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Revna nodded her approval.

Oliver studied Erik a moment longer, then his jaw visibly loosened. He shook his head. “Náli says he’s tall, and strong. Not yet forty, to look at, with pale skin, and white hair, and near-colorless eyes. Beautiful, he said, but terrible.”

Birger dropped down into a chair with a wince and a crack from both knees. “They all look like that: the Sels, I mean. They’re inbred in about seven different ways. Brothers marrying sisters, uncles marrying nieces. They want to keep their bloodlinespure.” He rolled his eyes. “But no Selesee emperor’s ever crossed the sea.”

“They never had to,” Bjorn said. “They have massive armies and loyal generals. Not to mention,” he sneered, “what pasty coward would be brave enough to come and fight real warriors?” He lifted a massive arm and flexed in demonstration, which set his tattoos leaping impressively.

Leif worked to ignore his mother’s little appreciative smirk.

“Yes, well,” Oliver said, “this emperor seems to have a personal motive, which happens to be personal tome.” His throat jumped as he swallowed, and he couldn’t hide the fear in his gaze. “I don’t think we should take this elevated threat lightly.”

“Neither do I,” Erik said, stronger now, sliding back into his kingliness. “I’d hoped to wait until the thaw, but I think it’s time to accelerate our march.”

“That’s a risk,” Birger cautioned. “The Phalanx is depleted: with so many dead and injured, and the green lads still in need of training–”

Erik stayed him with a raised hand. “I know, I know. But I don’t see that we have a choice. If this emperor is as furious as Náli claims, and searching for Oliver besides, he won’t take the decimation of his brigade here lying down. We need to move before another force amasses on our doorstep. Strike first.”

“And leave Aeres unprotected?” Rune asked.

Erik sighed. “What would you have me do? Sit here and allow the enemy to come to us again? No. If it’s Oliver he wants, they won’t bother the skeleton crew left behind here.”

Rune frowned. “You mean to leave me here, don’t you?”

“I–”

“We can move up the timeline, yes,” Birger interrupted, and Erik looked relieved. “But it will still take weeks to gather the necessary supplies, work out the logistics–”

“And we must wait for Náli,” Oliver reminded.

Rune stood from his chair. “Uncle.” He’d adopted a determined expression that, despite his efforts, made him look even younger. Leif felt decades older than his brother, suddenly; in truth, Rune didn’t feel like his brother much at all these days, but like a friend from whom he’d been separated years ago, their bond faded and tenuous. He wanted to grieve that sense of loss, but found that he couldn’t. “You aren’t going to take me, are you?”

Erik sighed. “Rune, you’re newly wed–”

“But I’m not newly a prince! I should be with you, at your side as your second heir. How can a Northern prince sit at home with his wife while his kin march to war?”

“And what ifyouhave an heir, Rune?” Leif asked, and watched as, once more, all gazes snapped his direction, everyone startled that he’d spoken. Somewhere beneath wolfish disinterest, it rankled to be looked at as a foreign thing in his own home.

Rune’s eyes widened when he met Leif’s gaze, his surprise the greatest and most visible of all.

“What if Tessa is expected a child already?” Leif pressed.

“She…” Rune trailed off, frowning, because of course the poor dolt wouldn’t have the faintest idea until she started showing.

“What if you march to war, and die on a muddy field, and your babe is born here without ever having known you? Someone must hold the throne for Uncle while he’s gone, and it makes the most sense for that someone to be you.”

Rune’s frown deepened. “I’m the spare. My one purpose is to go to war.”

“Rune,” Revna admonished. “War is no one’spurposein this family. It’s merely a trial we all must face.”

He ignored her, gaze still clashing with Leif’s. “I would make a horrible king, Leif, and you know it. Let me march, and you stay here, guarding our bloodline.”

He allowed himself a moment to envision it. Erik’s carved wooden throne atop its dais; the newly-reconstructed great hall with its stag and wolf banners. The crackle of the fire and the swish of the broom and the low murmurs of the maids and kitchen boys and runners as they moved about, doing useful things, keeping the palace running. The petitioners coming to him, those sad, elderly, feeble folk too old or infirm to travel with the Phalanx to war. His days filled with ruined crops, and downed fences, and the price of wool exported to the South, which probably couldn’t evenbeexported in war times.

He envisioned all that, and ground his teeth, his wolf stirring restlessly beneath the idea. To stay here was to stagnate, and to stagnate was to die in all the ways that mattered.

He’d been silent too long. Rune took a step toward him across the rug, and then another, expression something like hopefully. “Leif,” he said, entreating, hand lifting as if to reach for him. “You know that–”

“No.”