Chapter 39: Cenric

Chapter

Thirty-Nine

CENRIC

Three days have passed since I went to try to find Alvina. Three long days, and I'm no closer to finding her.

As I pace my command tent, I think about where she might be now. She's not in the city. Not in her cottage.

What is left?

Sadly, many hills, mountains, and valleys. Alvina could be anywhere.

Damn her!

Gabriel, Luc, Liam, and Praxis sit at the table, their expressions grim as they discuss the recent events.

Luc leans forward and rest his palms against the edge of the table. "What about Finn? Have we learned anything more about his death?"

I stop pacing and turn to face them. "Everly said Alvina attacked them with air magic. She killed Finn right in front of her. "

Anger flashes in Gabriel's silver-blue eyes. "We need to find Alvina and put an end to this rebellion."

"I could look for her," Liam offers. "I know the area well, and I'm good at tracking."

I shake my head, my decision made. "No, I need you here."

Liam opens his mouth to protest, but I hold up a hand to stop him. "We will find her. But first, we need to root out the spies in our camp."

Praxis gestures to the map spread out on the table. "This map proves they have inside knowledge of our camp."

Gabriel studies the map for several moments. "Who sketched this? It's highly detailed."

"Hawke," I say as I continue pacing. "He's a damn good artist."

"And apparently a bastard," Luc says through his teeth. "What is the Calcite's heir doing leading a rebellion in Bloodstone territory?"

I shrug. "Hard to say."

"Hawke's sister hates Cenric," Praxis says as he stands and pours himself a goblet of mint tea.

Torchlight skims Gabriel's features as he looks up, studying me. "Is this rebellion about you, Cenric?"

Internally, I grimace at the implication behind Gabriel's words. "I think it gives her fuel, but it's not the only reason."

"We don't need a war between us and the Calcites," he says.

"I know."

Gabriel's blue eyes lock on me for a long moment—the kind of moment that makes me tense, but I don't look away. I know what's at stake. He doesn't have to say it. I breathe it every damn day.

"We need to weed out the spies," Luc says, drawing Gabriel's attention to him.

The thought of a traitor among us sets my teeth on edge. I've known these men for summers, fought beside them, bled with them. The idea that one of them could betray us to Alvina and her rebels is almost inconceivable.

The spy could be anyone: a cook, a stable hand, even a trusted advisor.

I stop near the open tent entrance and focus on Morwen and Brennah, who are working side by side, preparing the morning meal.

For a fleeting instant, I consider the possibility that one of them might be the traitor. But as soon as the notion crosses my mind, I have to stifle a laugh.

Morwen, a spy? Impossible.

That woman has sacrificed more for our cause than most. She's lost six sons to Roland's wars, each one dying valiantly on the battlefield.

No, Morwen's loyalty is unquestionable. It's etched in the lines of grief on her face and the strength of her spirit. If she's a spy, then I'm the king of Tarrobane. Not that there is a king of Tarrobane.

As for Brennah, she's far too agreeable to ever be a spy.

One of my warriors steps into the tent. "Forgive the intrusion, Commander, but there is a woman here to see you and Praxis."

As Praxis and I reach the tent, I hesitate for a heartbeat before pushing aside the flap. A jolt races through me at the sight of my mother standing there, looking exactly as she did a few days ago when I first spotted her with the supply caravan. Her two little girls cling to her skirts, their wide eyes darting between Praxis and me.

Praxis doesn't hesitate to rush across the tent and embrace her. "Mother!"

Everything comes crashing down on me at once: the sixteen summers of absence, the wondering, the anger, the confusion.

Tears brim in her eyes as her gaze finds mine. "Cenric."

I say nothing, my throat constricting around words I refuse to let out. How dare she show up after all this time? How dare she bring these children, this evidence of the life she chose over us?

Confusion clouds Praxis' features as he steps back and glances between me and Rosa.

I stay near the entrance and fold my arms. "Why are you here?"

She takes a hesitant step toward me. "Cenric, please. I know you're angry, but if you'd let me explain—"

"—explain?" I say, the word as sharp as a blade. "Explain how you abandoned us? How you left us with no word, no warning? "

Praxis shifts uncomfortably. "Perhaps we should all sit down and—"

"—no," I cut him off, my stare never leaving Rosa's face. "There's nothing to discuss."

She reaches out, her hand trembling, her eyes pleading, as if she expects me to accept her weak excuses. "My son, I never wanted to leave you. You must understand, I had no choice."

"There's always a choice," I say, taking a step back, and her hand falls back to her sides.

The little girls huddle closer to her, their eyes wide with fear. I force myself to take a deep breath, to rein in the anger.

"Cenric," Rosa tries again, her voice soft. "I've missed you every day. Both of you. I've thought of you constantly, wondered how you've grown, and what kind of men you've become."

Praxis places a comforting hand on her shoulder. "We've become strong, Mother. We've survived."

I can't bear to see the warmth in his eyes, the easy forgiveness. How can he welcome her back so readily?

"That's right." Coldness laces my words as I continue. "We survived. Without you."

