Chapter 1 #2
“Tomorrow would be best. Tonight,” Azaleen said in a hush.
No one would hear them anyway, but it felt the right thing to do.
Touching her lips to Lark’s ear, she whispered, “Tonight, I need you with me. Rejoin your team when we arrive in port. You’ll be my escort, my security.
I’ll meet with Colonel Ashby, assess the damage, count the casualties, share a meal.
When the lights go out, come to me. I’ll let you know where.
Will you do that?” Azaleen stepped away and caught Lark’s gaze.
“I will—and not because you’re the queen,” she added with a smirk. “Because I want to.”
A flutter winged through Azaleen, stealing her breath and leaving her with a tantalizing sensation.
Tonight. Visions of unbridled passion flashed before her eyes, sparking a stimulating urge she hadn’t experienced in over a decade.
Her body felt alive, and, if they all might yet die anyway, why not live a little first?
Harlan boarded the flagship, carrying the queen’s message, and the Halcyon wove through the backwaters while the AlgonCree fleet of six ships mopped up the Republic’s attack force.
The scenery felt familiar to Lark, though she’d never been this way.
Willows bowed over the water’s edge. Cypress knees jutted up from the brackish surface.
Pelicans and cranes commanded the air, while a lazy alligator sunned itself on the bank.
Soon, the cracks of gunfire ceased, replaced by frogs’ croaks and a red-shouldered hawk’s screech.
By the time they reached the port, the full measure of destruction became apparent.
Their sailboat slowly glided through thick smoke that burned Lark’s nose and stung her eyes.
Compassion welled in her chest as she regarded bodies floating in the bay and wails arising from the city.
Her wounds ached as if pierced anew. She’d forgotten her breathing exercises; they seemed trivial now.
Still, Lark was exceedingly glad to have been a rock for Azaleen.
She was proud of her queen’s courage and command, and she believed what she’d said: you will not lose.
Holding her—bracing Azaleen’s body with her own—had been the highlight of Lark’s life thus far, and she longed for more such moments.
She wants me in her chamber tonight. She pictured the queen’s fairytale beauty—long hair gleaming like sunlight on steel, fathomless blue eyes, and alluring curves.
Maybe she was older, but time had treated her like a fine wine, maturing to perfection.
Her pragmatism and reserve made her seem distant at first, but Lark had learned better.
Wisdom anchored Azaleen’s every command, and she cared far more than she ever let on.
The thought was bittersweet, as she understood the war would soon pull them apart, only just after they had formed a bond. Lark was determined to perform her duty, just as she knew Azaleen was.
The fire that had destroyed half the docks was finally out, leaving behind scorched, smoldering pilings and planks.
AlgonCree Marines herded prisoners, hands raised, chins lowered, while medics hurried to tend to the injured.
The garrison rooftop still burned as men with pumps and hoses sprayed seawater over the flames.
The atmosphere remained grim despite the victory.
The surprise attack had been devastating to New Charleston—every boat and ship crippled or gutted, and many lives lost.
Glancing up through a hazy break in the smoke, Lark spied the Verdancian flag, high on its pole, waving over the citadel. The bold green banner with its untarnished yellow-gold tree of life inspired hope in her heart. “From root, resilience.” The motto fell from her lips with reverence.
“We’re nothing if not resilient,” said Skye, who stood watch at Lark’s side.
Her dark tail fell over her uniform from beneath her cap.
The lieutenant’s sidearm was holstered on her belt as she leaned on the gaff she gripped in one hand.
“Damn, what a waste.” Skye lowered her head and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“At least Renée is safe back in Aurora with her grandmother,” Lark said.
“That’s for sure,” Skye agreed. “But I miss her. You don’t suppose she’ll still remember me when this is all over, do you?”
Lark shot her a teasing grin. “I know she will.” The Halcyon slowed to a crawl, easing to a fractured pier. Snatching up another gaff, she said, “Now, let’s get this boat moored and help secure the fort.”
Skye narrowed her eyes, pointing a finger at Lark. “No heavy lifting for you, plebe. If you pull your stitches on my watch, I’ll catch hell from our commander-in-chief.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant.” Lark snapped a salute as she struggled to stifle a laugh. Both swung their hooks at broken deck boards while Luke and wiry, young Rory Flynn, the ship’s mate, tossed ropes at whatever appeared sturdy.
“Watch your step,” called Skipper Pike, his pipe clamped between his teeth. “I don’t trust nary a one o’ those planks.”
Diego Marin went first. “I’m the heaviest,” he declared as he dropped a wide boot over the gunwale onto the precarious walkway. “If it holds me, you’ll all be fine.”
Lark watched, heart in her throat, as Jonas Pike handed Azaleen over the side to Diego.
The wharf creaked and swayed, shooting an arrow of panic through her.
She held fast until Wes Walker secured his line, then tossed her gaff aside, ready to rush to the queen’s aid.
But the dock held, and one by one they disembarked.
Lark locked her emotions away. Pity wouldn’t save anyone, but doing her job—calmly and steadily—might.
Catching up with her captain, Lark braced herself for action. “What do you need me to do?”