Chapter 3
ChApter
Three
It’s been two days since Ezra administered the elixir.
Two long, agonizing days of sitting at my uncle’s bedside, watching his chest rise and fall in shallow rhythms, waiting for a flicker of change upon his tense features, a slowing of frantic movement behind his closed lids.
Of hoping for a shift of breath, for his hand to reach out for mine, anything to suggest the tide has turned.
But there’s been nothing.
Ezra warned me it might take time. “This kind of magic,” he said, “is not a sword; it’s a siege.
It doesn’t win with one swift strike. It chips away, softens the resistance, until the body begins to remember how to fight.
” His words were calm, meant to steady me.
But they couldn’t stop the way hope frays at the edges when met with silence.
As I saddle Thora and check my provisions, I fight the gnawing at my mind, the voice that questions if I should stay.
It’s not as if I’m abandoning my uncle to an empty room.
Ezra reassured me he would constantly monitor him, journaling his progress or lack thereof.
And if I can trust anyone to take necessary measures to improve my uncle’s condition, it’s Hedera’s skilled magister.
That reassurance, plus Nadya’s promise to sit in my uncle’s room as long as she’s got her pile of books with her, is mollifying enough for me to join Mylo on our quest to meet our squad.
I cover my uniform with a long, hooded cape.
We leave early enough that there aren’t many guards looming, and we take the hidden path through the forest behind the stables so we’re not easily spotted.
Soon, the castle fades behind us, a jagged shadow swallowed by the mist curling through the trees.
Mylo rides ahead, his frame solid and unmoving as his horse glides across the path.
I keep close, the chill morning air brushing against my cheeks, but it isn’t the cold that quickens my pulse. It’s the freedom.
For the first time in weeks, there are no eyes watching me. No guards shadowing my every step. No suffocating weight of the mourning attire. Just the steady rhythm of my horse beneath me and the open trail stretching wide and endless.
We reach a clearing, and the wind hums through the grass, carrying the sharp scent of pine and distant rain.
With every stride, the knots in my chest loosen, the pressure I’ve carried since Torbin’s assumed death easing—if only a little.
Out here, no one demands answers I can’t give.
No one asks me to sit still while the world teeters on the edge of ruin.
I urge my horse faster, the cool air tearing through my hair as I catch up to Mylo. He doesn’t speak, but when our eyes meet, I catch the glint of shared relief. We’re doing something again. Not standing idly by while the world succumbs to a madman.
A branch cracks somewhere behind us.
I pull the reins sharply, heart slamming against my ribs as Thora slows beneath me. Mylo reacts just as quickly, drawing up beside me, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. The air, which a breath ago felt so open and free, now presses in too tightly.
Another sound, closer this time. The snap of underbrush. The whisper of movement cutting through the stillness.
I train my eyes on the edge of the forest, expecting a guard.
Maybe one of the men under the command of Farvis—the king’s lackey—sent to drag me back to Ivystone before the king notices I’m missing.
Or worse, something unnatural. Something that doesn’t care who I am as long as there’s blood to spill.
I loosen my dagger in its sheath, scanning the shadowed treeline. Mylo shifts in his saddle, his whole body tense as his gaze sweeps back and forth.
A shape emerges from the trees.
My pulse stutters—fingers curling tighter around my weapon—until the figure moves fully into the sunlight.
Broad shoulders. The familiar set of his jaw. And those eyes—burning with something fierce and undeniable as he charges ahead and then reins in his horse a few paces behind us. I should have known Dante wouldn’t let go of me so easily.
A sharp exhale slips from my lips as tension drains from my limbs, replaced by a flood of something warmer, softer, though no less dangerous.
Mylo smirks. “Looks like we didn’t leave undetected, after all.”
“I hardly doubt a man of your size could go anywhere undetected.” Dante’s gaze turns from Mylo to me. “And you truly underestimate my ability to sense when your presence leaves the castle.”
I let out something close to a laugh, but there’s no mistaking the thrum of my heart reacting to his words. He’s not talking about magic. He means this connection we have. It’s the same explanation for the way a room lights up when he enters it.
And of course he followed. Of course he knows me well enough to understand I wouldn’t stay behind while others bleed for my kingdom.
