Page 175 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“I have no doubt you did—and enjoyed it more than you admit.”

Amusement warmed Merrick’s expression, lighter than anything Duncan had seen these past months.

“Will you stay tonight?” Duncan asked. “Your room is as you left it.”

Merrick’s posture shifted, the slightest break in his armor. Something almost vulnerable crossed his face. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I would like that.”

Duncan clasped his shoulder. “Goodnight, Merrick.”

“Goodnight, Duncan.”

Duncan left him there, closing the door with care.

Merrick remained by the window, the house that had shaped him standing firm around him once more, alone with the echo of childhood memories and a decade of unspoken confessions that had followed him home.

Chapter 81

Duncan

By the time the lights of Vaelstrom shimmered on the horizon, Merrick had vanished again.

Perhaps it had been reckless to risk being seen riding beside a man half the empire would call a criminal. Duncan did not care. Not tonight. Not when memory and longing had worn him raw, when something inside him thrummed with a singular purpose.

He gave no thought to appearances, nearly leaping from his horse the moment they reached Vaelstrom Palace. If he resembled a soldier who had ridden without rest for days—beard overgrown and unruly, hair tangled by the wind, leathers stiff with dust and frost—it was because he had. Ignoring the exhaustion in his bones and the ache in his knees, he strode toward the gates with a pace too quick for dignity.

The guards did not react to open them. Nor did they signal recognition.

“Gents,” he called, forcing a hint of humor into his voice, “I know I look worse for wear, but it is I, the Duke of Lemierre. Ask inside if you doubt me.”

“Your Grace.” Their captain bowed. “There is no doubt as to your identity. But I cannot admit you.”

Isander stepped forward, voice lowering. “You refuse a duke entry?”

“By the emperor’s direct order. No one enters. No one leaves. No correspondence.”

Duncan frowned. “What has happened?”

“Empress Issabet was murdered. The palace is sealed until the man guilty is found.”

Duncan rocked back a step, as though someone had driven a cold fist through his ribs.

“Murdered?” Isander repeated, vaguely piqued. “How?”

“I cannot say.”

Only then did Duncan truly look around him. The courtyard lay unnaturally still. No carriages rattled through the streets. Selvarath’s violet light washed over shuttered homes and silent balconies. He had arrived in such blind anticipation that he had noticed none of it.

Isander turned to him. “What now?”

“Valestra,” Duncan breathed, already swinging back into the saddle.

He paced the drawing room of the derWhitte townhouse, from the hearth to the window and back again, boots striking the polished floor with mounting force, aiming to outwalk the dread crawling up his spine.

Powerless. The word gnawed at him like rust. Powerless, when every door had always opened to him, every opportunity had been freely given, and every lesson drilled into him had been meant to keep chaos from his House. Powerless, because the only gates that mattered now were barred to him.

His chest tightened until his breath came shallow.

He halted mid-stride.