Page 116 of Of Iron and Moonlight

And then her resolve failed her entirely. She cast aside every thought of Seraphine, of consequence. Nothing existed but the heated, suspended space between them.

There was only him.

She brushed her lips against his.

Before she could draw breath again, he released her and was on his feet beside the bed, one hand raised to his mouth, his expression stricken. Kora stared at him, stunned, confusion catching at her throat before it could form words.

He turned away, pulling on his clothes with hurried movements. “I should see to the morning reports,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Then he was gone.

Kora sank back against the pillow, heart racing, her skin still burning with the memory of what had nearly transpired. His reaction left her utterly disoriented. She lifted uncertain fingers to her lips, a futile effort to still their trembling.

It never happened again. Nor did they speak of it.

The weeks that followed folded into one another in a strange blur. War devoured any sense of sequence, grinding time down to the next task until even the keeping of hours felt meaningless. Kora often struggled to remember what had been yesterday and what still waited ahead.

By day, battle reports struck the campaign table like stones dropped into deep water. Riders arrived disheveled, mud crusted to their knees. Maps were unrolled, marked, rolled again. By night, the camp filled with the hiss of lamps, the rasp of quills, the low murmur of men too exhausted to argue. Smoke clung everywhere, and too often that uneasy quiet broke beneath the cry of alarm bells signaling another strike in the dark.

Through it all, Merrick kept his word. He sent wagons carrying grain, bearing the sigil of the Ashfell Quiett, into Ardennesse. Villages once shuttered in silence began to open their gates. It was not enough to end famine, but it planted the first seeds of trust.

Merrick, too, soon became a fixture at the war council, an unpredictable presence that could lift sails or snuff out torches. He sprawled across benches with the ease of a man who had never sworn fealty to anyone. Yet when he spoke, even the most hardened of lords and captains leaned in to listen.

His presence also had a profoundly positive effect on Duncan. The two slipped back into the familiarity of old friendship: shared glances, wry remarks, the familiarity between boys who had once run the same forests. Sometimes Kora caught Duncan smiling around him, unguarded and warmer than the composure he wore before his men.

That ease, however, never returned between the brothers. Isander remained at the margins whenever Merrick entered a room, his silence heavier than open hostility might have been.

While the men rode to battle, Kora worked to keep the campaign alive in quieter ways. She spent long days in the healer’s tent, remaining even after Cairon regained his strength because the need never faded. In the evenings she bent over ledgers, recalculating supply routes and tracking Merrick’s deliveries as they spread across the region.

In time, she began traveling to the towns herself. At first, the people met her with guarded suspicion. But Merrick stood beside her, calming wary hearts with his easy wit, without diminishing the sincerity of their purpose. In him, Kora found an unexpected friend, and diplomacy began to feel less like negotiation and more like shared effort.

By the end of each gathering, she could feel the shift in the air. Shoulders loosened. Eyes sharp with mistrust softened, if only slightly. Before long, agreements were scratched onto whatever parchment could be found. Fragile as the first thaw after winter, the prospect of a better life began to find its place once more among the people of Ardennesse.

Amid exhaustion, loss, and endless responsibility, something in Kora began to change as well. A quiet certainty began to bloom, nourished not by comfort but by persistence. Her life had become one of motion and service, of stubborn hope carried forward one choice at a time.

Rensaya’s wisdom guided those decisions. Brannoc’s blunt loyalty anchored the camp, while Osric’s counsel steadied tempers. Cairon’s resilience restored laughter, Garric’s practicality grounded their plans, and Isander’s dependability carried her through the hardest days. Even Merrick’s scintillating humor brightened the most strained moments.

For the first time in her life, Kora felt part of something like a family. It had come not through blood, but through shared purpose and trust forged in war.

Only one thread ran contrary to that newfound contentment. Since that morning, Duncan had kept his distance. Most nights he returned to their tent long after she had fallen asleep, and by dawn his side of the bed was already cold. He spoke to her only when required. And though never unkind, his manner was unmistakably clipped.

His avoidance became its own kind of weight—one she could neither confront nor forget.

Chapter 55

Duncan

Amonth after their first audience with Merrick, Duncan stood on the ridge above Grayhollyn and watched Lemierre’s banners fly over the city again, green and silver snapping against a sky the color of cooled ash. Their victory belonged not to the army, but to the people who had helped them win it, and for once, victory did not taste sour.

“Your Grace,” Nelsyn called, climbing the ridge. “A remarkable day.”

Duncan allowed himself a small smile as memories returned: the people of Grayhollyn pouring into the streets with whatever they could wield—pitchforks, scythes, even kitchen blades—fighting beside his soldiers.

“We now hold more than half of Ardennesse in Lemierre’s name,” Nelsyn continued, pride threading his voice as he surveyed the view. After a moment he added, quieter, “I could not have done this without your support. You have my thanks.”

Duncan inclined his head. “Lemierre stands together or not at all.”

They stood for a moment longer, watching the banners ripple over the reclaimed city.