Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Kallias
Imissed her.
The realization hit me like a physical blow, chest tightening with the force of it. My eyes skimmed the same line of the report Fallione had passed me, over and over, pretending I wasn’t distracted, pretending the words held any meaning at all.
She would have sat beside me, shoulder brushing mine as we pored over the same monotonous reports.
Even if she didn’t grasp the significance of three horses being pulled from squad Forty-Seven and added to the Third, she would have asked questions, offering perspectives I hadn’t considered.
That curiosity had never been a burden—never a bad thing—even when her advice wasn’t always sound.
But knowing her, she would’ve had insights worth hearing.
Nienna was not a battle-hardened warrior, but she had been trained by parents who demanded excellence. She understood politics and strategy, knew the rhythms of sea warfare, and held an intimate knowledge of her dragons. I was remiss in not asking her to come along.
Part of me assumed she would follow anyway, that her will and determination would lead her to my side. She carved her own path, made her own way. But she knew I was upset. Maybe she thought giving me space was the right course, staying tucked in the tent, letting me calm down on my own.
I had pushed her away again.
With a sigh, I dropped the parchment. The letters blurred, swimming before my eyes like mocking reflections.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I fought down a growl of frustration that rose from deep in my chest. Once more, my own guilt and shame had driven her from me, leaving her to feel inadequate.
Gods, she was a woman—my wife—not some subordinate soldier for me to cold-shoulder.
I was old enough to understand the value of relationships, and yet I failed at mine with brutal consistency.
A real man would have faced her, confronted her with calm logic, worked toward a conclusion together. That was a partner. Not some bull charging through life with only himself in mind.
“It wouldn’t be any trouble to approve the company shifts.” Fallione’s voice cut through the haze, his sharp eyes flicking over my face with the faintest glint of concern.
I needed to see her. To let her know I wasn’t angry. That wasn’t weakness—it was strength. She was my strength.
“If there are any you’re uncertain of, make sure they come to me. Also, have the war hounds readied. It’s going to be a long battle, and the dogs will lead us to the Velli.”
“It shall be done.”
I stifled a groan, pushing to my feet. My joints complained, a deep ache threading through muscles and bones, and my head throbbed from the constant onslaught of decisions and orders. Rest would come when Tallon was dealt with.
Greaves caught my gaze, impassive as stone, as I strode past him and out of the tent.
The camp hummed with life. Steel rang against steel, dogs barked in sharp bursts, voices shouted over one another, and smoke spiraled from cookfires, carrying the scent of fresh bread, porridge, and sizzling sausage.
My stomach growled, a hollow protest against the morning’s neglect, and I wondered if Nienna had eaten.
I made for our tent, intent on offering a peace of sorts—sharing a meal, breaking our fast together. When I lifted the canvas, though, it was empty. My heart sank. My gaze fell on the bloody clothes still at my feet, never removed, a silent witness to my harshness.
“Oh!”
I spun, breath catching, to find Nienna standing there. Her eyes widened in surprise, cheeks rosy with bewilderment—or perhaps exertion.
And—was that a feather in her hair?
Her smile appeared, delicate, calm, the mask concealing her features as if I hadn’t caught her genuine surprise. “I was looking for you.”
“It seems you found me.” I kept my tone measured, aware of the soldiers lingering behind her. Clad in polished plate, their expressions revealed nothing.
“Did you eat with Fallione?” She lifted a hand to smooth her hair, fingers snatching the feather before batting it away with casual grace.
I dropped the tent flap. “I was too busy. Care to join me?”
“Gladly.” Her arm looped through mine, warmth brushing against my side. The soldiers remained behind, leaving only Greaves to shadow us as we navigated the labyrinth of tents.
Feathers. Where had she found one? Despite the question, her mood lifted me—her spirits had recovered from our earlier clash. My stance on her remaining away from the front hadn’t changed, but that would wait for the privacy of our tent. For now, her bright optimism was enough.
“It’s getting colder.” Her hand drifted over her arm, rubbing against the creeping chill.
Autumn ruled the land, and winter nipped at its edges.
Brisk winds tore across the camp, drenching rains puddled in the low spaces and glinted along the grass.
Southern Radaan was nothing like its northern counterparts—or the relentless chill at the height of Sol—but even so, those unprepared felt its bite.
