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She looked up to find him glaring, all softness gone from his warm eyes. But his anger wasn’t for her. He looked through the trees, in the direction of the Spindle, the temple, and the ruin of the world. A muscle feathered in his cheek and Corayne saw the shadow of a knight in him, a warrior of many years. Not just the squire, but the man Andry Trelland was always meant to be.

“I’ll be here for you. Always,” he bit out, looking back to her without thought. “We all will. I promise.”

Andry Trelland was the most honest person Corayne knew. He had no talent for lying. It was easy to see the hesitation in him. The doubt.He can’t promise we won’t be dead in a few hours. But still he tries.

She covered his hand with her own.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I hope you do,” he answered, unmoving.

They broke apart when Charlie snuffled awake, shuffling out of his bed to take a seat by the fire. With a glance at the rest of the sleeping circle, he set a piece of parchment across his knees and began to write.

Corayne glanced at the parchment sidelong, expecting another forgery.

But the letter was nothing official, without his usual artistry. There were no false seals, no forged signatures. His penmanship wasn’t even any good. But he scrawled and scrawled, brow bent in concentration as the quill skittered over the page. When his eyes went glassy, shining with some emotion, Corayne looked away.

The others roused soon enough. Corayne and Andry set to preparing breakfast for everyone, hovering over their stores of food.

Dom had finally fallen asleep at some point, but now opened his eyes and sat up sharply, his sudden awareness startling the others. Sorasa had crept off without even Corayne noticing, but returned with braided hair and black-lined eyes, her face done up for war. Her fur cloak was gone, her leathers tightly buckled and laced, every dagger she owned easily accessible. Even her pouch of precious powders hung from her belt, tucked in alongside her coiled whip and sheathed sword.

Sigil rose last, yawning like a lion.

She seemed excited for the morning, thumping her chest to greet the mercenaries as they stirred. Whatever animosity they had shared in Volaska was long gone. Oscovko pulled her away to talk tactics, chattering about the horses and a potential charge.

Corayne shook out her cloak and shoved on her boots, lacingthem tight. Each motion seemed both too quick and too slow. She wanted the morning to be over. She wanted the sunset and the campfire, the Spindle behind them, with every face she knew still around her. They could snipe and argue all they wanted, as long as they lived to see the stars again.

Andry looked her over, his eyes heavy-lidded. His anger was gone but the fear remained. “Dom’s right. Stay out of the battle.”

She gritted her teeth, a sudden heat rising in her face. “I can’t just stand on the side and watch.”

Andry blinked, thoughtful. “I did.”

“And it haunts you,” she shot back, gripping the clay mug too tightly. “It haunts you to this day.”

His voice remained even and low, audible only to the pair of them. “It kept me alive, Corayne,” he said, the words laced with frustration.

When she didn’t respond, he reached out and touched her hand, his brown fingers drifting over her knuckles. It sent shivers up her arm and into her spine. Corayne told herself it was the cold, the terror, the doom looming over all of them.

His brown eyes seemed to melt, warm all the way through, inviting as a crackling fire in the hearth. They pressed into her own, impossible to ignore. She wanted to look away but felt locked in place, rooted beneath his gaze. Andry Trelland reminded her of a spring morning at dawn, when the light slanted golden and the grass glimmered with dew. Filled with promise and possibility, but fleeting. She wanted to hold him in this moment, and herself too.

“Please,” he murmured.

The moment broke.

“Fine,” Corayne answered, dropping her head. She couldn’t bear to see his relieved smile, not for her own cowardice.

Instead, she focused on her vambraces, pulling the Heir of Ibal’s gift from her saddlebags.Dirynsima,she knew.Dragonclaws.

The leather arm wraps gleamed, the gold detailing polished, the leather well oiled. As she buckled them into place, she felt the steel reinforcements within, hard against the length of her forearms. The scale design and embedded spikes made her stomach flip. She wondered if the Dragonclaws indeed lived up to their name, and if the dragon loose upon the Ward had the same hide.

“Gods willing you won’t need those,” Sorasa growled, walking past with her own bags slung over her shoulder. Her horse trailed behind, nosing for grass along the sparse ground.

Corayne clenched a fist and twisted her wrist, engaging the spikes along the edge. The vambrace went tight against her arm, the small but lethal row of steel triangles standing up.

“At least I know how to use them now.”

Sorasa snorted back. “Keep telling yourself that,” she said, throwing her saddlebags into place. “Ready, Elder?” she added, eyeing Dom already on his horse.