Page 174 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Duncan cleared his throat, sensing heaviness gathering behind his ribs. “We should turn in. We ride at first light.”

“So soon?” Nelayne’s disappointment was plain.

“I have already missed the start of court,” Duncan said. “And I have left my wife alone among the dragons for far too long.”

“Then return for Stormveil,” Rhalen insisted. “Emberglade misses you.”

“If Wolmer grants me leave this winter, I will,” Duncan promised. “I would like Kora to see Stormveil here.”

Nelayne looked to Merrick. “You as well.”

He inclined his head and offered a tilted smile. “If I can.” His tone said he could not.

Nelayne embraced each of them with the kind of warmth that comes only from years of watching boys become men. Rhalen followed with his own crushing hugs.

Silence shadowed their final goodnights.

Merrick stood near the window, shoulders arranged in studied ease. To anyone else he might have looked relaxed. Duncan knew better.

Isander lingered by the table, cloak draped over one arm, posture straight in that disciplined way he used whenever he felt exposed.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Duncan asked quietly. Optimistically.

Something like hope flickered across Merrick’s face before he hid it.

Isander’s mouth parted as though words were finally ready. He closed it. Tried again. Stopped. Duncan understood the struggle. The air felt charged, as though one wrong breath might shatter the fragile bridge that had begun to form.

“I will see you both in the morning,” Isander said at last, voice controlled. He shrugged into his cloak, giving his hands a task. “I should go see Mathilde.”

Merrick’s brow lifted at the unfamiliar name. Curiosity stirred in his expression, and it looked as though he might ask. He looked away instead, toward the dark beyond the window.

“Give her my regards,” Duncan said gently.

Once Isander left, Merrick exhaled and slipped his hands into his pockets, as though bracing himself against the weight of stillness. Moonlight traced his profile, softening the angles the world had carved into him.

“How does it feel, being back?” Duncan asked.

Merrick tilted his head slightly, the way he always had when deciding how much truth to offer—or how much defensiveness to maintain. He pointed toward the garden below. “There,” he said. “Your father caught me carving my initials into the yew tree with a kitchen knife.”

Duncan followed the gesture and let out a low laugh. “You deserved whatever lecture followed.”

“Oh, I did,” Merrick said, that crooked smile returning. “I thought I might at least complete a letter before my execution. He sat me down, though, and said something I’ve never forgotten. Leave the world better than you found it. Don’t carve your mark into it just to prove you passed through.” He exhaled slowly. “I thought he meant the wood. It took me years to understand.”

Then he swallowed, as if working the next words free. “He was the best man I’ve known,” he said. “I am grateful for how he treated my mother. Isander. Me.” His jaw tightened briefly. “When I heard he had died—how he had died—it shattered me.”

“We didn’t hear from you,” Duncan said. “We wondered if perhaps you didn’t care.”

“Never that,” Merrick said, uncharacteristically grave. “I have never forgotten—and will never forget—what Alaric gave me: the chance to become more than what I might have been.”

Duncan nodded. “Thank you for saying it.”

After a moment he added, “And thank you. For Alewyn.”

Merrick waved a languid hand. “You, Corwin, Garriden—you were my brothers, just as Isander is my brother by blood. I would have walked through fire for any of you.” His brown eyes met Duncan’s. “I still would.”

“And I for you,” Duncan said. Then he smiled. “While we are reminiscing and being honest, I should also thank you for pulling me out of that well when we were boys.”

A genuine, surprised laugh escaped Merrick. “I considered leaving you there. Briefly.”