Page 198 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Duncan’s heart skipped several beats. He heard Merrick’s explanation as though through rushing water. There were words, but they had no order. Window. Waiting. A note in plain sight. Evidence. Overheard voices. A threat.

Then Duncan saw nothing but red.

Fury seized him so fiercely he thought his skin might split from it. He grabbed his sword, tore his cloak from the chair, and moved for the door with a purpose so absolute it altered the air around him. He was going to kill every last one of them.

“Where are you going?” Merrick snapped, stepping after him.

Duncan ignored him.

“Duncan.” Merrick lunged and caught his arm with both hands. “Stop.”

Isander followed, his voice urgent enough to cut through the heated fog rising in Duncan’s head. “They’ll cut you down before you reach the gate. She’ll be no safer for it.”

Duncan halted.

The world throbbed at the edges. His breath tore in uneven pulls. His knuckles blanched around the sword hilt before, inch by reluctant inch, he lowered the blade. It hung at his side for a moment before he forced himself to release it entirely.

He turned back toward Merrick, hollowed by helplessness.

“There’s more,” Merrick said more quickly now, as if soothing a wild animal.

Duncan’s eyes locked on him. “There is nothing more important than this.”

Merrick paused—not out of doubt, but because he clearly sensed the next truth would cut deeper still. “My men have been shadowing the army crossing Duskmere. Two days ago, it reached the plains outside Netherreach.” He drew a slow breath. “Then it changed course.”

Isander’s jaw tightened. “Where?”

“South,” Merrick said. “To Ardor.”

The word seemed to land with delay.

“Ardor?” Duncan repeated, his own voice sounding strange to him.

Merrick nodded. “I cannot say whether Cassian has chosen a side. But Kryovarre has either betrayed him or does not trust him.”

“Or,” Isander said, straightening as the logic assembled, “Valdir knows he cannot crush Lemierre outright if Wolmer manages to rally the Citadel. Ardor is weaker. Easier to take. Then Kryovarre, Duskmere, and Ardor together become a consolidated front.”

“A consolidated front against Lemierre,” Merrick said flatly. “Against the crown.”

Duncan set a hand against the wall to keep himself upright.

“We suspected it once,” Isander said, realization sharpening his tone. “Valdir truly does have his sights set on Wolmer. And if he succeeds… House derDobroiov reclaims the Empire.” His breath left him in a low curse. “Every House Wolmer ever trusted will be purged. Including ours.” He turned to Merrick. “How much time do we have?”

“They’ll reach Gryon within the week,” Merrick said. “Once there, I suspect they’ll rest only long enough to fortify before attacking. Valdir will want to strike while Wolmer is mired in grief and the palace remains sealed.”

Merrick stopped talking and looked at Duncan. Isander followed. Their expressions required no words to remind him: there was no one else.

Duncan’s pulse hammered, loud enough to drown thought. He let out an incredulous, strained laugh. “I never sought this cursed title,” he breathed, mostly to the air.

Then he caught the arm of the nearest chair and lowered himself into it.

He shut his eyes and saw Kora. Her small hand curved around a teacup beside his. The dark freckles in the green of her eyes. That slight tilt of her head when she was thinking.

From somewhere deeper than memory came his father’s voice. You were born to carry more than one weight at once. Choose which you lift first, or both will crush you.

There was no choice to make. Not truly. The Vaelclair Empire had to be defended.

He opened his eyes.