Chapter 12

The amber contents of my half-filled mug spills over the side with every barefooted plod.

Step, slosh.

Step, slosh.

A whistle of wind nips at my face and fingers, stirring the thin layer of ankle-high mist that looks like cobwebs woven across the coarse coastal grass, giving me a brief reprieve from the stench.

I hate the smell of a war camp—a potent cocktail of piss, shit, smoke, mud, fear, poor man’s porridge, and unwashed ball sacks. Its only saving grace is the slight tang of ale that always pinches the air.

Lantern in hand, I cut a wobbly path between lines of domed, black tents—silent sentries in the dark. Each entrance flap is marked by a silver lantern hanging from a pike, casting the sleeping quarters in a huddled halo of frosted light.

Step, slosh.

I almost trample a white flower poking above the haze, somehow surviving against the odds and wrenching my thoughts straight back to her.

Another numbing sip doesn’t stop my mind from tumbling, pecking apart the past eighteen years. A vulture with a pile of sun-bleached bones.

The wind moans through the thick forest fringing the camp like a lofty wall, the wailing sound battling the crash of waves hammering the nearby shore. The same sound that battered me over and over while I sat clumped behind that rock—cold, alone, and crippled by my raw, exposed skin. Knowing she was leaving. Knowing there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it for risk of boasting my ugly shame to the world.

Always shield your weakness …

I guffaw into my mug.

I’m such a fucking fraud.

Stumbling a step, I almost topple into a man shitting over a bucket. “Sorry,” I mumble, receiving a low grunt in return.

Most of the men are asleep, but it’ll be a far different story once the sun begins to rise in an hour or so—by which time I plan to be passed out in the cabin, cock in hand, with a belly full of so much ale my mind can’t thread two thoughts together.

Blessed fucking numbness.

Approaching one of the many campfires, I toast the stars for being cunts, and drain my wooden mug before tossing it in the pit. Sparks erupt, little bits scattering on the dull wind as I set my lantern by my feet, cross my arms, and watch the glowing embers throb. With some hissing and spitting, the thing eventually catches light, warming the air the slightest amount.

Another burst of wind snatches that heat away, and I sigh, tightening the twist of my arms.

I should’ve been honest with her. Should’ve told her everything the moment she started to root around for answers. Fuck Rhordyn and his fucking secrets. He’s happy to absorb her hate, but there’s not one single part of me that’s ever wanted that for myself.

Something thunks against my forearm, and I’m about to blindly swat at it when a sharp trill breaks my bitter silence.

I blink away the haze and hone my double vision on the round, black eyes that dominate the petite mail sprite standing on my arm, dressed in felted garb thicker than they usually wear and looking utterly vexed to be standing in my presence.

You and me both, pip-squeak.

“You’re the one that bit my finger,” I mutter, hiccupping. “I think. That hurt, by the way. Went all the way through my nail.”

She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing.

“Wanna see?” I shove my finger in her face, but she bats it away with her tiny hand.

Guess that’s a no. Hard to find good company at this hour.

I move my arm so I can scan her from all angles. “Where’s your scroll? Did you lose it?”

She stamps her hands on her hips and hisses, baring a hoard of tiny pin-like teeth, forcing me to focus on her features. Her hair’s so teased from the elements her head resembles dandelion, her lacy wings are lacking the usual layer of powder, and her cheeks are flushed from the cold.

I’ve never seen a mail sprite so worse for wear.

Spotting the black bead pierced through the tapered tip of her right ear, I slap myself on the forehead. “Fuck, I’m sorry. You’re the little ocean scout we sent after Laith. No wonder you look so …roughed up.”

She stomps her foot. “Geif han dak’t le neivala va me! Shashkina me lashea af ten ah!”

Wrong thing to say, apparently.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll pay closer”—hiccup—”attention.”

Spitting a few more words too fast for me to decipher, she flutters up, drops onto my shoulder, and tilts toward my ear.

Her hushed words stack sobering stones upon my chest, one by fucking one, shattering my numbness and draining the blood from my face.

I plummet back to reality at a sickening speed that threatens to turn my stomach inside out …

Fuck.

* * *

Ishove a branch out of my face to see him looking out across the angry ocean as a mottled masterpiece of muted color drips upon the world.

Wind whips at his cape, the cliff a sheer drop at his booted feet, and I can tell he’s heard my clumsy advance by the set of his pelt-shrouded shoulders. By the tension-riddled air—stiff enough to snap.

“They’ve turned around,” I mutter, the coarse grass crunching beneath my boots as I enter the cliffside clearing lantern-first, wrapped in my illuminated safety net. Precautions—the light a lethal weapon that strips the Irilak into a steaming heap of bones and not much else.

Though they mostly reside in the South, the light is a safety net I prefer not to part with.

“The entire fleet?”

“Every ship besides the two that ...” I clear my throat, “sank.”

“Which ships?”

The deep thump of his question rattles my bones—a storm in his voice to match the one brewing on the horizon. I stuff my free hand in my pocket to stem the shake. Not from fear, but from an anger that’s grown its own caustic heartbeat.

Orlaith’s out there, vulnerable, underinformed, and brimming with justifiable rage. Blame is a hot coal in my hand ready to be tossed, because fuck me ... it burns.

“Baze?”

I bite my tongue, studying the sword sheathed down his spine.

Finally, he turns.

I open my mouth, but the words are clogged by the raw sight of him.

There’s a violent unbalance in his cutthroat stare—a hollow darkness that’s gobbled up his irises, leaving nothing but frail silver halos keeping the black contained. He hasn’t shaved since she left, and his regular stubble has grown thick and dark, a wildness to match the untethered look in his eyes.

“According to the sprite, the, ah … the ship Laith boarded at Castle Noir took extensive damage.”

