CHAPTER 57 Wren
Wren
‘A true warrior knows a hundred ways to draw blood and a thousand reasons to hesitate before doing so. It is in this tension that true mastery of war resides’
– The Warsword’s Way
THE HEAT OF the flames singed Wren’s skin. It was too late to stop it. Too late to flood the field with storm magic and save her one shot at curing Torj.
A sob broke from her lips as a chasm of grief opened up within. She could feel herself breaking, piece by piece, as the ashes of the silvertide drifted up into the wind around her.
Torj’s voice filled her mind. This is not the end. I promise you that, Embers. This is not the end.
Wren’s breath shuddered out of her as she fought back another sob, as she surveyed the scorched lands before her. They had won Dorinth, but at what cost? The victory was hollow without the means to a cure. Now, she would stand and defend a shell of a city, while she couldn’t save the man she loved.
Wren felt the eyes of a crowd on her, turning to find that her friends had gathered behind her, along with the commanders of their forces and the Devereuxs.
She couldn’t let herself fall apart any more than she already had.
The terror, the panic, would come, but it would come in the privacy of her own tent.
She pushed her shoulders back and lifted her chin.
‘I want scouts positioned on every high point, watching for Silas. We may have taken the city, but he’ll return in force,’ she told the Warswords.
‘We should search the castle ruins for any hidden intelligence or documents, anything that might help us understand his plans.’
Kipp was already ducking away from the company, disappearing into the ruins.
‘Cal,’ Wren called. ‘See to it that Dessa and Zavier remove that arrow and cleanse the wound. We’ll need you in the battle to come.’
The Master Alchemists came forwards then, Farissa’s brows knitting together in concern. But Wren spoke before her former mentor could voice her worry.
‘The cure worked on Wilder. I need every available alchemist working on producing more with the few supplies we have left and devising a strategy for how to distribute it across our ranks.’
‘We can do that,’ Master Norlander replied.
‘Of course,’ Master Crawford added. ‘And I’ll ensure we have more offensive alchemy in our supplies as well.’
‘We’re going to need it,’ Wren said, bowing her head in thanks. She could feel Farissa trying to catch her eye, but she slipped away.
Don’t fall apart, don’t fall apart, she chanted to herself as she wove through the debris of discarded weapons and shattered shields. Her words must have followed the bond to wherever the Bear Slayer was amid the ruins.
This is not the end, Embers, his voice bloomed in her mind, strong and unyielding.
The broken pieces of her fallen kingdom blurred as she passed through the city, tears stinging her eyes, her heart lodged in her throat. Wren walked and walked, until she stood at the edge of Dorinth, until she was finally alone.
And when she stopped, she brought a tempest down upon the empty land before her.
Night had fallen by the time Wren returned to the heart of the stronghold.
Her body was aching from being cramped in the metal cage, and she desperately wanted to wash the filth of the day from her skin, but the atmosphere of the camp brought a chill down her spine.
People were watching her – people she didn’t recognize, people dressed in far finer clothing than a war camp required.
As she walked between the tents, she spotted Darian, whose face fell as she approached.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. I couldn’t stall him any longer. He’s—’
Panic speared through her, her mind racing through all manner of horrific possibilities. ‘What is it? Is it Torj? Is he—’
Darian shook his head and pointed to a tent a few yards away. ‘It’s not Torj.’
‘You’re scaring me, Darian.’ Wren’s heart raced, her clothes damp with sweat as she took a step towards the canvas structure.
‘I’m sorry,’ was all Darian managed.
Fighting down the rising fear, dread sinking in her stomach like a stone, Wren reached the tent and, with a trembling breath, stepped inside.
Several lanterns illuminated the space within. It wasn’t like the command tents she’d seen, strewn with maps and weapons. There was no council of generals awaiting her, ready to finalize orders and march into Delmira.
Instead, hanging against the centre pole was a gown of pure white, its pristine silk a stark contrast to the muddy war camp around her.
‘Your engagement has gone on long enough.’ Lord Lucian’s voice cut like glass as the tent flap dropped closed behind him. ‘Before your coronation, you will marry my son. And when you walk into that throne room, it will be as Darian Devereux’s wife.’
Spots swam in her vision, and her hands went numb. It felt as though someone was squeezing the life out of her, the air unable to reach her lungs. Wren braced herself against a table, which she now saw was covered in an array of jewellery.
The words that followed didn’t sound like her, but she felt her mouth moving. ‘You can’t be serious, Lord Lucian. Surely it’s not befitting of a royal union to marry in the mud.’
Lucian closed the small gap between them and grabbed her arm, his grip hard enough to bruise not only her skin, but the bone beneath. ‘You can marry him in a damn pigsty for all I care,’ he hissed menacingly, ‘but you will marry him, and you’ll marry him now.’
For all her poisons and storm power, Wren froze. She had told herself that she’d never be at the mercy of a man, that she had all the strength within her to bring the bastard to his damn knees, but she froze.
His breath was hot on her face. ‘If you don’t get into that gown this instant, I’ll put it on you myself.’
A tearing sound startled her, and she cried out as Lucian ripped her shirt away from her body, the cold air hitting her bare skin.
‘Lucian,’ she croaked, hating the pleading note in her voice as she stumbled.
But he didn’t stop.
More fabric gave way around her as he clawed at her, all the while muttering, ‘You’ll need to wash this filth off. You can’t marry my son in this disgusting state.’
Wren couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.
A strangled noise escaped her as she tried to fight back, tried to clamber out of his reach, her magic suddenly failing her—
A pulse of power surged through the campsite.
A warning.
But it hadn’t come from her.
Gasping for air, heart pounding, Wren looked up, still recoiling from Lucian’s touch.
‘I’ll say this once, and only once.’ Torj Elderbrock stood before her, towering over Lord Lucian. ‘Take your fucking hands off my wife.’