At the highest levels, furs and layered leathers were crucial, but the bitter cold still sapped all warmth.
And yet, Clay built upward.
The tall mountain loomed over the camp, its unfinished levels blurred by distance, edges softening in the haze. Each tier seemed impossibly high, lost to the eye, a monument both daunting and incomplete.
“Does it snow at the top?” Nienna asked, her voice carrying over the rustle of the wind and the faint clatter of distant gear.
“Rarely. We’re still too far south.” I tracked the contours of stone and scaffolding, imagining the frost biting at anyone foolish enough to climb that high. “One day, I’ll take you north. In Tal, snow can pile so deep it could bury a horse.”
“Sea beneath, and people live there?”
“There’s a certain beauty to it,” I said, lips tugging into a faint, half-smile. “The locals are hard, shaped by an unforgiving climate. Survival there demands something you either have or you don’t.”
She shivered, subtly curling closer, the warmth of her shoulder brushing mine.
I would have braved a gale for her closeness, gladly absorbing the chill so she didn’t have to.
My apology for earlier hostility died on my tongue.
She understood without words, and some things were better left unspoken.
Old wounds needed no reopening. I would let it lie.
We reached a small wagon converted into a cooking station.
Most soldiers tended to their own pots, combining grain and rations with what they had, improvising to make their meals.
This station, however, was reserved for the generals and upper staff—those who had too much to do to lift a frying pan themselves.
The meal was hearty: thick-cut bacon, golden fried potatoes cloaked in melted cheese.
Nienna picked at her portion, pushing the food around her plate like a careful painter with a brush.
I finished mine, and she popped the remaining bacon into her mouth, and by some small trick—or disciplined training—managed to make it appear as if she’d eaten the potatoes too, leaving behind only scraps. But I watched her every bite.
By the time she bore our child, she would be skin and bones.
That worry joined the familiar, endless shadow pressing down on my shoulders. I summoned a cup of her peppermint tea, brewed with saltwater, to be sent to our tent. Its warmth would remind her she had me looking out for her, even in the smallest comforts.
She stayed by my side the rest of the day, unbidden, uninvited—not that she needed an invitation. It was as if the rift between us—the sharp edge of our earlier argument—had been smoothed over, bridged by friendship and love without a word.
Yet the lack of acknowledgment nagged at me. I could feel the unresolved tension, swept aside only to fester until it was more convenient for us to broach. If left unspoken, it would grow into something dangerous, a quiet poison I couldn’t allow to linger.
By early evening, exhaustion dragged at me. Eyelids heavy, focus slipping like water through my fingers. Greaves reclined nearby, eyes closed, body at rest but ears pricked for any hint of threat, a sentinel even in repose.
Nienna rested her chin in her hand. When her lids drifted closed, I wrapped an arm around her shoulders to prevent her from tipping forward and jarring herself awake. She didn’t protest—trusted me to hold her, the faintest sigh of comfort brushing past her lips.
Once the plans with Fallione were set—as far as strategy could reach without knowing what tomorrow had in store—I lifted her into my arms. She gasped, clutching at me instinctively, fingers digging into my mantle.
“Put me down!” Her voice trembled, eyes wide with startled panic as I stirred her sluggish mind awake. “I can walk.”
“And I can carry you,” I murmured, adjusting her weight, pressing her close. The sun had already sunk, leaving us under the soft silver wash of moonlight. My men could’ve seen me, not that I would have cared.
“I am the queen.” Her hiss was equal parts indignation and amusement, body wriggling closer to my chest as we moved across the cold ground.
“A prideful one.” I hummed, smirking. My stride ate up the distance between us and the tent. I would need sheer will to wash before collapsing into bed. Perhaps tonight I would even get some sleep before the siege.
“What will your men think of me?”
“That you are a queen,” I said, voice low, “and that their king is utterly besotted with you. After all, he’s about to launch an attack on an impenetrable city for your honor alone.”
“My honor!” She scoffed, breath hot against my arm.
“Yes, that thing you left…” I ducked into the tent, setting her gently on the bed. “…on a certain desk in Reem?”
She laughed, kicking her boots off, curling into a ball to study me with mock suspicion.
I moved with weary efficiency. Mantle off. Clothes off. Face and hair cleaned in rapid strokes. Body wiped down. Fresh trousers on. Then—finally—bed.