43. Ayden

Chapter 43

Ayden

A fter what felt like an eternity of sulking before the endless wine of the cavern, I finally stepped through the sliver of an opening and onto home soil. The forest canopy, thinned by winter’s wrath, failed to keep snow from covering everything in sight. Moments after abandoning the warmth of the cave, my breeches were soaked to my knees, and chills raced up my spine to spread to every fiber of my being.

I should have shivered and complained, felt demoralized or dejected; but oddly, my spirit soared as crisp air flowed into my lungs and fresh thoughts of a brighter future filled my mind.

For the first time since Kingdom soldiers poured across the border and ravaged our land, I had a purpose: I would rebuild the Ranger corps.

Hours became days of trudging through frosty muck. There were no Kingdom soldiers in the woods. The only snapping branches came from animals skittering from my path. I knew there must be some soldiers making their way home following a bitter defeat. While I hoped to avoid them, given their likely animosity, I chose to step confidently rather than creep back home like some burglar approaching a house at night.

Soldiers would not stop me.

Winter held no sway.

Neither the cold nor the damp could douse the hope flowering in my chest.

I felt important again. I felt needed .

The Rangers were vital to protect the Empire. Our failure in stopping the Kingdom forces underscored this as much as any success of the past. The people—the nation—needed us. I would see our force rebuilt such that any foe would think twice before challenging our swords and bows.

None would ever cross the mountains in anger again.

Determination drove me forward.

Then an owl hooted in the distance, and my mind whirled. Thinking of órla made me think of Declan. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to.

Spirits, I missed him already.

How long had we known one another?

How had that man become so entwined in my mind and heart in such a short time? How had he wormed his way inside and taken over my every dream? When had I surrendered to him?

I chuckled and shrugged off each question.

None of them mattered.

I loved Declan Rea more than life itself. I loved him with the force of a storm crossing the sea, with the swell of the rising tide, with the dawning of every new day that ever brightened the sky.

Seeing Declan smile, watching him flick his unruly curls or run fingers through his tangled mess, filled me with warmth more powerful than any flame.

It made no sense.

It felt like I had leaped off a towering cliff and fell . . . and continued to fall . . . and would forever fall.

My entire life revolved around my family name, our wealth, our power and position. My entire future was designed to become Lord Byrne, to fulfill all of the duties and expectations that came with that title: I would grow strong, learn well, marry, sire heirs, and rule.

That was the plan. It was what my father had taught me since the day I could understand his words. It was the banner on which my mother stitched all her hopes.

And then I met Declan.

Fucking Declan Rea.

The moment our eyes met that first time, I knew my life had changed forever. I might not have understood how, but I knew it would never again be the same.

I knew he would be part of my life until I had no more life to live.

And my heart swelled with that knowledge.

Now, separated by a continent and a sea—and divided by magic’s whim—my duty included him. More aptly, my duty was bound to him as much as any person or city or nation.

I was his.

And he was mine.

How had the Spirits shone so brightly on me? Why had they favored me thus?

My cheeks pinched as I smiled too broadly for my face.

When Declan returned and could finally be himself again, I would make sure his family of green-cloaked men and women were there to welcome him home. He might now be an immensely powerful hero, something that still confounded and terrified me in equal measure, but he remained Declan, the boy who craved acceptance and love as much as any man, perhaps more so.

I would see him embraced if it stole my last breath.

He deserved that much.

He deserved so much more.

Ideas swirled like fish in a frenzy. I hoped I could remember each thought when I finally returned to begin the work. Still, it felt good to lean into something useful, something that mattered. It felt important.

Of the thousands of Rangers who served prior to the invasion, only a handful, perhaps fewer than a hundred, remained. Most of those would still be posted in coastal towns or standing guard on our eastern border, the border where Melucia abutted neighbors who barely owned weapons, much less armies. Their presence served to quell the occasional smuggler or bandit more than guard against an enemy force.

We would need to rethink that strategy. Perhaps the Guard could take over the eastern watch. Constables might serve better for those duties, freeing up dozens or more to join the western rebuilding effort.

Rebuilding.

I stepped through the tree line and froze.

Grove’s Pass—or the shell of where Grove’s Pass once stood—spread before me.

My heart fell into my shoes.

Only a few buildings still stood. Most were skeletons of their former selves, haunted specters of wood smeared with char and ash.

The palisade, once strong with waist-thick logs and tall as any man, now lay in shambles. At the center, the tavern rose, though much of its roof had caved beneath the weight of winter’s many snows. Beyond, the rubble of the Ranger headquarters lay buried beneath a blanket of white.

No Rangers practices in the yard.

No villagers milled about.

No one stirred.

“How am I supposed to rebuild all of this?” My billowing breath spoke more loudly than my words.

The unmistakable thwack of an axe against wood nearly made me soil my breeches. I scanned the barren town, desperate to spot some movement—any movement.

There . . . on the southern edge . . .

“Ho, the Ranger!” an aged man’s voice echoed against the mountains.

I covered my brow with a hand and squinted against the sun. A withered form a few hundred yards away waved with one hand. The axe in his other hand hung limply toward the ground.

I raised a hand, then chided myself for waving back at the only other human I’d seen in days. Clearly, the man was chopping firewood or logs to build something.

Someone was doing something .

I was no longer alone.

The hope that had dimmed when I first stepped out from the forest flickered back to life as I secured my cloak about my frozen shoulders and strode toward the solitary figure.