Ruenen swore under his breath.
“Not only that, but Varana is marching through the Red Lands as we speak, pillaging our towns along the way,” said Avilyard. “Half of their troops have already joined up with Rayghast’s.”
“Is there nothing we can do to stop them?” asked Fenir.
Avilyard and the other commanders exchanged glances.
“There are too many of them,” he replied solemnly. “We don’t have the men. We need to consolidate our forces in one place if we’re going to make a stand.”
Ruenen watched the citizens of Kellesar from his bedroom window whenever he had the chance. People huddled together, whispering, faces lined with worry. Citizens from nearby villages and towns flocked to the capital city. Kellesar’s walls were high, and with the Nydian River surrounding it, quite difficult to penetrate. It was the safest place in Nevandia.
Boys no older than eleven, and old men well past their prime marched from the city with their heads held high, knowing the fate that awaited them on the moor. They’d give their lives for Nevandia. Many of them had never held a weapon, let alone taken a life. Each tearful goodbye to a loved one was a nail to Ruenen’s heart as he watched from the castle balcony.
“These people are far braver than me,” Ruenen said to Holfast, standing behind him. “I’ve hid from this place my entire life, and yet they all sacrifice for Nevandia, knowing they may not ever come home.”
A woman in the street kissed her adolescent son as a golden soldier pulled the boy away.
“Make Nevandia proud,” she shouted after him. The mother only let fear take her after her son was out of sight. She sobbed into her hands.
It was enough to make Ruenen want to tear his hair out. Only women, young children, and the few men deemed unfit to fight, lingered in the city streets. Everyone else had been sent to the army camps on the moor between the two countries.
The one silver lining was the arrival of the six werewolves. Men, strong, gritty, and hardened. Ruenen could hardly believe his eyes when Marai brought them into the Witenagemot. Tarik, their leader, had a no-nonsense way about him, which Ruenen admired. Along with the fae, the weres joined in on every strategy meeting in the Witan chamber.
The Commander of the Nevandian Army was as bone-weary as Ruenen felt. Dark circles and deep lines formed around Avilyard’s eyes; creases across his forehead and between his eyebrows. Ruenen recognized an achingly familiar question in his eyes. How could they possibly win?
“We don’t have the numbers to siege the castle at Dul Tanen. It’s too well fortified. We’re better off having a battle on our terms—here, Your Highness,” Avilyard said, pointing to the highlands between Nevandia and Tacorn. The same heather-strewn moor Marai and Ruenen had careened through two months ago trying to outrun Commander Boone. “It’s far enough away from our major towns, but close enough to Kellesar for us to flee should . . . should the worst happen.”
Ruenen chewed bitterly on his lip. Kellesar could protect them for only so long. Eventually, Rayghast’s forces would batter down the gates and flood the city.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Where are the Varanese forces?”
“A day out of Dul Tanen, Your Highness, but they’re congregating on the moor.” The commander’s deep rumble of a voice grew quieter. “And there’s no word yet of Greltan soldiers. We’ve recalled nearly all of our own forces stationed along the border. It’s possible the Greltans are closer than we know.”
“How do we know that Grelta hasn’t tricked us, gone behind our backs, and allied with Rayghast?” asked Commander Gasparian.
“Rayghast would never ally with a woman,” Marai said curtly from the back of the room. “And I don’t believe Queen Nieve would ever parlay with a man who disrespects her and her people.”
“Their alliances wouldn’t last long. Nieve has a vast army, herself. Tacorn doesn’t have the numbers to hold Nevandia, Varana, and Grelta at bay. Not yet, at least,” added Ruenen.
But he will if he annexes Nevandia.
“Grelta will come,” Holfast said, but Ruenen heard the doubt in the Steward’s voice. Holfast had sustained the kingdom for nine years. He was skilled at spinning fear into hope.
“Sure, but how quickly?” Ruenen asked.
“It takes time for a large force to move from country to country, even cavalry,” Avilyard said, but he, too, sounded unsure.
Ruenen rubbed his temples. The two cups of coffee he’d already had did nothing to energize him. Sleep escaped Ruenen, night after night. His mind wouldn’t slow. He hadn’t had time to play his lute; the one sanctuary where he could shut out the noise and rising panic inside.
But each night, Ruenen wondered if Marai would appear at his door. He ached for the subtle spark when he traced his fingers across her skin. He pined for her presence, to hear her voice, to know her thoughts. But she never came. As their eyes locked from across the Witan chamber, a rope taut between them, Ruenen still couldn’t be sure how she felt. There was attraction and affection, but could Marai sense how deeply Ruenen’s emotions ran? Did she know that his heart burned and twisted for her every second of the day?
Marai was smarter than him. She knew what they faced. Marai had the ability to compartmentalize in ways Ruenen could only imagine. If there was ever to be something more . . . she would do nothing until this upcoming battle was finished. She wouldn’t get distracted. Ruenen supposed he should follow her example.
Which brought Ruenen’s mind back to Rayghast.
There was no doubt the King of Tacorn would be there on those sloping hills.
How much dark magic had he used since the last time they’d met? Ruenen wondered if the black stains had appeared elsewhere on his body. How much of himself had the king given over to the darkness? And what would that power do to Ruenen’s army? To Marai?
There was no watching from the sidelines. No safety at the back. Rayghast wouldn’t settle for mere defeat. It would be death or nothing, for both of them. The question was . . . whose body would be swinging from the castle walls?
I can’t hide from this any longer. He swallowed down the fear and the sensation of ruination.
“I will meet him there,” Ruenen said to the room.
A collective breath was held.
“Your Highness—” Holfast began.
“This has been my destiny since the day I was born. If I don’t stand against Rayghast, how can I expect my own countrymen to do so?” Ruenen wasn’t of royal blood. He wasn’t supposed to be king, but fate or the gods had guided Ruenen here. This was how it was supposed to be. “If we take down Rayghast, this war will end. Let’s make this the final battle. Let’s bring our people peace.”
Solemn nods circled the room. Vorae’s hand pulled at the back of his neck. Fenir’s chest rose and fell quickly. They wouldn’t be on the battlefield. It was decided that the Witenagemot would remain, ready to govern with Holfast at the helm, should Ruenen fall. Or rather, ready to submit and bow down to Rayghast. Ruenen doubted any of the Witan would keep their heads should Tacorn win.
“Then we should ride out today, Your Highness,” Avilyard said. “Join the men already camped on the moor. I’m sure seeing you will raise their spirits.”
Ruenen nodded, scrubbing his hand over his unshaven jaw. “We’ll leave by midday.”
Avilyard and his fellow soldiers tramped from the chamber in steady, powerful steps. Other members of the Witan left in a hurry, chatting animatedly with each other. Holfast, Vorae, Fenir, Keshel, and Marai remained. Holfast regarded the two faeries, standing aloof in the corner. He seemed to be holding back a thought, jaw working.
