49. Hector

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

HECTOR

I t was my fault.

All right, yes, I was prone to taking on more responsibility than belonged to me alone, but this?—

I could trace a line directly from building that first bolt thrower to a southern army, massing beyond the wall.

With new weapons, and ones that the southerners felt were so distasteful, I hadn't kept Nemeda safe at all. Instead, I'd invited a more concentrated assault. It was an overstep, and one I hadn't realized I could make until it was too late.

Now, I was afraid that the southerners would mount increasingly dramatic attacks until one or both sides were wiped out, all because they were affronted by something I'd made.

I should have spent the past days trying to refine my plan to offer them something other than bloodshed, find some compromise. Instead, I'd lost too much time.

It had been easy, from the comfort of the palace and the rosy hue that had surrounded Killian and me now that we were sure of each other, to forget the war entirely. The palace was beautiful—not a place built for war. Yes, the gardens were not perfectly manicured, but the structure of them, the thought put into the design, made me wish I'd seen this place at its finest.

For days, I'd lost myself in Killian, because that was a much happier pursuit than trying to figure out the problem before me. It felt too large for any one person to tackle, but the Cranes and Ravens had long since let go of the promise of peace.

Asking them, or any Nemedan, to tolerate the southerners was unkind and unreasonable. They shouldn't have to face the people who'd wronged them for so long, but what was the other option?

If the war ended, they'd have to tolerate peace with the southerners, at the very least. And in my less charitable moments, I thought that anyone thinking the matter through logically would prefer to tolerate an enemy than watch a loved one die.

Certainly, I'd break bread with a southerner before watching Killian hurt again.

So... I had to keep pursuing whatever chance I had at making peace until time had truly run out. It might feel like it was too late already, but until there was blood spilled, I could—I could figure out something.

My life and love wouldn't be defined by someone else's gods.

The smithy was busier than it'd ever been, so I didn't drag my feet back to the palace until late in the evening. Killian hadn't been by the smithy all day, which wasn't so strange, considering how busy he must've been, but I missed him. I'd gotten used to him stopping by to see me, steal a quick kiss, check in on work that he had to know was being done while it was under Abram's control.

I'd been pondering the idea of the southerners for days, for nothing. Abram had offered no solution, and I'd reached the limit of what I could think of alone. Perhaps Killian would have some insight.

But when I found him, he wasn't in his room, but in a small armory, being fitted for pauldrons and a chest plate. I'd made some of the pieces myself.

Seeing Killian in them shattered my heart. "You're planning to fight."

Killian turned toward me, his expression softening, like he'd never been sorrier about anything.

He said nothing, and it took me a moment to shake off the blow of devastation.

"You're not yet recovered." All the time we'd been back in Crane lands, Killian had been taking it easy. He moaned on and on about the endless paperwork, and I'd been quietly glad that was all he had before him. I wasn't looking forward to the day he picked up his spear again. Perhaps he was more skilled with it than anyone I'd ever seen, but I didn't want him to bear the weight of it even one more day.

He stepped close to me, and his hand was warm when he touched my cheek. He wore no gauntlets to keep him away from me. "I'm recovered enough."

"Your mother must've thought so too."

I winced even faster than he did.

"I'm sorry," I said. "That was... unkind. I didn't mean it."

He shook his head. "But you're right. If I had a choice?—"

"You do."

He stared at me with the same look he'd given me when I insisted on talking to the southerner who'd gotten into the smithy. He couldn't see another option.

"Hector, it's been so long since we've seen a southern force of this size. I cannot sit idly by and let them break over us."

I shook my head. "We take down the bolt throwers."

Killian scoffed. "Why would we do that? They're brilliant."

"The southerners think they're a threat. If we're not a threat?—"

"You heard the prisoner, Hector. I assure you, once the southerners decide to fight, they do not withdraw until the battle is finished." He spoke with the kind of surety and sadness that I wondered if this was a truth Carlyle had shared with him.

"You heard him too! They—I had a thought."

Killian's expression did not light with hope, but it was open enough that I'd set my impossible plan before him. He might have more insight than Abram had shared, if he saw any potential there at all.

"What if," I said haltingly, "we... offered the southerners another way to showcase their bravery. They don't have to kill us to impress their gods."

"How would we manage that?"

"An arena. An... event, maybe. Games or fights or something , but something more controlled than open warfare and bloody murder. They're not a proper army, and their interests are individual. If Nemeda offered them goods?—"

"You mean tribute?"

I scowled. "No, I mean a negotiation. Nemeda, especially a Nemeda at peace, has plenty. Imagine if the Crane could do... anything other than fight. Our people are innovative, balanced, careful. And the things the Crane once made—their beauty hasn't been tarnished by time. Already, Nemedans meet once a season. If we invited the southerners on a similar schedule, let them return home with some token of victory?—"

"And let them think they'd beaten us properly?"

"Is it a loss if you and your people survive?"

Killian sighed through his nose. "I understand why you want this. I've wanted it too. But it's not possible. Certainly not now, when they're already advancing."

"Fine," I snipped, irked by the corner I'd been backed into. "Still, there's no sense in you fighting only to die."

Killian huffed. "You have so little faith in me?"

I shook my head. "I have all the faith in the world in you, but you were wounded deeply. You've been recovering for weeks. If—you know I'm a disaster with a spear, but I've practiced enough. If you spar with me and put me on my back, I'll... I'll feel better about you fighting. Spar with me, for my peace of mind, if nothing else."

Killian's smile was reserved. "All right." He reached for the straps holding his armor in place, flicked them open almost as easily as he'd removed my shirt the night before. "Shall we get it over with now?"