat darkening his collar. Though fatigued, he appeared unhurt, and the sight eased a tight place in Duncan’s chest.

“Breathing,” Duncan replied. “But he hasn’t stirred.”

Isander sat beside him and noticed the letter. “Another from Koraleise?”

Duncan shook his head. “This came weeks ago. From the imposter baron in Norrelia.”

“He made contact?” Isander straightened. “What does it say?”

Duncan passed it over.

“The fae are testing a drug on humans with colored eyes,” Isander read quietly. “It wakes something dormant. Powers like theirs. I’ve seen it. I suspect Oorlon means to refine it and deploy it.” He lifted his eyes. “That’s all?”