Page 34 of Of Iron and Moonlight

They emerged outside the arena, where gardens had been carved into the mountain’s flank. Frosted hedges formed a pale lattice along marble paths, crystal temples rising between them. The air carried the stillness of places built for the divine, where even footsteps felt intrusive.

“Selvara’s temple,” the younger man said, nodding toward the largest structure. Unlike the others, its walls were formed of the mountain’s stone, sweeping curves rising and meeting in a crescent-shaped arc. It was luminous even in the dark, diamonds encrusted through it like lacework spun from glass.

The false baron gestured toward the runes set into the façade. “Norrelians are known for their wards and enchantments.” He paused for effect. “And their curses.”

Despite the warning attached to the jest, curiosity drew Duncan closer. He stepped forward, his boot landing on the first stair, intent on glimpsing whatever lay within.

“Ah.” The man calling himself Pietre laid a hand on Duncan’s arm. “All of the temples are warded. Only those with fae blood may cross the threshold.”

Duncan halted, glancing briefly at the hand on his sleeve, then at the man’s face.

The man’s expression dissolved into rueful humor. “As are many of the castle’s exits,” he added quietly, withdrawing his hand. “Otherwise, I would have attempted escape long ago.” He conjured a contained smile, too fleeting to be affectation, too worn to be fully sincere.

A fragile, heavy silence hung between them.

“Interesting,” the imposter continued when it became clear Duncan would not speak, “the wards also suppress any magic within their bounds. Something about standing bare before Selvara for the most direct communion.” He gave a slight shrug. “Though I could have told them the absence of magic has never once made me feel closer to the moons.” He chuckled to himself, as if he found both fae and humans equally absurd in their faith.

Something in that won Duncan over, and the tension between them lifted.

They resumed walking along the glowing path.

“What happened at Netherfen Hallows?” Duncan asked at last, deciding there was little value in circling what had brought him here. If the man could not answer, that would be evidence enough to condemn him. “They say the battle was lost almost as soon as it began. Yet there were reports of a sudden rally. Brief, but decisive enough to be noted.”

The man’s shoulders shook once. Not laughter, but something close. For a while, he said nothing, only walked, boots crunching softly over frost, hands clasped behind his back.

“Do you believe,” he asked a few steps later, “all men born to sit on thrones deserve to do so?”

Duncan stopped. Turned. “That is not an answer to my question.”

The false baron halted as well. He was slightly shorter, but the seriousness in his dark gaze carried its own weight. “Humor me for a moment, Your Grace.”

Duncan weighed the disrespect to his rank and how close the question came to treason.

“No,” he said finally. “I do not.” He did not add, he often doubted he was worthy of his own place in governance.

“Exactly.” The man’s eyes lit with satisfaction at their agreement. He motioned for them to continue walking. “And that,” he went on, “is how the Battle of Netherfen Hallows began.”

They took a few steps in silence. “Then a suit of armor found a better wearer than the man born to wear it.” He glanced at Duncan before continuing. “The man it was made to flatter died in a ditch. The kind of death no one writes songs about, because it makes the singer sound cruel.”

“An accident,” Duncan deduced. “Not murder.”

Relief loosened the man’s jaw. He nodded. “The one who took up the armor was no lord. But he knew what to say when frightened men needed to be told where to stand.” His eyes unfocused. “So he shouted from the dragon’s face. And for a time, the shouting worked.”

Duncan could see it clearly now: Pietre’s heavy frame failing beneath the plate, this man lifting it, the name along with it, and leading men farther than the true baron ever could. “Your skill in the pit was undeniable,” he said. Because the compliment was earned, regardless of how the man found his way here.

“Thank you.” The imposter Pietre brushed his fingers against a signet ring. No doubt, Pietre's ring. “As for how the battle ended, there were Norrelian warlords overseeing the opposing force.” His tone flattened. “When the Netherfen line pressed too close to victory, they turned the field into ice.”

“The day had been hot enough to scorch water before it hit the ground,” Duncan recalled the reports. “Yet the fallen were described as drowned or shocked. Every version differed. Some accounts read like madness.”

“Not madness.” An exhale, thin and tired. “Just men who never stood a chance.”

“Then the Norrelians took the one wearing the baron’s armor,” Duncan concluded, “and chose not to look beneath it. Or they did and found it convenient not to care.”

“If a river drags you,” the man said, his tone balanced between irony and sorrow, “do you call it swimming?”

Duncan nodded. “You’ve worn the title a long while.” Not accusation. Recognition.

“Longer than this man ever wished to.”