Page 119 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“I’m fine,” she said gently, cutting him off without defiance. “Truly.”

Duncan exhaled and turned back to Osric. “We’ll review the remaining numbers at first light.” He paused, glancing at Kora as she coughed again. “For now, focus on the relocation.”

Osric nodded and closed the ledger. The meeting dissolved into movement: chairs scraping, armor shifting, men stretching stiff backs as conversation broke into low murmurs.

Kora rose and began to follow Isander.

“Wait,” Duncan heard himself call after her. “Stay.”

“Is something wrong?” Kora asked softly. She looked worse than she had even moments before. Her skin was ashen, lips nearly colorless. A trembling hand gripped her cloak.

Duncan gestured to a chair, then pulled another beside hers as she sat, close enough their knees nearly touched. Green eyes lifted to his, waiting.

The war fell away: talk of iron and mines, endless strategies, the ache in his shoulders. What remained was the memory of that morning. The warmth of her body against his. How she had guided his hand. Desire perilously close to need, and the paralyzing realization that what he felt for her could no longer be contained by discipline alone.

He had panicked then.

And he had not recovered from it since.

On the road to Kalgorod, Kora had flinched from his touch. He had taken it as a boundary and sworn to honor it. He believed she felt nothing for him. Why would she? She was young, bright with curiosity, and he was fifteen years her senior, worn thin by loss and command.

Then she had reached for him and undone that certainty, unraveling his understanding of the line she had drawn. And suddenly, distance felt safer than confusion.

But there was no avoiding her in this.

“What is it?” she asked again, suspicion deepening.

Duncan drew a steadying breath. “I received a letter from Marrowgate.”

Her brows knit.

“I’m sorry, Kora.” The words caught in his throat. “Your father has passed.”

Disbelief fractured into grief across her face.

He reached for her hand. Her fingers were cool in his grasp. Too cool. “He had apparently been ill for some time. It worsened recently.”

She turned away. Her shoulders trembled once.

Duncan understood the silence that followed—the hollow that opened when loss arrived without warning. He had stood in it himself not so long ago.

“I loved him,” she whispered at last, barely audible.

He tightened his hold on her hand, offering presence instead of empty reassurance.

“It explains why he didn’t write,” she murmured. “I knew the others wouldn’t…”

Duncan brushed his thumb across her knuckles, unsure what to say.

When she withdrew her hand, the motion was careful. Almost delicate.

She stood, and immediately swayed.

Duncan caught her shivering shoulders before the chair finished scraping. Her skin was cold as ice beneath his palms. “Let’s get you to bed,” he said quietly, worry threading through every word. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. I should have seen it.”

For a moment pride flickered in her expression, as though she might argue.

Then it faded.