Page 44 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Isander clicked his tongue. “Morbid.”

The jest was light, but in truth, Isander was pushing aside his own uneasy thoughts about the impossible demands of fae kings and borderland tensions with Kryovarre. Matters better left for council chambers than homecoming roads.

“There’s not much of a choice,” Duncan said. Then, after a moment, “And you?”

“I am going directly to the kitchens,” Isander replied solemnly, “to claim a slice of Nahel’s oat crumble pie. After that, I intend to sleep for three uninterrupted days.”

That earned an honest laugh, the kind that carried relief and exhaustion both.

Though they traveled without banners, word had outrun them. By the time they reached the main city gate, townsfolk had gathered, lining the road in eager clusters. The cheering began at once, rolling through the crowd like a bell struck free from winter silence.

“Lemierre!” someone shouted. Then another, “Lemierre!”

Duncan lifted a hand in greeting as they passed, his expression softening in the way only this valley could draw from him. The burdens of rule and loss never fully left him, but Isander knew how deeply Duncan loved this duchy. And how deeply it returned the feeling.

A little girl slipped free of her mother’s grasp just long enough to thrust a braid of wheat forward. It was still green, bound in twine. Koraleise leaned from the carriage and accepted it with both hands, smiling as though it were something precious. She laughed then, startled, as if she hadn’t expected joy to find her here.

Duncan glanced back. Isander could have sworn his mouth curved, just slightly.

At last, the castle courtyard opened before them, broad and orderly. Banners of Lemierre floated above, sunlight catching the green-and-silver thread woven through them, setting the cloth shimmering like clear water over moss-covered stone.

“Home,” Isander murmured. Not to anyone in particular.

Chapter 24

Koraleise

The Ardorri coast was charming in a way Kora had always admired, and Marrowgate’s gardens were a refuge that never failed to lift her spirits. Lemierre, however, possessed a vitality that eclipsed them both. It took one sight of its lush landscape—hillsides scattered with wildflowers, canopies washed in summer green—for Kora to know that she adored it.

The sensation swept through her as she stepped into the courtyard, Isander’s steady hand at her elbow, her attention caught by every sound: the clop and hiss of cooling horses, the clang of a dropped bucket followed by a good-natured curse. It was as though the day itself had slipped into the walls, breathing life into the fortress.

“Torin,” the duke said, clapping the back of a stable hand hurrying to tend the horses. “How many foals this spring?” Then, to the woman swooping in to reclaim the fallen bucket, “Good day, Ellyn. Did your boy’s cough mend?”

Each question drew an easy answer, grin, or bow in passing. Kora watched the exchanges, the easy rapport between household and lord, and a muted ache answered inside her chest.

“Welcome home, Your Grace.”

A well-built man, solid as the stone beneath his boots, stood at the crest of the stairs before the castle’s entrance. He was balding, his dark beard greying, kept neatly without ado. To Kora, he seemed the sort of steadfast presence a frightened child might seek in a storm.

The duke rushed the steps to meet him in stride, grinning openly as he pulled the man into a hearty embrace, dispensing with propriety entirely. “Good to see you, Ossy.”

The man turned toward Kora next and bowed. “A welcome home to you as well, Your Grace,” he said, calmly and without stiffness.

“Koraleise,” the duke said, glancing at her somewhat uncertainly. He frowned, as though speaking to her, for the first time in nearly a week, left a strange taste in his mouth. The man’s kind brown eyes flickered between them, and Kora had the distinct sense nothing about it escaped him. “This is Osric Denholt, the derWhitte family steward.”

Kora looked at her husband for an apprehensive moment longer, then turned to Osric. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Denholt,” she said smoothly, intent on making a good first impression.

“Shall I show you to your rooms?” Osric asked, extending a hand toward the doors. “You must be weary from the road. A moment’s rest serves any of us well.”

Kora nodded, excitement stirring unexpectedly, and followed them inside.

Emberglade Castle smelled of beeswax and baking bread, almost jarring in its domesticity after Norrelia’s elaborate fragrances and frost. Tapestries lined the corridors, not of moons or battle glories but river work and harvest. Kora brushed her fingers along one as they passed it, feeling the rough honesty of the wool.

Osric led them to a stunning set of quarters in the west wing, entirely her own. Someone had placed a vase of crocuses on the table and folded back the green quilt, as if in welcome.

“Here we are,” the steward said genially. “The duke’s rooms are just down the hall.” He glanced at the duke then, the look brief and difficult to read, before his eyes found her again. “Should you need anything, Your Grace, let me know and I shall have it arranged.”

“Thank you,” Kora said, taking a turn about the room, acquainting herself with it.