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T he direct approach propelled Rufe to the dowager queen’s office. No one sat in the antechamber except a small man who reminded Rufe of Nera’s former apprentice healer, Bert. Hopefully, this man with a similar pretty face was more trustworthy.

“Good noon,” Rufe began, trying to channel his best charm—the charm his mother gave up on trying to curb.

Why spend extra energy on protocols when flattery worked faster?

“Would it be possible for me to see the queen mother?” In other circumstances, he’d make bets with himself on how fast he could get this man into his bed.

The man peered through thick lashes. “Do you have an appointment?”

“He doesn’t need one.” Nera stood in the doorway, a beautiful smile on her face, not the one she practiced for court, but a genuine smile that lit her eyes.

“Lord Rufe. I wondered if you’d come to see me of your own volition or if I’d have to track you down.

” She glared at her secretary. “Let me guess. You never sent the invitations. ”

The secretary’s cheeks flushed an alarming shade of purple. “It’s unseemly, Your Majesty, to—”

Nera threw up a hand. “We’ll discuss your dereliction of duty later.

For now, refreshments, please. Herixian wine, too.

” She motioned Rufe into her office. “Don’t mind him.

He’s relatively new as my secretary and is trying to fill a large pair of shoes with his predecessor. Please make yourself comfortable.”

“Wasn’t Bert your secretary?”

Nera laughed. “No, the boy didn’t have the temperament or discretion. He is… was my apprentice healer.”

Rufe sat in a chair richly upholstered in a blue floral pattern.

The entire room exuded Nera’s comfortable tastes, with tables far less elaborate than the one Rufe noticed in Renvalle Castle.

A small settee held too many pillows to sit on, and the wall tapestries and woven rug were all in good repair, a startling contrast to Renvalle Castle’s shabby condition.

Nera pushed aside pillows and sat next to Rufe on the settee. “I’m very sorry we haven’t had time for a private conversation. How are you finding Delletina?”

Rufe couldn’t stop the truth from tumbling from his mouth. “I feel out of place. I don’t belong here.”

Nera patted his knee. “I take that as a good sign. I felt exactly the same when I first arrived, and look at me now.”

“How long did it take for you to feel at home?”

Nera’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “Would you like the truth or a convincing lie? ”

Rufe relaxed at her humor. He could afford a few moments of comfortable companionship before dealing with the harsh reality of his brother’s death. “The truth.”

“Many seasons to call Delletina home, but mere days to find my home with my new husband. Home isn’t a place. For me, it was a person, and I would have done anything to be with my darling Reed.” Her smile fell. “I miss him so very much.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We shared wonderful times together and have a son and grandchildren, more than many couples accomplish. Plus, we were in love. We fought, yes, what couple doesn’t? But we would have done anything to make the other happy.” She lowered her voice. “How are you and my Niam?”

Rufe fought a sigh. “I don’t get to see him much. We’re still pretending I’m merely a dignitary.” Perhaps he was. “But I understand. He has a heavy weight on his shoulders, and I’d like to help him bear the load.”

“Oh, you dear boy. I’m so glad he found someone who cares so much for him. Who’s here for him . And who protects my grandsons.”

Dread once more filled Rufe’s stomach. “That’s why I asked to see you.”

Nera’s brows reached for her hairline. “Oh? Is there a problem?”

As she was fluent in Cormiran, Rufe merely handed her the missive.

Her eyes darted back and forth as she read. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry about your brother. Were you close?”

“Thank you, and not really. What should I do?”

“Why, go home, of course. Your family needs you. He was the firstborn son, right? You’re the heir now, aren’t you?”

Rufe shook his head. “I’m firstborn, but my parents weren’t married then. I can’t inherit.” Nera already knew he was a bastard, didn’t she?

“Still, your parents need your support. You should go to them.”

“What about Niam and the boys? The threat to their lives?”

Nera took Rufe’s hands in hers. “Rufe, we have the best guards and are taking precautions. I know you’ll worry about him because you love him.”

A hard swallow didn’t dislodge the lump in Rufe’s throat. “Am I so obvious?”

“Only to me, who’s been hoping for someone to love my son the way he deserves, not as a king, but as a man. You don’t love him for his title, but despite it.”

The floodgates opened and out tumbled Rufe’s misery. “I don't think he realizes the depth of my affection.”

“He knows.”

“Nothing can ever come of it. He’s king. I’m a foreign bastard.” Rufe squeezed Nera’s fingers, his confession undoing all his denials about not caring.

“He loves you, too. And never try to guess what the gods have in store. They have their own reasons for what they do.”

Rufe didn’t ask which gods. He’d not believed in any of them except for the God of War and a goddess so ancient no one recalled her name. “So, I should go?”

“Yes, you should. Hurry back as quickly as you can. You will be missed. Forgive me if I take liberties.” Nera leaned forward, throwing her arms around Rufe. “Your and Niam’s stories are still being written.” She kissed his cheek. “Now, what do you need to make this journey? Soldiers?”

“You’ve lost too many lately.”

“We can spare a few to keep my honorary son safe.”

Instead of reassuring him he’d be fine to go home, Nera made Rufe want to stay all the more.

Rufe spent much of his life in one battle after another, escaped from hostile soldiers, kept his head high when others threw taunts his way.

