Chapter 43
Forty-Three
Our party leaves with darkness still surrounding us.
We travel at a brutal, unrelenting pace until we reach the mighty Hetaira River.
Following it south, we cross the rocky border marked with Alexandrian banners, which whip in the cold autumn air just as the sun rises.
The letter A, enveloped by ivy on the flag, makes me queasy as I survey the rippling grass covering the rolling hills, not a tree in sight.
Home.
Despite the vast, beautiful land, I keep replaying Ashland storming off in my mind—wishing I had said all the witty things coming to me now that the howling wind keeps us from speaking to one another.
Every time I remember that Cliodna’s diary is gone, suppressed outrage clamps down on me, making me fume at the entire situation.
I need to know what he read, and I need to know what provoked such hostility.
Worst of all, I’m upset with myself for not finishing the whole damn diary when I had the chance.
I should have stolen candles or read the blasted thing in the library—anything to finish!
But no, I found the teenage girl’s inner musings tedious at best and filled my time with novels instead.
Valora keeps shooting me weary glances. She’s still upset that I lost her extra bar of soap.
At least Pearl doesn’t judge me as we ride.
Despite the mare’s good nature, my legs and backside ache and chafe from the jostling and rubbing of her saddle; still, we do not stop.
Not when the light of dawn crests the horizon, not when the soldiers complain, not until the horses need to be refreshed do we pause our pursuit.
And even then, it’s only as long as necessary before we are back on the road, galloping ahead.
With no sleep, I’m unable to prevent my head from bobbing onto my chest around midday when we slow our pace. To my burning embarrassment, I fall from my saddle, landing with a bone-whacking thud.
I’ve barely had time to blink before Ashland encircles me on his dancing stallion.
“Get on,” he orders, offering me an outstretched hand.
I shake my skirts to rid them of the loose, dead grass, mad at myself for not being more careful. His hand remains suspended in the air between us.
“You’re being foolish,” he chastises. “You’ll be of no use to anyone with a broken neck. Now climb on.” Every word is riddled with exasperation.
I reluctantly accept his help. He grunts as he lifts me to sit before him.
Ashland’s arms, barricaded around my body, are a too-familiar prison.
Even worse, they don’t help me stay alert like they once did.
I’m lulled into a fragile state of safety despite my indignation at his harsh kiss and even harsher treatment from last night.
Soon, I can think of little else as I replay what he did and didn’t do to me in my mind, over and over.
Every shift of his chest against my back brings me back to our naked bodies pressed against each other.
His breath is warm against the back of my neck, steady and slow, and I find myself counting the intervals between each exhale without meaning to. The rhythm of it is unbearable.
* * *
Before I realize it, I wake with my head leaning on the metal of his chest armor. The murky, overcast sky hides the sun, leaving me uncertain of the time. I’m vaguely aware of his relaxed hands resting on my inner thighs as he loosely holds the reins.
“Borealla Village lies to the east, but we cannot stop there.” I overhear Ashland explaining to one of his newly promoted captains. “We risk everything by coming this far south.”
My ears perk up at the mention.
Beatrix lives there as an instructor at the Borealla Academie. It makes my heart crack into tiny little pieces to know I’m this close to someone who truly cares about me. Someone I can openly care about in return.
A true friend.
The dirt path snakes along the roaring river and enters a thick screen of woods. The leaves display a stunning mix of crimson, orange, and bronze hues—a stark contrast to the silver of the Devana foliage. Snowflakes begin to drift downward, mixing with the leaves that trickle to the forest floor.
Salt paws a black hoof at the ground, impatient for a rest. My eyes dart upward to Ashland’s straight-ahead gaze at his surroundings.
I study his every move as he tilts his chin and brings his face downward; his raven hair tumbles with the angle of his neck.
His silver eyes meet mine, but I turn my head away from him.
He signals the soldiers, and the company of horses comes to a halt. I move away from him, eager for some space, but his arms tighten around my waist.
“I can get myself down,” I mutter.
“Wait.” He gives the tree line an assessment, but there’s nothing there.
He dismounts, armor rattling as his boots hit the ground.
Before I can protest again, his hands settle around my waist and he lifts me from the saddle.
I resist, making his grip falter, but he catches me awkwardly before I can fall.