Tears spill down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry. If you only knew what I've been through, what I had to do to protect you—"

"—protect us?" I laugh, the sound harsh and bitter. "By leaving us with a father who barely acknowledged our existence and who forced us into the army when we were still children?"

She flinches, and for a moment, I feel a glimmer of satisfaction. Let her hurt. Let her feel a fraction of the pain she caused us.

"I couldn't bear to stay with your father any longer. The way he treated me…" Her voice trembles as she continues. "I thought you'd be better off without me there."

"Better off?" I ask, my tone colder than the snow outside the tent. "You left us with him. How could that possibly be better?"

"Mother, it's all right," Praxis says. "We understand."

Disbelief slams into me as I whirl on him. "You understand? How can you possibly understand this?"

My brother meets my gaze. "She's our mother, Cenric. She's here now. Isn't that what matters?"

"What matters is that she abandoned us for sixteen summers, Praxis. Sixteen summers of wondering, of hoping, of imagining the worst."

Rosa reaches out again, her fingers brushing my arm. I jerk away, as if her fingers are made of talons. "Please, Cenric. I never stopped loving you. I never stopped thinking about you."

I scoff. "Where was your love when our father sent us to war?"

"I made mistakes," she whispers. "Terrible mistakes. But I'm here now. I want to make things right."

Praxis squeezes her shoulder. "We can start over. As a family."

How can Praxis forgive so easily? How can he welcome her back, as if the past sixteen summers never happened?

"A family?" I repeat. "She stopped being a part of our family the day she walked out on us. "

I storm out of the tent. The cool evening air hits my face, but it does nothing to soothe the inferno raging inside me.

How dare she?

How dare Praxis?

My boots crunch against the snow as I stride across the camp. Warriors nod respectfully as I pass, but I barely register their presence. My vision narrows, focused solely on the path ahead.

The sun dips low on the horizon, etching the sky in brilliant shades of pink, orange, and purple. Any other evening, I might pause to appreciate the beauty. Not tonight. Tonight, the colors only serve to mock me.

I reach my tent and yank the flap open, ducking inside. The familiar scent of leather and oil surrounds me as I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands clenching and unclenching.

Sixteen summers. Sixteen long, painful summers and now she waltzes back into our lives, expecting forgiveness? Expecting us to welcome her with open arms? And Praxis...how can he stand there and act as if the past never happened?

I want to scream, to rage, to tear this tent apart with my bare hands.

But I don't.

Not when I can't afford to lose control, not now. Not when my men need me to be strong, to lead them through this brewing rebellion.

I stiffen as the tent flap shifts, expecting Praxis to come barging in with more talk of family and forgiveness.

But it's not Praxis.

Everly steps inside, her face pale. Yet, as her eyes find mine, concern burns behind them—concern for me.

How can she look at me like that when her heart is heavy with grief?

"Cenric?" she says softly. "I saw you earlier… Are you all right?"

I want to tell her I'm fine, to send her away, but the words won't come. Instead, I allow my focus to linger on her.

She's wearing the surcoat I gave her. The deep blue fabric drapes elegantly over her curves, and her curly light brown hair hangs down her back, a few stray tendrils framing her face.

My eyes trace her features. The curve of her cheeks, the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the fullness of her lips.

She's beautiful.

"Cenric," she begins again as she takes a step toward me. "If you tell me to leave, I'll leave."

I shake my head. "I don't want you to leave."

"Has something happened? I saw you earlier…"

"It's nothing," I say, not willing to talk about my mother's betrayal.

Torchlight skims Everly's features as she tilts her head, studying me. "It didn't look like nothing."

How can I explain the storm of emotions raging within me? The grief that threatens to consume me, the anger that simmers in my veins, the longing for something I have no right to desire.

"What do you need?" her question burns through me.

I need to understand how a mother could abandon her children. Mostly, I need to not be alone right now.

"I need you to stay. "

I brace for pity or platitudes, but Everly offers neither. Instead, she closes the space between us and sits next to me on the bed.

"You don't have to talk," she says as her eyes meet mine. "We can just sit here."

We sit in silence for a long moment, the only sound our quiet breathing and the distant murmur of the camp outside. I close my eyes, letting the tension slowly ebb from my shoulders.

When I open them again, I find Everly watching me, her gaze filled with a warmth that makes my chest clench. There's no pity in her eyes, no judgment—just a quiet acceptance.

Without thinking, I reach out and take her hand in mine. Her skin is soft, her fingers delicate compared to mine.

She doesn't pull away. Instead, she gives my hand a gentle squeeze. That simple gesture—so small, yet so profound—breaks something inside me. The dam I've spent summers building.

I don't cry. I can't remember the last time I allowed myself that weakness, yet I relax in ways I haven't since I was sent to war.

Everly shifts closer, her free hand coming up to rest on my arm. "It's all right. You're allowed to feel, Cenric."

How long has it been since someone told me that? Since someone looked at me and saw not just the warrior, but the man beneath?

I turn to her, drinking in the sight of her face—the compassion in her eyes, the curve of her lips, and before I can stop myself, I lean down and kiss her.