Chapter 3 Toran #2
The last time he’d heard the King say those words had been in this very office.
That time it had been a mission to Aeos, a southern nation of grandiose wealth and trade—and Orlonea’s greatest enemy.
Because despite the many similarities between the two countries, there was one major difference: Aeos wanted the Witch alive.
“And you think I’m fit for this mission? For any mission?”
“Absolutely not.” The King stood from his chair, shifting from casual ruler to overbearing father figure. “But I do think you are the best fit for this mission—”
He couldn’t believe that. He wasn’t the best—fit or otherwise—for anything anymore.
“—despite what happened on your last mission,” King Harkett continued, as if he could read Toran’s mind, “and what you came home to afterward.”
Toran flinched.
His lungs constricted.
Almost a year had passed since he, Quint, and the other four members of Orlonea’s First Legion had trekked down to Aeos in search of the Witch.
There had been rumors that Aeos was harboring her, intent on using her magic for their gain.
But Orlonea’s king considered the Witch too dangerous to let live—rightly so, in Toran’s opinion.
Six guards had gone to Aeos to hunt the source of the rumors, traversing the Disputed Land—the tension-filled hundred acres of shared border with Aeos—then sneaking into the country’s capital.
Only Toran and Quint had survived.
But far worse had been the news he’d returned to. News that—
He stood, pushing out from the desk so hard the chair slammed against the window frame behind him. He would not go back down that road. He would not think of her, would not remember all he’d lost.
He couldn’t continue listening to this. So the King didn’t want to strip him of his title. Fine. Toran didn’t care.
“I realize it’s been hard for you these past few months—”
Hard did not begin to describe the last ninety-two days.
“—but this is important, Toran. Your country needs you,” the King said. “I need you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“The Witch is in Gadore.”
That made him pause. There had been no true sign of the Witch since she’d created the rift in the Disputed Land twelve years ago. Nothing greater than the rumors from Aeos—and they both knew how those had turned out.
The Witch—an enemy who was never truly defeated.
Historically, if they were lucky, Orlonea killed the Witch.
But then a new Witch was immediately born to take her place, just as powerful and deadly as her predecessor.
So they had to go out and hunt her, too.
It never ended. Still, they did it. Because her magic was deadly, and the peace the Witch’s death afforded, however brief, was worth far more than the trepidation plaguing him now.
A year ago, he’d followed the King’s orders without question, had proudly taken a mission from his king. Even now there was still a part of him that yearned to accept it—to please the King who had already done so much for the orphan dropped on his doorstep.
But he’d been down that road before. Hunting the Witch only ended in disaster.
“You should be talking to Captain Fell,” he said tersely.
Fell was an ass, but he was an ass with experience. He had killed the previous Witch eighteen years ago, back when Toran was no more than a toddler.
“I think you’re the far more reliable captain.”
Toran walked past King Harkett’s pitying stare, stopping beside the liquor cabinet. He raised his arm.
“You’re wrong,” he said, then slammed his elbow through the glass.
The pane shattered, pieces raining down, coating his sleeve in tiny, prickly shards. Shouts rang out through the closed door—the guards on the other side alerted by the sound.
He shook out his arm before reaching through the hole and plucking the bottle of Keslo liquor off the shelf. Uncorking it, he brought the bottle to his lips and took one long swallow.
The study door slammed open, Toran’s fellow guards rushing in. Quint was in front, his usually gentle face turned to lines as hard as brick when he took in the broken glass and the liquor in Toran’s hand.
“Shall I escort Captain Roada out, Your Majesty?” Quint asked.
“No need, Quint,” Toran said. “I’m leaving.”
He pushed past Quint, striding for the door.
“Toran!”
For the first time in his life, he ignored the King of Orlonea. And for magic’s end, it felt good.
“If you won’t do it for me, then do it for her,” King Harkett said. “Do it for Loriana.”
Everything in him screeched to a halt. Fire climbed his spine at the same time ice froze his veins, holding his muscles in place. “Don’t,” he managed. “Don’t say her name.”
He couldn’t bear to hear it.
The legs of the King’s chair scraped against the floor. King Harkett’s voice was rough as he said, “This was found among her belongings after the ship went down. You ought to read it.”
Toran turned slowly, his feet unconnected to his roiling mind. The King held a plain, leather-bound notebook out to him.
Loriana’s journal. There had been so many nights when he’d lain in bed watching her write in that book until he fell asleep. But those times, like everything else about his fiancée, were only memories now. Memories that haunted his every step, his every thought.
“I won’t,” he said. “Burn it for all I care.”
His grip tight around the bottle neck, he left the study. Out in the hall, he uncorked the bottle again, staring at the clear liquid through the glass.
Loriana had drowned. It was time he drowned, too.
Bottle to his lips, he gulped the liquor down.