Page 191 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“Did you see her?” Duncan stepped toward him, impatience overtaking humor.

Merrick’s grin faded, replaced by something sober. “I did,” he said, taking a bite. “And she overheard something rather enlightening.”

Isander straightened. “Out with it.”

“An exchange between the Moonwarden and Duskmere,” Merrick replied, lowering himself into a chair and resting one boot against its rung. “And before either of you interrupt—yes. It is exactly as unpleasant as you are imagining.”

Nausea curdled and rose to Isander’s throat.

“Merrick,” Duncan snapped. “What did they say?”

Merrick chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. “Ernst was furious that you were not inside the palace when the gates were sealed. Firrigan told him the timing shifted, but the distraction worked regardless.” He lifted the apple slightly in emphasis. “Distraction.”

Duncan swore under his breath. “I feared Duskmere’s loyalty to Wolmer was ornamental at best.” He began pacing again. “I understand what Ernst stands to gain. Wolmer’s reforms weaken him. But Firrigan? Why tie himself to Duskmere?”

“Think it through,” Merrick said, his tone sharpening. “Firrigan and Valdir are both second sons. Raised together in the Trisolarum Basilica.” His gaze flickered meaningfully toward Duncan. “The same institution you are so generously expanding with Lemierre marble.”

Duncan swore again, softer now, almost in surrender to understanding. “Firrigan isn’t allied with Duskmere. Kryovarre is the bridge.” He paused. “Ernst and Valdir oppose the same legislation. Firrigan and Valdir have history from the Spectrum. And Firrigan is perfectly placed beside Wolmer, close enough to steer him without notice.”

Merrick inclined his head. “Exactly. I do not yet know what Firrigan expects in return, but Kryovarre must have offered him something substantial.” His expression cooled. “Not all brothers are bound by affection. Some would spill their own blood for power.”

Isander felt his color drain. He sank back into his chair, fingers tightening on the armrests. “If they planned the murder as a distraction… what for?”

Merrick leaned forward, the last trace of levity gone. “That is the larger problem.”

Duncan planted both hands on a table. “Say it.”

“My scouts report an army moving through Duskmere. No banners. No sigils. No resistance. And most nobles remain trapped in the palace without means to summon their levies against it.”

“How large?” Isander asked quietly.

Merrick met Duncan’s eyes. “Large enough to rival the Vaelclair army.”

Duncan’s expression hardened into focus. “Which direction?”

Merrick tossed the apple core with a perfect arc into the hearth. “East.”

Isander sat up straight. “Toward Lemierre.”

“If this is true,” Duncan said, his voice leveling into command, “then Emberglade…”

Emberglade rose in Isander’s mind with painful clarity: the clang of forges at dawn, the rush of the river through the valley, the training yard, the kitchens. Mathilde. The thought of that peace shattered by marching boots lodged beneath his sternum like ice.

“Whose army?” Duncan asked. “Who commands it?”

“You are asking the wrong question,” Merrick said quietly.

Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “Then what is the right one?”

“Where is it coming from?”

“Norrelia,” Duncan answered at once. His grey eyes snapped toward Isander. “Oorlon conspires with Kryovarre. Valdir builds the army with Norrelian sanction, marches through Duskmere with Ernst’s blessing, while Firrigan engineers a murder and lockdown to trap the major houses inside the palace. Remove every obstacle in one stroke.”

“It fits,” Isander said grimly, dragging himself from Emberglade back to the problem.

“This explains Valdir’s absence during Ardennesse,” Duncan continued. He stood straighter. “He was building something larger. Was Ardennesse part of it, or a distraction as well?” He shook his head. “It hardly matters. My forces are stretched thin. Half are still recovering. I do not have the numbers to counter something of that scale.”

“Numbers are not everything,” Isander offered.