Mylo shakes his head, though there’s a faint smirk pulling at his mouth. “The stubborn bastard’s got a way with words, I’ll give him that.”
Dante doesn’t even look at him. His gaze stays locked on mine, steady and unyielding, as if the rest of the world could crumble and it wouldn’t pull his attention away. “I’m not here to stop you. I’m coming with you.”
I lift my chin, though the corner of my mouth betrays me with the hint of a smile. “I figured as much.”
And I don’t stop him. Not that I could.
We travel all day, stopping only to give the horses a rest and to fuel our weary bodies with food.
There’s so much I want to talk to Dante about, but the small moments we have on our journey don’t feel like the right times.
It’s not just about wanting him to hold me, or to be reminded of what his lips feel like devouring mine.
We haven’t discussed the fact that I pushed Torbin from the tower, that the king plans to legitimize him, that we are to be betrothed once the mourning period ends.
I don’t know how he feels about any of it.
For all I know, he’s opposed to the king’s plan.
For all I know, he blames me for Torbin’s absence from his life, just like his father does.
If anything, the journey gives me plenty of time to think.
Night has fallen by the time we reach the meeting point.
In the stretch of the rocky hillside, tucked beneath the shadow of an abandoned, wooden watchtower, the air hums with quiet anticipation—the kind that always comes before battle.
Even from a distance, I spot the flicker of a whetstone against steel, the faint glow of campfire embers pulsing like a heartbeat in the dark.
We guide our horses through the tall grass, and the sound of our approach stirs the figures huddled near the base of the tower.
A blade flashes as Aila stands first—always the quickest to reach for a weapon.
Isaac follows, pushing to his feet with a low grumble, his sandy hair ruffled by the night breeze.
Giorgi, crouched near the fire, narrows their eyes as they straighten—until recognition settles in, and their mouth falls open.
“Commander?” Giorgi’s voice carries just enough disbelief to make me smile.
Isaac lets out a low whistle. “Well, shit. Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
Aila doesn’t wait for permission. She closes the distance between us in three quick strides, staring up at me and shaking her head. “Commander. We thought you’d be locked up tight under the king’s watch until the mourning ended.”
I shrug, dismounting with an ease that belies how fast my heart still beats from the ride. Since she mentioned the mourning, word must have already reached Delasurvia about Torbin’s supposed death.
“The king doesn’t decide where I go,” I say, my chin held high. “Not when the full moon is upon us.”
She embraces me, patting me on the back in camaraderie.
Isaac snorts, bending over his sword to resume sharpening the blade. “If you’re hungry, you’re out of luck. It’s Giorgi’s turn to cook.”
“Ungrateful bastard,” Giorgi mutters, though there’s no real bite in their tone. They lift their chin toward Mylo. “Brought the big guy with you, too, I see.”
Mylo swings down from his horse, brushing a hand over the pommel of his sword. “Someone’s got to keep you and Isaac from killing each other.”
Aila’s focus shifts to Dante, still straddling his chestnut-brown stallion, and the warmth in her expression cools to something of bemusement.
As Dante sweeps his gaze over the squad with quiet intensity, the glow of the fire catches on his features—the sharp angles of his face that momentarily leave me breathless.
He doesn’t speak. Just gives them a nod, one they return with the same quiet gravity.
They’re not exactly friends. I don’t think they can dismiss the fact that his blood ties him to a ruthless king and a prince who turned malicious.
But after what we’ve faced together, what we survived the night the carnoraxis tore through Ivystone, they are still allies. And in battle, that means everything.
Giorgi sets down the stick they were using to stoke the fire and makes their way to the horses.
Dante mutters his thanks as Giorgi gathers the reins and leads the animals toward the narrow stream trickling nearby.
The sound of hooves fades into the quiet, leaving the rest of us in the faint glow of the fire.
Aila is the first to break the silence. “How’s the general?”
At first, I can’t answer. I don’t have it in me to tell my squad that his condition is getting worse. And a part of me is afraid to bring up Ezra’s elixir, for fear it was the wrong decision.
“He’s holding on,” I answer instead. “The magister is doing everything he can. He and Nadya are watching over him while I’m here.”
Isaac drags the whetstone along the edge of his blade, the scrape loud against the hush settling over the camp. “Good. The old man’s tough. I’m betting on him to pull through.”