Page 99 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“What is that look for?” Njall snapped, stepping forward. “Do you miss the feeling of my fist on your face?”

Haskir laughed, the sound crawling along Njall’s spine. “Oh, you don’t know?”

“Enough,” Damlor said. “I will not repeat myself again.”

Haskir scowled but said nothing more.

By the time they reached the docks and boarded the vessel, two new captives already waited at the center of the deck, shackled and silent.

The sea wind whipped across Njall’s face, but it did nothing to clear the bitterness from his tongue. He tried to justify it again: they would have killed him anyway. At least it had been his swift hand, and not Damlor’s cruelty prolonging the pain.

Yet he knew those gold eyes—burning, then gone dark—would never leave him.

Chapter 47

Gavriel

The day Njall was due to return, Gavriel woke in Drifah’s bed, his hands clenched into fists. Her magic had mostly burned through him, but the dullness of it felt worse than its consuming presence. Without it, there was no escaping the clarity of morning. No fleeing the proof of the night. No refuge from the knowledge of what he had allowed.

He could not stay a moment longer. Before sunrise had fully broken, he forced himself upright and pulled on his trousers and tunic, dragging the fabric into place with little care. He fastened the buckles of his boots with hands that shook, the same directive repeating in his head: don’t wake the wolf, don’t rattle the cage. Then he slipped from Drifah’s chamber in the family wing of Selenar Castle and into the open corridor beyond. Less suffocating. Less intimate. Though no kinder.

He meant to get ahead of the day. To reach his quarters. To wash the taste from his mouth. To bring Elara the bread and fruit he had promised her. He moved with the singular purpose of a man bent on forgetting, and noticed too late that he was not alone.

Voices carried from the wing’s central parlor ahead, gathered near the only exit.

Gavriel ducked into the nearest alcove and pressed himself flat against the carved stone, heart pounding hard enough that he feared the guard in the corridor might hear it.

“At last,” Oorlon’s voice floated through the chamber. “After so many years of letters.”

“Long overdue,” came the reply. Confidence and menace laced the voice. “Though I am unaccustomed to meeting kings in their bedchambers. Why not receive me in your hall?”

“My court cannot know I conspire with men,” Oorlon said casually. “And secrets survive better here. The question that matters more, Valdir, is why you insisted on this meeting.”

Gavriel drew in a breath.

So it was Valdir derDobroiov. Duke of Kryovarre. The Northern Snake.

“I am here because I have honored my side of our arrangement. It is now your turn.”

Gavriel scanned the surrounding space for escape.

A window.

A hidden passage.

Anything.

“I would not agree,” Oorlon said. “Iron still moves freely through the Empire.”

“Do you forget that I opened my lands to you?” Valdir countered firmly. “I provided subjects for your experiments.” He chuckled lightly before continuing. “As for iron… that concern will be resolved shortly. My captains assure me Ardennesse will fall within weeks. Once it does, the flow of iron will answer to me. Restricted, as agreed.”

“Very well,” Oorlon said after a pause that felt calculated. “The oraivane draught nears perfection. By autumn, it will be ready for deployment.”

“And its results have truly improved? Netherfen Hallows was chaos. A rabble of half-wits tearing themselves apart. No war is won that way.”

Gavriel’s eyes widened. He abandoned his escape and leaned closer to the edge of the alcove.

“That was an early version,” Oorlon said, unbothered. “Have the soldiers you tested in Ardennesse raids not performed better?”