Page 211 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“Bran.” Duncan lifted the vaelthorn sprig from his lap and turned it between his fingers. “What did Garric report about the wagons?”

Brannoc pressed a gloved palm to his thigh, searching his memory. “Kryovarre brought an unusually large number. He said they were guarded day and night, more tightly than the supply lines warranted. Why?”

Duncan drew a slow breath, forcing himself to separate alarm from obligation. As concisely as he could, he relayed Gavriel’s warning—the thinning of fae bloodlines, oraivane, an army bent into something unnatural. He showed them the sprig. “The wagons must carry the draught that sustains them,” he concluded.

The revelations were met with stunned silence.

Then Brannoc’s face darkened with fury. Eamon’s complexion drained toward grey. Jeachim stared, mouth parted, horror gathering slowly.

“You neglected to mention the baron was an imposter,” Brannoc said at last.

“I… It didn’t seem right to condemn him,” Duncan replied.

Eamon dragged a hand down his face. “I am certainly grateful you didn’t. This information…” He gestured. “You say these humans can wield ice, fire, and earth against us?”

Duncan could not find the words, so he nodded.

“Then we are finished,” Jeachim muttered, voice thinning.

“Not yet,” Brannoc countered, though his tone carried less confidence than the words.

“One week,” Duncan agreed. “We must remain standing for one week.” He shook his head lightly. “We should consult Rensaya. She may know something of oraivane.”

Jeachim shifted in his saddle. “Yaoaya is here. She also knows about… such things.”

Duncan glanced at him. “Yaoaya came with you?”

“She insisted,” Jeachim said, color rising in his face. “She hoped my sister might be here.”

Brannoc huffed a breath and gave Duncan a sympathetic look. “I am certain the duchess is on her way,” he said. Quietly, for once.

Duncan felt cold settle deeper, and not solely from the wind. He worried about Kora’s safety. About what Gavriel’s words implied, beyond the measure of the looming battle.

“Your Grace.” It was Brannoc again, insistent now. His eyes were fixed on the distant plain, and he was leaning so far forward in the saddle it seemed he might topple. “Does it seem to you that the army has begun to move?”

Duncan broke from his thoughts, followed Brannoc’s gaze and swore quietly. Lines shifted. Figures lifted. The slow, unmistakable transformation of an encampment into a marching host.

Eamon let out a defeated breath. “That looks very much like a force preparing to advance,” he said. “Toward my lands.” The last words carried a trace of panic.

“By the moons,” Jeachim whispered. “Your man Garric said they would hold another day or two.”

“It appears,” Brannoc answered, “they have changed their minds.”

Duncan tossed Pietre's signet ring into the icy slush, crushed the letter in his hand and pressed his heels to the horse’s flanks, already turning toward their waiting camp as he bellowed, “Call the Council! Ready our men!”

Chapter 95

Duncan

Up close, it was staggering. Lines stretched for what seemed to be miles, bodies arranged with such precision they looked constructed rather than assembled. Men and women stood shoulder to shoulder, motionless despite the biting cold, eyes shining vividly—violet, green, amber. Duncan found it difficult to reconcile that glow with the idea that any humanity remained within.

Among their ranks, towering Norrelian fae moved like dark shadows, features mostly hidden beneath cloaks. Yet now and then a hood shifted and the unmistakable gleam of focused violet eyes flashed. Cold. Intent. Stripped entirely of compassion.

Kryovarre sat mounted at the front on a midnight black warhorse. Thick furs draped his shoulders. Frost clung to his armor. Nothing softened the hard angles of his face or the fury etched there. The sight of him turned Duncan’s stomach.

“Lemierre!” Valdir nudged his horse into the empty stretch between their forces, posture exaggerated for spectacle.

Duncan glanced back at Gryon, the town small in the distance, a nagging reminder of what would be lost if he failed. He steadied his horse, feeling the animal shift beneath him—though perhaps it was his own nerves he was projecting.