Chapter 19 Ashes in the Ink #2
The council chamber stank of ink and old incense.
Maps lay sprawled across the oak table, rivers drawn in blue, mountains marked in soot, and red pins bristling like wounds where the war gnawed hardest. Aerion sat at the head, draped in black and red, one arm resting across the carved lion of the Archduke’s chair.
His daughter perched on his lap, small legs dangling, a doll clutched in one hand. She leaned against him as if she belonged there—which she did, more than any of the lords and vassals who circled the table with their ledgers and their quills.
“The eastern front bleeds men faster than we can send them,” Lord Baedwin intoned, his finger stabbing at Maeren’s Hollow. “At this rate, Valemont’s coffers will be drained within a year.”
“Then fill them again,” Aerion said, sipping from his goblet. His voice was velvet over steel. “Raise tariffs, squeeze the merchants. We can’t buy back men, but we can buy steel.”
A younger lord, too soft in jaw and too quick in tongue, scoffed. “What good is steel if the men wielding it are already dead? Sir Clyde and his ilk should know better than to grind themselves to dust for a war that cannot be won.”
The chamber stilled.
Aerion’s hand froze mid-sip. Slowly, deliberately, he set the goblet down. The smile that curved his lips was slight, dangerous.
“Careful,” he said softly. “Your tongue runs faster than your wit.”
The young lord paled but blustered on, “I meant only that men like him—”
“Men like him,” Aerion cut across, voice sharp now, “hold this duchy together while men like you gorge themselves on pork and gamble away their wives’ dowries.”
A ripple passed through the chamber. No one met his eyes.
Isolde, who had been listening with solemn attention, tilted her head back against his chest. “Papa,” she asked in her small, clear voice, “who is Sir Clyde?”
The chamber froze again—this time not in fear, but in curiosity. The question of a child often sliced deeper than any quill.
Aerion looked down at her, his expression softening in a way that startled even himself. His hand brushed her hair back from her forehead, fingers lingering.
“He’s a good man,” Aerion said, voice low, meant for her alone though the whole chamber heard it. “The best man. He’s far away right now, fighting so we can sit here safe. But he’s coming home soon.”
Isolde considered this, her small fingers curling into the folds of his cloak. “Will he come here?”
Aerion’s throat tightened. He bent and pressed a kiss to the crown of her golden head. “Yes,” he said firmly, as much a command to fate as a promise. “He will.”
The silence that followed was different than before. No one dared make another jest. No one dared speak Clyde’s name again, not with the Archduke’s daughter tucked against his chest, and not with that quiet conviction ringing in his voice like prophecy.
Aerion lifted his goblet once more, sapphire eyes glinting. “Now,” he said smoothly, the steel back in his tone, “let’s return to the matter at hand. The war will not win itself.”
The council dispersed slowly, chairs scraping stone, lords muttering to one another in clipped tones. They filed out like vultures denied carrion, their silks brushing past the cold air of the chamber.
Aerion remained where he was, Isolde still in his lap. She traced idle shapes on the back of his hand with her tiny fingers, patient, waiting in a way no courtier had ever been.
When the doors shut at last and silence returned, she looked up at him again.
“Papa,” she said softly, “you said Sir Clyde is a good man.”
Aerion leaned back in his chair, one hand draped across her small back. His gaze wandered to the far wall, to the painted faces of Archdukes long dead. “I did.”
“Is he your friend?” she asked.
Aerion’s lips quirked, a sharp smile without teeth. “Friend is too small a word, my love.”
Isolde tilted her head, the way her mother used to when puzzled. “Then what is he?”
Aerion’s throat tightened. He stared down at her—so earnest, so unguarded—and for a moment he wanted to tell her everything.
That Clyde was his shield and his ruin. That Clyde had held his heart long before she was born and held it still, through silence and war and absence.
That every letter he wrote was a lifeline he clutched like prayer beads.
Instead, he cupped her cheek with his hand. “He is… someone who keeps me alive, even when he’s far away.”
Isolde’s eyes grew solemn, as if she understood more than she should. “Like I do?”
The words cut him deeper than any blade. Aerion pulled her close, pressing his face into her hair. She smelled of lavender soap and childhood. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Exactly like you do.”
They sat like that a long while, the candle guttering low, the sea wind rattling faintly at the windows. For once, Aerion let the silence stand without filling it with wit or venom.
At last, Isolde yawned, her doll slipping from her grasp. Aerion rose, cradling her against his chest as he carried her toward her chambers.
“Will I meet him one day?” she murmured sleepily against his collar.
Aerion’s steps faltered just slightly. His jaw tightened, but his answer was steady. “Yes, my love. One day.”
But when he laid her in her bed and tucked the blankets close around her, he lingered in the doorway longer than he meant to, staring into the dark.
“Come home, Hound,” he whispered under his breath. “She deserves to know you. And so do I.”