Page 162 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Isander rolled his eyes but let it pass. “Duncan wants you and Garric to scout the fortress. We need a clearer sense of its state and defenses before the ram moves.”

“I heard my name.”

Garric approached, returning from watch.

“Western wall,” Isander said, grateful for the interruption. “See how much the foundation has shifted. Any weakness we can exploit.”

“With pleasure.” Garric smiled with the kind of warmth that required no effort.

Merrick returned the smile with easy charm. “Always a privilege to risk life and limb with such fine company.” He turned to Isander and dipped into another exaggerated bow—ornate, entirely unnecessary. “We will return with something useful.”

Isander scoffed as they departed. Garric moved with the calm stride of a man who had survived more shadows than daylight. Merrick with that feline ease of his, shifting between mischief and menace with every step. The two had fallen into easy camaraderie almost instantly. Men fluent in threat, who knew how to read a room before entering it, who seemed most at home where others felt least secure. Whatever life Garric had lived before Alaric derWhitte found him, he was cut from the same world Merrick now belonged to.

It needled Isander more than he cared to admit that Garric had reached an easier understanding with Merrick in days than Isander had managed in months.

Logic had little to do with it.

He let the flare of jealousy crest and pass before turning back to his duties.

Or rather, attempted to. It stayed with him, clinging like a burr to wool.

At midday, Griff came at a run and skidded to a halt before him. “His Grace requests your presence at command. Immediately, sir.”

Isander set down the steel he was sharpening and followed the lad to the largest tent at the camp’s center, where the Council had already gathered. Duncan stood at the head of the table, both hands planted on the map, his expression grave.

“Tell them what you told me.”

Garric tugged off his gloves. “There is indeed a fracture in the western wall, near the southern tower. Narrow, but deep. A long strike from the ram would bring that section down before the rest.”

Brannoc scratched at his mustache. “That is good news.”

“It would be,” Merrick said, leaning back against the table with arms crossed, “if not for the archers. They line the wall behind narrow slits. Anyone close enough to hit that fracture will be exposed. There’s a fair chance they won’t survive the first swing.”

“Choosing the men for this…” Osric began. “No commander makes that decision lightly.”

Color seemed to drain from Duncan’s face. “This war has been that decision.” He emphasized every word, “Every order. Every day,” then let out a breath heavy with more than fatigue. “I am weary of deciding which of our men will never see home again.”

Brannoc grimaced. “Yet we cannot stand here hoping the wall collapses out of kindness. The siege cannot stretch further. Our supplies are thinning.”

Cairon grunted with reluctant agreement. “Illness will take half the camp when the frosts come.”

Duncan dragged a hand through his hair, then settled it over his mouth, his grey eyes fixed on no particular point with grave intensity.

The moment stretched, balanced between fear and longing.

He lowered his hand.

“I will be going with the ram.”

Chapter 76

Isander

“Madness,” Merrick snapped, pushing off the table. “Absolute madness.”

“For once, I agree with him,” Brannoc said, grey eyes wide. “Your Grace, with all due respect, you cannot put yourself in that kind of danger.”

Isander didn’t need to think about it. “If you’re swinging that ram, then so am I.”