Page 210 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Duncan drew breath to continue just as an armored rider appeared, urging his horse hard up the slope. “Your Grace,” he called. Snow sprayed beneath the hooves as he reined in sharply before them. “An urgent message.”

“Let it be Cassian finding courage at last,” Brannoc muttered.

“From whom?” Duncan asked, accepting the roll. The seal was unfamiliar, neither imperial nor bearing any mark of Lemierre’s allies.

“The Baron of Netherfen Hallows,” the rider replied.

Eamon leaned closer, brows rising. “From Pietre? Is he not confined in Norrelia?”

Duncan frowned as he broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. A signet ring and a sprig with pale-yellow veins fell out, settling onto his lap. He looked down, puzzled, then began to read the neat, careful script.

Your Grace,

I begin by offering my thanks for the mercy you extended to me when you chose not to expose my false identity. You had every right to do so and refuse to bargain for my release. Yet you did neither. Whatever moved you to that restraint granted me the remainder of my life, and I carry that knowledge with a humility I struggle to set properly into words.

Assuming they reached you, I apologize for the brevity and obscurity of my earlier notes. In truth, I did not yet grasp the full scale of what I had uncovered, nor did I have the liberty to write plainly. Now I can, and I hope this finds you before events outpace my warning.

Humans and fae, however separate our worlds may seem, are less different than we prefer to believe. You already know that when fae bloodlines mix, their power thins. Over centuries, that thinning continued until it birthed humanity itself: powerless, weak, and astonishingly mortal. Fae who guarded their lineage fiercely and withdrew into the three kingdoms preserved the truest expression of their ancestry. We humans, meanwhile, forgot our own roots.

Traces of fae lineage, however, remain within some human lines. Those whose eyes carry violet, green, or amber often possess more recent Norrelian, Tsuchitsan, or Aurumierran ancestry. Your wife, for instance, likely descends from such a union not far removed in time.

Duncan’s breath stilled.

The parchment trembled once between his fingers before he tightened his grip. Brannoc may have asked what the letter said, but Duncan scarcely registered it. Kora’s face rose in his mind with painful clarity. The vivid green of her eyes.

How often had he admired them without question?

He forced himself back to the letter.

There is a flower called oraivane that grows in abundance along the lower Niverna Mountains. Its sap bears two properties of note. It blackens diamonds. Anything it touches, really. And when prepared with certain compounds, it amplifies fae magic. Oorlon discovered this same mixture can awaken dormant magic in humans, those whose eyes betray recent fae history. The cost is devastating. Withdrawal tears at the body and fractures the mind. For many, it proves fatal.

Oorlon has spent nearly a decade capturing such humans, likely with the cooperation of Valdir derDobroiov, and testing this concoction. He has constructed an army of humans able to wield fae magic, whose wills have been hollowed by addiction and whose obedience is maintained through suffering. I witnessed an early trial of this force at Netherfen Hallows. And the Duke of Kryovarre, I believe without hesitation, intends to use this army to unseat House derVaelclair, restoring House derDobroiov to the throne.

Duncan lifted his head.

“Enough with the suspense,” Brannoc boomed. “What in the Three Moons has your face so ashen?”

“The early summer raids in Ardennesse,” Duncan murmured, more to himself than to them. “Nelsyn said Valdir’s soldiers hurled fire.”

“Your Grace?” Eamon pressed.

What Oorlon gains by aiding Valdir remains beyond my understanding. That question I entrust to your judgment and your deeper knowledge of Oraith’s courts.

If you are not already engaged in the defense of the crown, you soon will be. You must understand precisely what you face: an army strengthened by oraivane, supplied by wagons laden with the substance to maintain its effect.

I have done all I could to sabotage their stores. Exposure to smoke from a sprig of vaelthorn creeping vine is sufficient to contaminate and neutralize the mixture. I believe we have reduced their reserves from months to roughly a week. Kryovarre may not yet grasp the extent of the loss. Even so, a week will be no easy stretch to endure.

That is all I have left in me to offer the empire.

Allow me to end by returning to you the words you once gave me. Likewise, it would be an honor to die by your sword.

Sincerely,

Gavriel Morvain

A fierce wave of relief passed through Duncan at the knowledge that the young man had survived, that his small mercy in Norrelia had, in the end, been enough to grant him the time he needed to escape.

Then dread replaced it.