51. Hector

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

HECTOR

K illian wanted me at his side.

Of course there was nowhere else I'd rather be, even if that meant facing the storm that was about to break across the wall.

"I want to," I rushed to say when my senses returned. "I'll be with you."

Through anything, I'd be with Killian.

In the days that followed, the Nemedans tracked the movements of the southerners, ever closer. There wasn't enough time—not to say all I wanted or figure out plans and plans and plans that I was convinced could save us all from catastrophe.

On the morning of the battle, I mounted the wall in all seriousness for the very first time. Yes, I'd been there before, but never with a spear in hand or armor around me, already scuffed by battled I'd never seen before.

I told myself that I'd be there to ensure the bolt throwers functioned properly, that I wouldn't make myself a hinderance, but it wasn't just that. Mostly, I wanted to be there to protect Killian, to watch his back if his back needed watching, to keep him from what danger I could.

Despite my training and what improvements I'd made, I still couldn't match him, even when he was out of shape. But there was a huge difference between sparring with each other and the chaos of a battle.

At least, that's what everyone who'd seen battle had told me. You practiced so that, when the chaos broke out, you weren't so overwhelmed that you forgot your forms and the ways to protect yourself.

A southerner wouldn't remind me of an opening before lunging for it.

And as much as I wanted to be there with Killian, I dreaded fighting. I'd killed one man and struck another, and though my arm was admired in the smith for the strength of that blow, I hadn't relished violence on either occasion. Blood and pain and—in Urial, death was quieter. Perhaps northern death was no less insidious for its subtleties, but it was easier to contextualize and push away.

Blood and screaming, the scents of a body torn open? No, there was no misunderstanding that.

Over a lifetime of war, how many horrors had Killian seen?

It was impossible to tell, even standing at his side atop the wall.

His face was serious and firm, his eyes sharp. The grip on his spear was delicate and balanced, but I had no doubt that he could lash out with it in a moment.

It was horrible, standing there on the wall. When two armies clashed, I imagined marching across a battlefield—two equal forces, a hammer and an anvil clanging against each other.

Instead, we had to wait and watch as the southerners approached. At first, we saw only a cloud of dust rising beyond the treeline.

It took an hour to see the first men break through the treeline.

The forest was cut back from the wall, not only for visibility, but because after decades of fighting, nothing would grow in the blood-soaked ground.

I'd never allowed myself to look at it too closely, but now, even the dirt seemed stark red in the light of the rising son.

As I looked down at the approaching force between the crenelations, my stomach dropped. The only thing worse than being there, ready to fight for my life alongside these people who I now belonged to and the man I loved, would've been being stuck beyond the wall in the forge, waiting for word of what'd happened.

Yes, I'd wanted this—to stand amongst the Crane and know I'd earned my place, to stay at Killian's side whatever danger he faced. But... it wasn't worth risking everything, just to belong in this horrible moment.

It was, however, worth risking everything for a chance at something better.

I reached for the buckle on my left shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Killian's voice was tight and low as he leaned toward me, trying to steal a moment's privacy pressed in amongst his people.

I caught his eye, and the wariness in his gaze only steeled my resolve. I'd find something better for him—or failing that, I'd make it. If I had to reshape the world, I'd hold onto this man's smile.

"I need you to trust me."

A muscle in Killian's jaw twitched, but he gave a terse nod. If he'd known what I had in mind, I doubted he'd give even that much.

Nemedan armor wasn't usually built for people was broad as I'd gotten in my time in the smithy, but Abram had fitted me with his old set. The leather was supple, the clasps well-oiled. It'd been one of the strangest things I'd learned about making armor here—it needed to come off far more easily than it was put on. More than once, a Nemedan in a pinch had shed their armor and taken to the skies to escape danger.

I didn't think any of them had ever flown directly into it.

I shed my armor and it fell with a clang. After taking a deep breath, sharp and earthy after the march of the southern approach, I slipped out of cloth and into feathers.

The southerners' eyes turned skyward as I swooped down from the wall. It was nothing more than a dive, and before my feet hit the ground, I'd changed back. Too easy, for them to assume I meant harm while I had talon and beak and no apparent logic or reason.

Of course, I hadn't thought this through perfectly, because it was the sole of my foot on the dirt, every inch of my skin exposed to open air and the swords carried by thousands of southerners stretched out before me.

A still tension overtook the battlefield the second I'd flown down, as if they waited for me. Even once I'd landed, unsure what to say and horribly exposed, we were all frozen.

There was a clang behind me, a threatening cry. I turned to see the angle of a sharp, white crane dive from the wall overhead. It was the first time I'd seen Killian like this, but I knew him as well as I knew myself, had heard his anger beating in my head even before his shriek cut through the air.

And, formidable as he was, I knew he didn't belong here, on blood-soaked earth, facing down an army. Could he manage? Of course. He had for decades. But I would not rest until I saw something better for him. He belonged in beautiful, serene gardens, bathed in sunlight.

Firmer in my resolve, I turned toward the army of southerners before me.

Finally, one man was bold enough to break the silence.

"What do you want, bird?"

The way he spat it, voice dripping with such disdain and familiarity, made my stomach twist.

"I am not only Nemedan," I called across the bare stretch of dirt at the base of the wall. "I hail from Urial. I am Hector, son of Sampson, and I have a proposition for you."

There was some murmuring and shuffling on either side of the southerner, but it fell silent when the man held up a hand.

"This man stands before our great army with no weapon, no armor. He may be a fool, or he may have the heart of a god." A ripple carried through the gathered warriors. I didn't like that—the way he said it, or the way the warriors beside him looked at me with hunger in their eyes. Those words meant something to these men. Their stares made me want to shrink back, but there was too much at stake to let nerves cow me now.

"I would hear what he has to say," the man finished.

Time for me to push for something impossible.