Page 226 of Of Iron and Moonlight

He would wait a moment for the men he had failed to save, who had fallen here only days before. Another for Brannoc. And a final one for Isander. Duncan lifted a hand to his chest, feeling each name tug at something tender behind his ribs.

They had not yet cleared the bodies from the field. There were simply too many. Patches of churned earth and crimson snow barely showed beneath the carnage. Stray fires still smoldered. The metallic tang of oraivane lingered, catching in every breath.

Duncan wanted to remember it.

To fix every detail from this vantage so he would never forget.

So he would never forget the cost.

He wondered what any of it had truly been for.

He held power—more than almost any man in the empire, his claim to it beyond dispute. Yet he could not imagine being driven to such destruction in pursuit of it.

His gaze dropped to the dark stain at his feet. His blood. Where he should have taken his final breath. Once, he had believed it would be the losses he carried that changed him.

In the end, it had been his own death that did.

“Farewell,” Duncan whispered. To no one. To all of them. To the man he had been, making room for the duke he had become.

Then he turned and walked toward Eamon’s manor in Gryon, careful not to disturb the dead. Along the way, he helped weary soldiers strike canvas. He paused in the healer’s tent to tend the wounded. He walked the streets and offered steadying words to shaken townsfolk.

The strange stillness in his heart traveled with him.

It was immediately clear Wolmer, Cassian, and Eamon had endured the wait in uneasy silence. Cassian stood at the frost-clouded window, hands clasped behind his back, staring outside without truly seeing. Eamon paced near the hearth, straight-backed despite the fresh bandage bright against his arm. Wolmer sat slumped in a chair, one hand bracing his brow, his foot tapping restlessly against the floor.

When Duncan stepped into the chamber, Eamon jolted to a halt and bowed. Cassian turned from the window and bent slightly, far more deeply than his rank required.

Duncan ignored them, settling his attention on Wolmer in silent disappointment. He stood there, hands folding and unfolding, struggling to keep his frustration in check.

He did not bow.

Eamon and Cassian exchanged a quick glance before both looked toward Wolmer.

Wolmer rose. In a motion that seemed to draw the air from Eamon’s lungs, he inclined his head to Duncan. Not quite a bow, but close enough that the gesture looked foreign on the emperor.

Duncan acknowledged it with a grim nod, then lowered himself into a chair.

Cassian and Eamon exhaled sharply and sat once Wolmer did. The four men regarded one another in a silence heavy enough to resist words.

“Where to begin?” Eamon asked finally, voice tight with strain. His eyes flicked toward Wolmer before he straightened slightly, as though apologizing for disturbing the quiet.

Wolmer rubbed a hand across his forehead. He looked hollowed, something essential carved out of him and buried beside Issabet. Duncan watched him and understood with dull certainty that the idealistic emperor he had once known would never fully return.

“I suppose I ought to begin by thanking the three of you.”

Duncan’s shoulders stiffened. A spark of anger rose within him, but he bit it back before it reached his mouth. Blessedly, Cassian had the sense to protest first.

“I deserve very little thanks, Your Majesty,” the Duke of Ardor said mildly. His keen brown eyes shifted toward Duncan. “Lemierre and Lord Eamon carried the day long before I arrived.”

“And why was your arrival so delayed?” Duncan asked, unable to contain it.

Cassian ran a hand over his neatly kept beard. “Several years ago,” he began carefully, “Ernst approached me. He requested Ardor’s support for Valdir’s campaign to reclaim the throne.” He paused. “He promised the duchies greater autonomy under derDobroiov rule.”

Eamon shot upright. “You were allied with them?”

“No.” Cassian shook his head. “But I had to make it appear that I was.” He turned toward the hearth, firelight casting deep shadows across his tan skin and aristocratic features. “Ardor does not possess endless coffers. We have our craftsmen. Spices. Orchards. Vineyards. But we rely on our merchants for everything else. Duskmere for stone. Lemierre for iron. Kryovarre for wax.” He exhaled slowly. “I cannot afford the luxury of ruling with pride. My task has always been to maintain balance. If that balance falters, Ardor falls to ruin.”

Wolmer frowned faintly. “Had you come to me, I would have brought them both to trial.”