For one brief moment, our bodies press against each other, my hands braced against the hard panes of his chest armor. I pull away immediately.
To escape the falling snow, I find a sturdy elm, far away from the others. With my back against it, I slide down to the ground. Exhaustion can’t begin to describe my state—even the healing magic of the circlet feels weak. I listen to the birds above us dance in the canopy as I rest.
Ashland strides over and offers some dried rabbit wrapped in a handkerchief. His fingers fold over mine as I take it, but his face stays emotionless. “Eat and rest. I’ll find you when you’re done. We are long overdue for a conversation.” He releases his hand.
I bite into the meat, tearing off tough pieces like bark from a tree. It’s not good, but keeping my strength up to help locate the missing womenfolk should be my top priority—not focusing on whatever complicated mess that lurks between us.
I’m not a religious person, but while I chew, I pray to the Spirit Goddess that we find the missing girls in time.
Even this break feels foolish.
Ashland lingers for a moment, hesitating in the snowy downpour. The fat snowflakes cling to his face, highlighting the sharp curve of his cheekbones. He walks away, the leaves and twigs crunching beneath his boots.
The birds go silent.
“Ash!”
He flips around, the sound of pounding hooves catching his attention.
Before he can react, a horde of orcs wearing red armor charges into our group.
Their swords glint menacingly as they rush toward us on horseback.
The air is thick with clanging metal and the screams of battle as our soldiers desperately try to fend off the surprise attackers.
In one swift movement, Ashland draws his blackened sword from its sheath at his back. The iridescent jewel in the pommel glimmers for a second, and then, without uttering a single word, he runs forward, slashing at the orcs, who scatter.
The battle rages on, with neither side gaining an advantage despite many riders falling to the ground with bloody wounds gouged into their sides and their entrails hanging out.
Frozen in fear, I cower against the tree, wishing Ashland had allowed me my sword on this journey. Like an untrusting fool, he ensured Neriene was left in the armory, citing the rules of captivity.
Now look at me.
No weapon. No fighting leathers.
No trust. In the middle of a battle.
All because of him.
I cling to that anger because it’s easier than admitting the truth.
Back still pressed against the tree, I shudder out a breath, not knowing if I’m more upset with him or with myself for ever thinking I’m ready to wield a weapon.
Because the reality—the brutal reality of battle, paired with sliced flesh and dying screams—is utterly overwhelming.
No, it’s terrifying compared to the orderly conduct of training.
It makes me want to run, hide—anything but throw myself into this warfare.
Valora slashes into the enemy soldiers with her swinging blade, protecting me from the orcs coming straight toward us.
Sweat dripping down her forehead, muscles tense, she lunges forward, countering their attacks with agile movements, dancing between their oversized forms. Despite the odds stacked against her, she refuses to back down, channeling all her strength into each graceful strike as she beheads any enemy that comes—and for the briefest second, I witness why she’s the renowned warrior princess that she is.
A scream rips from my lungs as I’m lifted onto a galloping horse that flies by.
The wind whips my hair into my face, and my heart races as the horse’s power propels us forward at breakneck speed.
I twist, letting out a sharp breath as my eyes lock on Prince Rett’s determined expression.
His jaw clenches, and the intensity in his orange gaze scares me.
The horse rears on its hind legs, halting our retreat down the path. Rett holds me tightly, his grip unyielding even when my world turns upside down, and I lose all sense of what’s happening.
Then, I see him.
The Witch-King, atop his black stallion, blocks the path with a murderous smile and gleaming white teeth.
I plead, “Let me go!” but the battle noise drowns out my voice.
Eyes flaring with fury, Ashland bellows, “Release her!”
Rett charges and aims his broadsword at Ashland—the clash of metal rings like thunderbolts as they exchange blows. The orc soldiers gallop toward us from all sides.
“We’re wasting time,” Ashland yells, the vein in his neck pulsing.
Rett spits on the ground. “I’ll fight all night if I have to.”
“You have no claim to her.” Ashland swings his dark sword in wide circles. “Go back to your mama in the Beast Realm, little boy.”
Rett’s eyes narrow. “Call me a boy again and see what happens.” Arrows fly through the air, digging into the soil with their sharp points.