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Right. The meeting.
I stood up, the words ready to explode off the tip of my tongue. A smile sprawled across my lips as I said, “I know where Kaleb is and I’m going to need everyone’s help.”
My admission hooked their attention. Even Ryker shifted from his supine position and sat up.
For the next three hours, we delved into planning mode.
Somewhere in the middle of our talks, thatam I dreamingfeeling began to shift, giving way to reality. I realized that this was it . . .
We were going to get Kaleb back.
Apart from the sound of horses’ hooves thudding against freshly frosted ground, the world was quiet. Even the natural wind had toned down, as if it, too, were operating on bated breath.
Ryker, Harper, Lyra, Soren, and I rode through the rolling hills, the gentle curves of the land flattening like an outstretched palm the closer we got to the barracks. The landscape was dotted with massive boulders, smooth and worn, as if the bison that once roamed these lands had polished them with their backs.
I determined that life did, indeed, have a strange sense of humor.
Kaleb, who I had felt so incredibly far from, had never been far at all.
The men conscripted from Meristone were stationed at the training barracks a short ride west of Clearwell Castle. They were among a large group that would be trained, given piss poor armor and dull swords, and shipped off to the Cursed Lands—to their deaths. Their blood would stain the hands of the Cursed, while the king’s remained unmarred and clean—not that I could say the same thing about his soul, although I doubted he had one.
After our meeting, Von and Ryker had traveled to the training camp to do some early espionage. That was two days ago. Ryker returned yesterday, while Von stayed behind . . . Why he decided to stay behind was beyond me.
According to Ryker, it took less than a three-hour ride to get there, but as we rode towards the training camp, for me, it felt much longer than that. Everything I had done over the past weeks, all of it was for this moment. I was not leaving without my brother.
A grove of dense trees stood before us, their barren branches lulled to sleep by winter’s sudden approach. The towering trees, the forest—they reminded me of home. I inhaled deeply, my lungs yearning for more.
When the rolling landscape was half a mile behind us, we tied our horses to the trees and walked the remainder on foot, the gentle nickering of our horses disappearing as we traveled farther north, into the dense bush. We walked in silence, all of us on high alert. We were in the chokehold of the enemy, and we all knew it.
Ryker led the group, Soren falling closely behind, with Harper and Lyra bringing up the rear. I was a few paces behind them, my sleep-deprivedbody dragging me down more than I cared to admit.
Something flashed behind me.
I grabbed my knife and turned to swing.
“Little Goddess,” Von purred in my ear, his hand cuffing my wrist, stopping my arm mid-swing. He wore a long black cloak, the hood pulled up, casting his face in shadow.
“Von,” I said by way of greeting, my tongue at a loss for words. Damn him and his devilishly handsome face.
“Were you hoping it would be someone else?” he teased. His eyes were still tinged with green, but not nearly as vivid as before. I yearned to see the intense, satisfying color return.
Those lush lips of his turned into that signature, lazy, unperplexed grin, like he knew what I was thinking. He removed his ringed fingers from my wrist, arm disappearing under the black veil of his cloak. As he walked over to Ryker, he called out over his broad shoulder, his cape flowing behind him, carried on his wind, “Come, Little Minx.”
I blew out a breath, my lips vibrating as I scuttled behind him, those impossibly long legs of his covering ground much quicker than mine.
After a brief exchange of words, and a rehashing of the plan, we followed Von and Ryker as they led us forward.
The land descended into a steep valley, a slender river vein snaking through the middle. It was a far cry from the water that once would have run through here, carving out the valley. Nestled in the belly of the valley, beside the river, was a barricaded camp—the Arundal training barracks.
Lookout towers stood at the four corners of the camp, keeping a watchful eye over the surrounding grounds. I didn’t doubt they were fully equipped with archers, their bows held at the ready. My eyes traced the oval-shaped perimeter, the outer wall taller than a two-story house, tall enough that no one could get in and no one could get out. It was made of pine trunks, their tops carved into spikes and their bottoms buried deep within the ground. They were strapped together with thick rope that looked to be made of hemp, although it was worn and aged and hard to tell. Slumbering crimson banners were hung evenly around the perimeter, placed every ten feet or so.
Inside, there had to be close to a hundred tents, if not more. On the righthand side of the camp, placed in neat, organized rows, smaller tents made up the majority. Larger, extravagant tents were sectioned on the left side—I counted ten in total. Stretching down the middle was a sandy area lined with weapon racks, some wooden and some made of metal. One section consisted of long laneways and bullseye targets, used for training archers. Beside it were rows of cloth dummies, stuffed with straw and set on a rotating pole.
There were two guarded entrances into the camp. One was on the side of the larger tents and the other one was located on the opposite side from us, the side that faced the direction one would travel to go to Clearwell Castle—I recalled this bit of information from studying one of Lyra’s hand-drawn maps.
I wondered how many times the king had traveled that road. I doubted his pompous ass cared to do so, although I imagined his advisor had—I clenched my fists.
“Alright, you filthy rebels, any last words?” Ryker said with a smirk, hands slinging off his cloak, revealing his carefully honed, heavily muscled body beneath wrapped in fighting leathers and adorned with a multitude of weaponry. I counted six weapons, but I bet he had more.