“What about her?”

I watch a bead of blood slip down the length of his thumb from up under his sleeve and drip …

Drip …

Shit.

“Answer me, Baze.”

“Somebody had to carry her off the ship before it sank. That’s all I know.”

“Somebody ...”

“Mm-hmm.” My gaze flicks down, up again. “You’re bleeding,” I mutter, and he wipes his hand on his pants without breaking eye contact. I gesture toward the cord caught around his neck, secured to the small bladder of Orlaith’s blood tucked close to his heart. “Perhaps you should have a sip.”

“You’re offering self-medication advice?” He looks me over. “Right now?”

“Shocking, I know.”

His stare holds for a few drawn beats before he grunts, gaze casting across the ocean.

We’ve been scanning the point for Cainon’s fleet for days—since we received confirmation he deployed a boastful number of ships down the west coast. Being constantly prepared for an uncertain attack, we’re wasting precious resources and getting restless in this horrid limbo.

Quoth Point is the only weakness along the western coast accessible by fleet. The only scrap of Ocruth that slopes into the ocean rather than chopped with a sheer, unscalable drop.

If an army were to attack from the sea, it’d be here—the small, craggy stretch of black sand littered with rusted arrowheads, teeth, and shards of bone. Testament to battles long past.

But I’m not concerned about an attack we’re well prepared to beat back, and I know that’s not his main concern.

It’s her.

Over the past week, I’ve seen Rhordyn become progressively more abrasive, and I’ve become progressively more drunk.

Same problem, different coping mechanisms.

With a low growl, he spins and stalks toward the brush in long, determined strides. “Try to keep up without tripping over your feet.”

Rolling my eyes, I trail him through the trees, stepping over rocks and fallen logs until we converge with the camp’s silver glow.

He leads me between two rows of tents, a barrel of ale standing sentry at the last, topped with a number of brimming, frothless mugs. I snatch the fullest one as we pass, just tipping it to my lips when Rhordyn smacks it from my hand, painting the side of someone’s tent with a frothy smear.

“So wasteful,” I slur, flicking up my hood.

“You finally understand.”

“Do you have to walk so fast? I’m seeing doubles.”

Someone exits a tent with mussed up hair and bleary eyes, takes one look at our High Master, and loses all the color in his cheeks, bowing.

Rhordyn charges on without a pause in his step. “The next fleet of trade ships heading down the River Norse?”

“What about them?”

He grabs a full bladder of water off a table from the hydration tent pitched atop the well and continues, hooking it over his shoulder by the sling. “I need you to replace the traveling merchants with soldiers knowledgeable enough to captain their own vessels. We need to secure those ships before Cainon finds another meager excuse to use them against us.”

“I thought you said he could go fuck his ships?”

Exactly that, actually. But I’m mid-swing in this fuck you, fuck me, fuck everything routine and it seems a shame to back down now.

“Only a fool would be too proud to demand what Orlaith earned Ocruth and Rouste by stepping on that ship.”

“Silver lining,” I mutter. “Should we talk about how this entire situation could have been avoided had you simply been honest with her?”

He growls, the sound so deep and wild even the wind stops whistling, and a deeper silence settles over the camp.

Time to stop nipping at the beast.

I rub at my scratchy, sleep-deprived eyes as we round the large, black barn at the edge of camp that’s seen better days—the sharp smell of manure souring the air.

“I already put the word out about the ships, just in case Cainon decided to pull back. We leaving, then? I’ll need to grab some shit. My sword’s in the cabin.”

Rhordyn tugs the wooden door open, releasing a warm glow, the stablemen already feeding horses and mucking pens. They bow as we pass, though Rhordyn only stops once we reach Eyzar’s stall at the end.

He spins, digs through his pocket, and hands me a small, flattened scroll—black seal intact.

“What’s this?”

“One of my sprites returned with this uncracked. Seems Zali’s gone rogue.”

My spine stiffens.

I set the lantern on a table and hold his shadowed stare, knowing full well the sprites refuse to fly too close to the Alps these days.

“The Stretch?”

Rhordyn nods.

A snarl rips free.

She needed to see for herself. She could’ve fucking told us first.

“You want me to take it to her?”

Silence stews between us while he watches me, jaw set, as though he’s biting into the throat of his own deliberation. “I don’t trust anyone else.”

I stuff the scroll in my pocket.

Rhordyn nods, then gets to work tacking the massive black stallion that looks as restless as his master. Every now and then, the beast paws the straw, puffing plumes of steam from flared nostrils.

Like Rhor, his eyes are black and astute.

Unnerving.

I can tell Rhordyn’s mind is far from here as he buckles the saddle. It’s not until he’s led the beast into the crisp morning air and is climbing atop its back that I let my musings spill.

“I did warn you this would happen.”

He snarls, and Eyzar paws his agitation deep into the mud. He does a tight spin, ready to run.

“The wheels are in motion, Rhor. We both know where this ends. It was over before it started.”

More blood drips from his hand. “What if it’schanged?”

I frown. “What?”

“The prophecy,” he growls, and my mind whirs, stare stabbing to the forest path Ezyar’s facing.

He’s going to see Maars …

If his indifference was the answer, it would have been scratched off by now. We would’ve heard about it.

“And if it hasn’t?”

He doesn’t look at me, instead yanking the reins and screaming “Yah!” Eyzar rears, then takes off at a sickening pace, whisking the fog into a stir as he gallops down a forest path.

Gone.

Orlaith has no idea what’s about to hit her—a man who knows the sour taste of loss hell bent on twisting fate to his own fucking will.

I seek the fading stars through watercolor clouds …

“Sadistic fucks.”

Shoulders bunched around my ears, I take off toward the camp to gather some shit.

No sleep for me. Not today.

I’m headed for the Alps.