Chapter 44 Aldric
Chapter forty-four
Aldric
The day dawned cold and gray—cold enough to seep through his armor, gray enough to swallow the horizon whole.
Aldric barely noticed any of it.
His hands moved without thought—strapping on gauntlets, checking buckles, tightening straps. He had done this a hundred times before. A thousand. Preparing for battle was muscle memory by now.
Good. Today, muscle memory was all he had left.
The courtyard bustled with activity. Soldiers making ready. Horses stamping and frosting the air with visible puffs of breath. With the Count of Wellane’s forces now bolstering theirs, everything seemed a little busier than last time. A little louder.
Even though there were no courtiers packing the yard this time to see them off.
And Sera…
Sera wasn’t there either.
Leif sucked on his teeth and fed Soot another scrap of meat from where the usuru was tucked beneath the older man’s armor. “Feels a bit strange,” he drawled, “marching to Arlund a second time.”
“But this time in truth,” Kyn corrected.
Calix stroked his mare’s neck, his eyes tracking the soldiers passing by. “At least Wellane’s men look less green.” His half-Kunishi son shot him a look. “What do you think, Your Majesty?”
Aldric grunted. He had no opinion.
Rakon eased closer and asked, “All set, boss?”
It was the closest any of his men had come to fishing for details about what had happened last night. They knew better than to ask questions about his personal affairs.
Even when he had come storming out of Sera’s study and immediately escorted Reyla back to her cottage, disrupting their night of revelry.
“All set,” he growled, tossing Rakon his saddlebags so the big man could strap them to Mourn.
At least Reyla hadn’t noticed anything amiss. She rarely sensed shifts in tone or mood the way others did. Instead, her mind caught different details—details most people missed.
He was glad. The last thing he wanted was for his turmoil to touch her.
Reyla.
A sliver of guilt pricked his heart at the thought of his sister. He hated that he was leaving her. For how long? A few weeks? Months? There was no telling how long the campaign in Arlund might last.
Lifting a hand, he touched the unfamiliar weight of the necklace resting against his chest beneath his brigandine—the golden sun pendant Sera had gifted him on their wedding day.
A flicker of uncertainty stirred in his chest, but even so, he sent up a quiet prayer.
Lord, if you’re out there…please watch over Reyla, too.
The words felt strange leaving him. But there was no harm in praying, he supposed.
Movement stirred on his blind side—a shuffling of feet and hooves. Someone in the distance shouted, “Make way for the queen!”
Setting his jaw, he tapped Mourn’s shoulder to signal to the stallion it was time to mount. He needed to get out of there.
But he knew without looking it was already too late. He could sense her there, watching him even before her perfume snaked toward him on the wind, chipping away at his calm. Reminding him of the way she had looked at him last night.
The way she had shouted.
The way she hadn’t so much as flinched when he told her his why.
“Your Majesty,” he heard Kyn greet his wife. “You are looking well today.”
Somewhere deep inside him, that dark beast stirred to life once more—weak though it was. Even now, he couldn’t stand the thought of another man noticing how well his wife looked.
Because he was a fool of the highest order.
“Thank you, Master Kyn,” Sera murmured, sounding distant even though he knew she was right there. “What a kind thing to say.”
And then—another voice. Smooth. Polished. Infuriatingly self-assured. “Yes, Your Majesty,” the Baron of Crestley purred, “that particular shade of blue has always suited you.”
His jaw clenched so hard, he feared he might crack a molar.
Of course Tiberius was here. Of course she had allowed him to skulk in her shadow again.
The moment Mourn lowered himself to the ground, Aldric mounted with brusque efficiency and shoved his feet into the stirrups. Only then did he turn his head to the side and lock eyes with his wife as his horse rocked back to a standing position.
She was mounted herself, immaculate in her blue gown embroidered with a gold stag—every inch a de la Croix. Sitting tall and proud, her crown gleaming in the weak morning sun. But her eyes…
Her eyes were colder than the steel he wore—colder than the morning itself. They stared clean through him.
As if he weren’t even there.
Her godmother and Spymaster flanked her, matching expressions carved into their faces. No doubt she had already told them everything.
And behind her rode him. His wife’s tall, golden peacock. Exactly the kind of man Aldric had never been. And never would be.
The moment their gazes locked, Lord Tiberius smiled—slow and smug.
Aldric turned his head to the side and spat on the cobblestones.
He wanted to ask her what she was doing there, what more she could possibly want with him. Instead, he reined Mourn around so he no longer had to contort himself to simply gaze at his wife with his one good eye and greeted her with a mere, “Your Majesty.”
“I merely wished to see you off,” she lied, each syllable crisp. Precise. “And to wish you well in your campaign. No doubt you will do us proud, Crow.”
Do us proud.
His lips twitched. “I will do my best to survive.”
Even though you would prefer if I didn’t, kirei.
Sir Easome’s voice rose above the din of soldiers and stamping horses. “Your Majesty! Are we ready to move?”
Aldric ground his teeth, staring at his cold, perfect wife. Yes. He should say yes. He should turn Mourn, ride hard for Arlund, and let the walls of Goldreach—and everything inside them—fall away until all of this was nothing but a distant memory.
But he didn’t.
“In a moment,” he called back, nudging Mourn closer to Sera’s little mare.
His kirei’s nostrils flared. Her back stiffened. “What are you doing?” she hissed, her gaze darting to her attack rat, then back to him. “Crow—”
He ignored the warning in her tone and reached across the narrowing space between them, seizing her left wrist in a firm, unyielding clasp.
Beneath his touch, she trembled.
Within that nearness, her breath caught.
He felt it. He heard it.
He pretended as if he didn’t.
“Hold still,” he muttered, shoving back the sleeve of his jerkin, exposing the dagger strapped tight against his left forearm. With a warrior’s practiced efficiency, he unclasped the buckles holding it secure.
“What are you doing?” she asked again—softer this time, confused.
But again, he didn’t answer.
Because he no longer knew.
He didn’t allow himself to think about it. Her trembling. Her warmth. Her nearness. The smooth expanse of her pale skin he revealed when he pushed aside the velvet sleeve hiding her own wrist.
He merely strapped his dagger onto her wrist with brisk movements, careful not to pinch her as he cinched the straps tight. Avoiding her gaze, he tugged her sleeve back into place, hiding the blade from view.
But his touch lingered on—longer than it should have. Longer than was wise.
Why? Why did he care?
He already knew. Even before his gaze dropped to her hand still trapped in his. To the emerald ring gleaming on her third finger—his mother’s ring.
Because despite everything that had passed between them, she was still his wife. He was still her husband.
It was still his duty to protect her.
“Hate me if you wish, Sera,” he murmured, voice low. Rough. For her alone. “But do not let your anger dull your senses. Keep your eyes open. Trust no one.”
His body betrayed him before he could stop it, lifting her hand closer to his face, to his lips. “And may your God keep you safe while I cannot,” he rasped before pressing a swift kiss to her knuckles.
Goodbye, wife.
He didn’t wait for her response. He didn’t dare.
Without another word, without a single glance spared her way, he released her hand, spun Mourn about, and rode away—before the rejection he knew would be shining in her eyes could finish him.