Page 127 of Of Iron and Moonlight

One of the guards went still.

Njall caught her arm and pulled her behind the rock, angling his body between her and the open pass. He held still as stone. Her breath quickened against his shoulder.

The guard’s gaze swept the ridge once.

Then again.

He turned back to his circuit.

Njall waited another heartbeat, then released a breath. “Too close.”

“Agreed,” Elara whispered, dragging a shaky hand over her brow. Her cheeks burned red from the cold and frozen strands of hair clung to her face.

“Was he in there?” Njall asked after a beat. “Is he alive?”

“Yes.” She nodded, shivering. “But barely.”

Njall’s jaw tightened. “Let’s get you out of here before you turn to ice.”

He scooped her up, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back, and carried her down the slope, glancing back now and then to make sure no one followed. Elara’s arms tightened around his neck as she pressed closer for warmth, her breath soft against his throat.

Just beyond the ridge, where the mountainside bent inward, an abandoned watcher’s outpost lay half-buried, its timber frame blackened with age, the roof sagging under old snow. Njall kicked the door open and ducked inside with Elara in his arms.

He set her down carefully, stripped off his cloak, and draped it over her shoulders. It engulfed her slight frame until only her face and a few pale wisps of hair remained visible. She tugged it tighter and began hopping from foot to foot, trying to force warmth back into her limbs. The sight was nearly comical, and it drew a faint smile as he turned toward the hearth.

He no longer bound her. It was not a decision he had announced or even fully examined. After his return from Celestine Isle, it had simply happened.

Perhaps it was what he had seen there. Or the way Pietre’s disappearance had rattled them both, leaving each clinging to the only certain presence left. Or perhaps it was simpler than that. What had begun as wary tolerance and reluctant humor had settled into quiet companionship. Neither had questioned it or felt compelled to dispute it.

Whatever the cause, Elara had woven herself into his days with the ease of habit, her presence a welcome constant at the periphery of every task, and against his better judgment, some tense corner of his soul eased in her company. He liked having her near.

At last, a thin bloom of orange flared from the scraps of wood in the hearth, spreading uncertain light through the dim room. Ilen’s golden eyes flashed in Njall’s mind. He pushed the image aside and sat near the fire with his back against the damp wall. Warmth crept out slowly, driving the cold from timber and bone.

Elara stopped hopping and sank down beside him. After a moment she tucked herself beneath the crook of his arm, seeking more warmth. Njall drew her closer without comment and began rubbing her arms, working heat back into her chilled skin.

“His name is Gavriel,” Elara said suddenly.

Njall made a low sound of acknowledgement. The name twisted like wire. Gavriel. Had he ever truly known the man he called friend, if even his name had been false?

“They’re starving him,” Elara continued, her voice trembling harder than her fingers. “And they’ve been hurting him. The cell was covered in blood. Some dried. Some not.”

Anger flared through him, cutting through confusion and wounded pride alike.

Elara lifted her chin and met his gaze, brown eyes earnest and unafraid. Njall felt, unexpectedly, grateful that she never looked at him as others did. Not as a weapon. Not as a creature to fear. Not as a tainted King’s Champion. She looked simply at Njall.

“We must help him,” she said quietly.

Njall exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair, scattering melted snow across the floor. “It was a miracle your plan worked today, that we are both still alive. If we push our luck further…” He let the thought trail away. “I am not convinced the goddesses will be so kind twice.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re still cross that he lied to you.”

Njall grunted and looked away, though his hand kept its slow path along her arm. He was not ready for that conversation.

“I’m certain he had a reason,” Elara insisted gently. “Once we rescue him, he’ll tell us.”

Sense battled feeling. Feeling won.

“I don’t see how,” Njall said at last with a small huff of defeat. “The prison has only one entrance that isn’t warded against fae, and at least four guards watch it at all times. I cannot just walk inside. And you cannot go alone.”