Page 199 of Of Iron and Moonlight

An overwhelming warmth rose in his chest at the sight of Isander and Merrick watching him. Waiting. He held their gazes longer than he meant to, anchoring himself there.

“If I never ask another favor of you,” Duncan heard himself say, “let this be the last.” The next breath scraped the inside of his ribs. “I must ride for Ardor. But she is…” His vision blurred slightly. “You are the only brothers I have left.” He looked at Merrick, then Isander. “I know what I ask of you. I know it is dangerous.” He nearly choked on the words. “Bring her back to me.” He blinked against the tears. “Please.”

Merrick’s expression hardened. He gave a single, decisive nod.

Isander hesitated for a heartbeat. Then whatever reservations he warred with seemed to settle. He reached out and set a firm hand on Merrick’s shoulder. “We will.”

Chapter 90

Isander

Cold seawater from Capital Bay crept into Isander’s boots and threaded uncomfortably between his toes. He suppressed a shudder and pressed his back against the damp stone wall of the tunnel beneath Vaelstrom Palace.

Merrick crouched in the water a few strides away as though it were nothing more than rain pooled along a roadside. A dagger revolved through his fingers in slow circles, catching the last fragments of daylight—the sole witness to their silence.

Isander had avoided this moment for months. Now he stood in waist-deep water with nowhere to go and ten years of unsaid words hanging between them like sediment stirred from the seabed.

The blade turned again across Merrick’s knuckles, and the whisper of steel through air tightened something in Isander’s chest. “You still haven’t learned to keep your hands quiet,” he muttered, aiming for annoyance. “Same as when we were boys.”

“You know what the Sanctum says about idle hands, brother,” Merrick mused, grinning without looking.

“You never cared what the Sanctum preached.”

“I would have made a dreadful second son.”

Isander scowled. The remark landed exactly where Merrick intended.

A shadow crossed the iron grates overhead as guards passed above.

“Stay low,” Merrick murmured. The dagger paused, balanced in his fingers.

Isander’s attention snapped upward. Water shifted around his calves, sending another ripple into his boots as he adjusted his stance. “You never returned drenched from the derWhitte apartments,” he whispered. “And this route is taking twice as long.”

“The derWhitte apartments sit at the top of the palace,” Merrick replied with an infuriating smirk. “We’re heading below. Cells. Storage vaults. Forgotten corners. If someone intends to make a duchess vanish, they won’t tuck her beside embroidered curtains.”

Isander let out a short, grudging breath. He hated that Merrick was right. Hated the cold creeping into his bones. And hated, most of all, that his discomfort had nothing to do with seawater or the lingering ache in his shoulders from the Siege of Alewyn, and everything to do with the man a few feet away.

“Why the complaint?” Merrick added, the smirk lingering. “You tire of me already?”

“You make it difficult not to.” The answer snapped out before Isander could soften it. His temper flared. Resentment followed, and the tunnel suddenly felt too narrow to contain both. “You left us. Not a word. No explanation. Do you think I didn’t wonder every cursed day?”

Merrick’s grin faltered briefly. “You had Duncan,” he said with a casual shrug, eyes fixed down the tunnel. “You had the derWhittes. What did you need with me?”

Isander stared at him. “I needed my brother.” The words came before pride could restrain them. “After our mother died, you were all I had that was mine.” His hand curled at his side. “Was the life Alaric gave us not enough?”

Merrick finally looked at him—truly looked. “Enough is a convenient word.” Some of his ease slipped, something raw surfacing beneath it. “I couldn’t pretend that life belonged to me. I couldn’t sit there and call it home, forgetting everything taken from us.”

Isander’s jaw tightened. “You decided it was better to become a thief in the gutter?”

Merrick stiffened, eyes narrowing. “You think that’s all I am?”

“What else am I meant to believe?” Isander’s voice frayed. “I’ve heard nothing but curses tied to your name for years. Every rumor worse than the last.”

“I’ll own what I’ve done,” Merrick said. “But I haven’t committed half the sins they hang on me. Once your name curdles, every theft becomes yours. Every whisper drags you with it.” He shook his head. “And you believed it,” he added, something close to hurt in his voice.

“Then tell me why.” Isander gestured to the tunnel around them—the darkness, the echo of boots overhead. “Why this life? Why leave us? Why leave me?”

Merrick leaned closer, voice unvarnished. “You won’t understand.”