Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
My heart batters my ribcage as though it’s attempting to escape and return to my wife.
I don’t blame it.
Every instinct rebels against me as I walk farther away from our chambers, pausing only to instruct Gregoran and Freynk to do everything in their power to ensure Mayah is safe and happy.
With weighted footsteps, I force myself down the endless hallway—if I’d lingered another moment, I’m certain I’d have joined Mayah in the tub and refused to leave.
The sun shines down on the courtyard, gray cobblestones shimmering beneath its light. It has no business being so bright and cheerful.
Faramir and my father wait by the monstrous statue in the center. Four carriages are lined up neatly behind them. My heart twists at the sight. No prisoners' carriage, this time.
My brother seems to have raided the entire armory—every inch of him is covered in armor. Ornate chest and backplates, emblazoned with the Arbinji crest. Vambraces with hidden daggers. A helmet dangles from his hand as he taps his booted foot with impatience.
For someone planning to avoid danger at all costs, he’s exceedingly overdressed.
His lips peel back in a sneer, but he doesn’t voice whatever snide remark lingers on his tongue. He must have the sense to realize his life now rests in my unforgiving hands.
“Finally” is all he grunts before climbing into the carriage.
I move to follow when my father stops me with a heavy hand on my forearm.
His brows are drawn tight, lines carved deep around his mouth.
“I—” He cuts off with a sharp sigh. Indecision etches itself across his severe features. His mouth opens and closes a few times before his back straightens. With a dip of his chin, he finally says, “Be safe, my son.”
I flinch.
His face falls.
My father stands there quietly, waiting. What does he expect from me? After everything he’s done?
I summon the strength to meet his gaze. Shove down my loathing for the man standing before me. I haven’t asked him for anything in nearly two decades.
“Ensure Mayah remains safe,” I manage to ask my mother’s murderer. “Please.” The word burns like acid on my tongue.
He nods quickly. “I will.”
Without another word, I climb into the carriage and slam the door in his face.
My last carriage ride was infinitely better than this one.
And the carriage exploded.
Mayah had sat opposite me, her knees knocking against mine. I’d tried not stare—I really did. But she claimed my attention, the way a massive tidal wave refuses to be ignored. Months later, I’m still lost in her storm.
Skies, we’d nearly consummated our marriage. The lingering sensation of her hands on my skin dominates my every thought. Every inhale is frost and winter rose. I’m drowning in the memory of her sea-blue eyes.
Except now it’s Faramir’s cold green gaze glaring at me for the entirety of our journey, lips pressed tight to cage his vitriol.
Thank the Skies, we’re nearly there.
The carriage rolls to a stop, and we dismount at the outskirts of the base. This camp is smaller than the one I’d taken Mayah to after our trek across the tundra, yet more crowded.
Faramir lifts the visor of his helmet and surveys the camp, standing rigid beside me. As the soldiers draw near and catch sight of him, their eyes widen, heads bowing in deference. They form a neat circle around us, the men in the back craning their necks to see the elusive crown prince.
“Sire!” a familiar voice calls. Sulon elbows through the line, then bows deeply. “I hope your journey was pleasant.” Faramir snorts, and Sulon’s wary gaze flicks to him. “Prince Faramir, it is an honor to have you among us.”
My brother fucking preens.
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes.
“Where’s my tent?” I ask.
Sulon gestures for us to follow him.
A large tent rises in the center of the camp, the canvas flaps fluttering in the chilly breeze. Inside, my belongings are arranged exactly as I last saw them—a small table toward the front of the tent and a simple cot at the back.
A deep sigh escapes me. “Bring in another cot for my brother.” I expect Faramir to argue, but he surprisingly remains silent.
Sulon nods, then gestures to the chairs. He unfurls a small map across the scratched surface of the table. “There’s been unusual movement here—” His meaty finger points to a thick tangle of trees about an hour’s ride away from our location. “—and here.”
“Send scouts tomorrow. Instruct them not to engage. Just survey the number of men and return.”
We pour over maps late into the night, discussing strategy and possible attack formations.
Halfway through, Faramir yawns, wide and obnoxious, and announces he’s going to sleep and hopes he has the “sweetest dreams.”
I resist the urge to smother him.