Page 216 of Of Iron and Moonlight

He stood at the far side of the table, a once-fine tunic hanging from his tall frame in torn folds. His armor lay nearby, smeared with dirt and blood. Dark hair fell in disordered strands around his face, grey eyes dark with exhaustion and a heavier mien as he studied the map before him. Yet no sight in the world could have lifted her spirits more.

The disturbance in the tent reached him. He looked up. Their eyes met, and the change was immediate. Shock first. Then relief so fierce it broke through the strain he had been carrying.

She ran to him.

Duncan met her halfway, catching her with a force that nearly knocked the breath from her chest. His arms closed around her, lifting her clean off the ground and holding her as though he had no intention of letting her feet touch the ground again. “I was so worried,” he murmured into her hair. “Where have you been?”

Kora pressed a scatter of quick, breathless kisses across his cheeks and brow. “We stopped in Arkanstad with the derMorvants before coming here.”

“You traveled with Cassian?” Duncan eased her down. She noticed then his voice carried a sorrow she had never heard in it before.

She nodded, watching him carefully. “To convince Ardor to help.”

“Did you convince them?” The question could not conceal its urgency.

Kora turned and found a man she did not recognize. His short dark hair stood slightly tousled, deep lines bracketing grey eyes that had clearly endured too many sleepless nights. He caught himself and bowed quickly. “Your Grace.”

“Kora,” Duncan said. “This is Eamon derKelvann, Baron of Gryon.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.”

“The pleasure is mine, though I wish the meeting came under gentler moons,” Kora said softly, then turned back to Duncan. “Ardor will stand with us. They will arrive at any moment. Merrick and I crossed the Arkan with them but parted early.”

“Praise the moons,” Eamon breathed. “How did you manage that? Cassian, moons bless him, is as stubborn as a mule.”

“It was not him I convinced,” Kora replied. “His wife proved more open to reason.”

“You said Merrick…” Duncan noted quietly. “Where is Isander?”

Protests rose from the guards outside. The tent flap flew open and Merrick stepped inside, dark cloak snapping in the winter cold, hood pulled low over his face.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” a guard blurted nervously, filing in after him. “He wouldn’t—”

“It’s all right, Sven,” Duncan said. “Resume your post.”

A disappointed Sven bowed and withdrew.

Duncan opened his mouth to speak, but the thought died the instant he truly saw Merrick’s face. Something emptied from his expression. “Where is Isander?” he repeated instead. His eyes flicked to Kora, searching for an answer.

She shook her head once. The motion was barely visible. Understanding settled over the Council like sudden frost, grief recognized without a single word.

Duncan’s bewildered eyes left her and found Merrick.

Merrick’s brief nod and the way he turned his gaze aside confirmed it twice over.

Duncan’s breath fractured from him. His knees folded, and he hit the ground, one hand bracing against the floor while the other clutched his stomach.

“No.”

Scarcely louder than a breath, as if disbelief itself had managed only that one word. “We lost Bran too,” he added quietly, shoulders shaking as he struggled to hold himself together.

Kora sank beside him, feeling the room sway as her vision blurred, and pulled him into her arms. Sound dulled until even the distant crash of battle felt muted, unable to pierce the stunned heartbreak inside the canvas walls.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. The words were not comfort so much as witness.

Her voice trembled as she told them what had happened in Vaelstrom Palace. Her capture. How Isander and Merrick had come for her. Isander’s confrontation with Firrigan. A dagger flicked before either of them could cry out.

Duncan squeezed his eyes shut. “Firrigan will pay for this.”