Kingdom of Ash

Had Aelin been here, one breath from her and the five thousand troops they’d exhausted themselves killing today would have been ash on the wind.

None of the lords around him had questioned where their queen was. Why she hadn’t been on the field today. Perhaps they hadn’t dared.

Ren said, “If we move the armies south without permission from Darrow and the other lords, we’ll be committing treason.”

“Treason, when we’re saving our own damn kingdom?” Ravi demanded.

“Darrow and the others fought in the last war,” Sol said to his brother.

“And lost it,” Ravi challenged. “Badly.” He nodded toward Aedion. “You were at Theralis. You saw the slaughter.”

The Lords of Suria had no love for Darrow or the other lords who had led the forces in that final, doomed stand. Not when their mistakes had led to the deaths of most of their court, their friends. It was of little concern that Terrasen had been so outnumbered that there had never been any hope anyway.

Ravi continued, “I say we head south. Mass our forces at the border, rather than let Morath creep so close to Orynth.”

“And let any allies we might still have in the South not have so far to travel when joining with us,” Ren added.

“Galan Ashryver and Ansel of the Wastes will go where we tell them—the Fae and assassins, too,” Ravi pushed. “The rest of Ansel’s troops are making their way northward now. We could meet them. Perhaps have them hammer from the west while we strike from the north.”

A sound idea, and one Aedion had contemplated. Yet to convince Darrow … He’d head to the other camp tomorrow, perhaps catch Darrow before he returned to the capital. Once he saw to it that the injured were being cared for.

But it seemed Darrow didn’t want to wait for the morning.

“General Ashryver.” A male voice sounded from outside—young and calm.

Aedion grunted in answer, and it was certainly not Darrow who entered, but a tall, dark-haired, and gray-eyed man. No armor, though his mud-splattered dark clothes revealed a toned body beneath. A letter lay in his hands, which he extended to Aedion as he crossed the tent with graceful ease, then bowed.

Aedion took the letter, his name written on it in Darrow’s handwriting.

“Lord Darrow bids you to join him tomorrow,” the messenger said, jerking his chin toward the sealed letter. “You, and the army.”

“What’s the point of the letter,” Ravi muttered, “if you’re just going to tell him what it says?”

The messenger threw the young lord a bemused glance. “I asked that, too, milord.”

“Then I’m surprised you’re still employed,” Aedion said.

“Not employed,” the messenger said. “Just … collaborating.”

Aedion opened the letter, and it indeed conveyed Darrow’s order. “For you to have gotten here so fast, you’d have needed to fly,” he said to the messenger. “This must have been written before the battle even started this morning.”

The messenger smirked. “I was handed two letters. One was for victory, the other defeat.”

Bold—this messenger was bold, and arrogant, for someone at Darrow’s beck and call. “What’s your name?”

“Nox Owen.” The messenger bowed at the waist. “From Perranth.”

“I’ve heard of you,” Ren said, scanning the man anew. “You’re a thief.”

“Former thief,” Nox amended, winking. “Now rebel, and Lord Darrow’s most trusted messenger.” Indeed, a skilled thief would make for a smart messenger, able to slip in and out of places unseen.

But Aedion didn’t care what the man did or didn’t do. “I assume you’re not riding back tonight.” A shake of the head. Aedion sighed. “Does Darrow realize that these men are exhausted and though we won the field, it was not an easy victory by any means?”

“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Nox said, dark brows rising high with that faint amusement.

“Tell Darrow,” Ravi cut in, “that he can come meet us, then. Rather than make us move an entire army just to see him.”

“The meeting is an excuse,” Sol said quietly. Aedion nodded. At Ravi’s narrowed brows, his elder brother clarified, “He wants to make sure that we don’t …” Sol trailed off, aware of the thief who listened to every word. But Nox smiled, as if he grasped the meaning anyway.

Darrow wanted to ensure that they didn’t take the army from here and march southward. Had cut them off before they could do so, with this order to move tomorrow.

Ravi growled, at last getting the gist of his brother’s words.

Aedion and Ren swapped glances. The Lord of Allsbrook frowned, but nodded.

“Rest wherever you can find a fire to welcome you, Nox Owen,” Aedion said to the messenger. “We travel at dawn.”

Aedion set out to find Kyllian to convey the order. The tents were a maze of exhausted soldiers, the injured groaning amongst them.

Aedion stopped long enough to greet those men, to offer a hand on the shoulder or a word of reassurance. Some would last the night. Many wouldn’t.

He halted at other fires as well. To commend the fighting done, whether the soldiers hailed from Terrasen or the Wastes or Wendlyn. At a few of them, he even shared in their ales or meals.

Rhoe had taught him that—the art of making his men want to follow him, die for him. But more than that, seeing them as men, as people with families and friends, who had as much to risk as he did in fighting here. It was no burden, despite the exhaustion creeping over him, to thank them for their courage, their swords.

But it did take time. The sun had fully set, the muddy camp cast in deep shadows amid the fires, by the time he neared Kyllian’s tent.

Elgan, one of the Bane captains, clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, the man’s grizzled face set in a grim smile. “Not a bad first day, whelp,” Elgan grumbled. He’d called Aedion that since those initial days in the Bane’s ranks, had been one of the first men here to treat him not as a prince who had lost his kingdom, but as a warrior fighting to defend it. Much of his battlefield training, he owed to Elgan. Along with his life, considering the countless times the man’s wisdom and quick sword had saved him.

Aedion grinned at the aging captain. “You fought well, for a grandfather.” The man’s daughter had given birth to a son just this past winter.

Elgan growled. “I’d like to see you wield a sword so well when you’re my age, boy.”

Then he was gone, aiming for a campfire that held several other older commanders and captains. They noticed Aedion’s attention and lifted their mugs in salute.

Aedion only inclined his head, and continued on.

“Aedion.”

He’d know that voice if he were blind.

Lysandra stepped from behind a tent, her face clean despite her muddy clothes.

He halted, finally feeling the weight of the dirt and gore on himself. “What.”

She ignored his tone. “I could fly to Darrow tonight. Give him whatever message you want.”

“He wants us to move the army back to him, and then to Orynth,” Aedion said, making to continue to Kyllian’s tent. “Immediately.”

She stepped in his path. “I can go, tell him this army needs time to rest.”

“Is this some attempt to reenter my good graces?” He was too tired, too weary, to bother beating around the truth.

Her emerald eyes went as cold as the winter night around them. “I don’t give a damn about your good graces. I care about this army being worn down with unnecessary movements.”

“How do you even know what was said in the tent?” He knew the answer as soon as he’d voiced the question. She’d been in some small, unnoticed form. Precisely why so many kingdoms and courts had hunted down and killed any shifters. Unparalleled spies and assassins.

She crossed her arms. “If you don’t want me sitting in on your war councils, then say so.”

He took in her face, her stiff posture. Exhaustion lay heavy on her, her golden skin pale and eyes haunted. He didn’t know where she was staying in this camp. If she even had a tent.