His body bore the scars of a life hard-lived.

He’d nearly died on at least three separate occasions and had his life threatened by an emperor, a few cutthroats, the odd jealous spouse, and even a horrifying fever.

All of those instances paled compared to the heart-ripping sensation of mounting his borrowed horse in the courtyard and bidding Niam farewell as though they meant nothing to each other, merely king and foreign emissary.

However, with guards, advisors, and a secretary present, they kept their interactions slightly below formal.

Niam said a more intimate goodbye with those softly upturned lips when he’d kissed Rufe so soundly a few nights ago.

Rufe poured his heart out with, “Until we meet again, King Niam.” There was so much more he should do or say, but this might be for the best. Without the distraction, Niam could focus on the kingdom, find a way to heal rifts, and perhaps even find himself a worthy consort.

The last part tore at Rufe’s heart. Political marriages were rarely loving, though Draylon and Yarif defied the notion. Apparently, Nera and her Reed had, too.

The expressions on the attending advisors’ faces ranged from sorrow to smug satisfaction, making Rufe long to stay.

“Stay safe, Lord Rufe,” Niam said, voice low. His eyes shimmered. Not good. There might be a mutinous asshole around who should never know of their secret relationship.

Rufe smiled, nodded, and maneuvered the white stallion as he rode through the castle gates, his honor guard falling in behind him.

A dozen soldiers, Glendorans that had accompanied him from Renvalle, and Delletinians, hand-picked for their loyalty.

They rode in formation until out of sight of the castle. Four more soldiers joined them there.

“All clear, Ambassador,” a lieutenant said. Her blue eyes appeared overly large in her pale face.

All clear, no one watching.

Rufe dismounted, handing over the stallion's reins to another soldier and claiming Princess instead—a sure-footed mule of fine pedigree that enemies wouldn’t expect him to ride after his very public departure on the stallion. Delletinians all knew lowlander Cormirans preferred horses .

Princess had changed Rufe’s mind. She carried ample stores in her many packs.

Rufe braced himself for the cold and stripped beside her, ignoring the soft whistles from the men and women accompanying him, dressing in the clothing of a Delletinian farmer.

Lots of clothing. Lots of layers. He didn’t mind the clothes but missed the fur hat and fur-lined cloak, donning treated wool instead.

Whatever they used to protect the wearer from winter’s chill left the garments smelling strongly of wet sheep.

“Are you sure about this?” the lieutenant asked.

“Very sure. Travel five days south, then return home.” Ten days would allow plenty of time for a lone rider to reach the Renvallian border.

“Yes, Ambassador.” The lieutenant saluted with an arm over her chest.

Rufe checked the saddle before swinging onto Princess’s back.

“May the gods watch over you and keep you until we meet again.” He ventured into the woods, leaving the soldiers behind.

Enemies would watch the road. Rufe would travel through the woods, arriving at the deserted village where he’d once taken shelter with Draylon after rescuing Yarif.

A map Niam provided showed many abandoned villages where Rufe could find shelter on his journey, though his heart ached. The map might be all he got to keep of the king he was coming to love more with each passing day.

It seemed like old times as Rufe spread his bedroll on the floor of what might have once been a trapper’s cabin.

Princess chuffed nearby, munching dried grass.

With no other place to keep her, they’d share quarters tonight.

An owl hooted in a tree, answered several seconds later by another.

Rufe missed the snores of fellow soldiers or Draylon's gentle ribbing.

As much as he’d loved being a part of something larger than himself, he’d also enjoyed being alone until he met Niam. What was Niam doing now? Sitting on the raised dais, having dinner in the viper pit of the aristocracy? Did he miss Rufe?

Most of all, in the frost-touched hut, Rufe missed warmth.

The sun, a warm bed, Niam’s body heat. Niam’s love warming his heart.

Though whoever provided Rufe’s clothing ensured he wouldn’t freeze to death.

He curled into his bedroll near the hearth, where he’d coaxed a fire into existence.

The chill caused old and not so old injuries to throb.

A twig snapped somewhere outside. To the left, maybe.

As stealthily as possible, Rufe slipped from the bedroll, lifted the dagger he’d left lying nearby, and crept through the askew door and into the darkness by a tree.

He remained still, listening to the night.

Another twig snapped, this time to the right of his camp.

So, possibly two enemies. A rustle of leaves from another direction brought the total to three.

They weren’t too stealthy in their approach, likely believing three-to-one good odds.

They’d soon find out commanders of Cormiran forces weren’t easy prey.

Shuffling sounded near his tree. Rufe braced, muscles bunching. One more step… two more… He reached out, slapped a hand over the intruder’s mouth, yanked them against his chest, and put his blade to their throat.

Wide, glittering eyes stared up at him, and the man gave a muffled grunt. Rufe tightened his grip, pressing the blade more firmly into the man’s neck. Whoever paid them to waylay him didn’t pay them nearly enough to die—no matter the wages.

He caught the glint of a knife in the moonlight as his captive tried to slash his leg. Rufe drew his dagger across the brigand’s throat. The body dropped to the ground with a heavy thump. If the man didn’t want to admit defeat, Rufe would choose for him.

Moonlight filtering through the tree leaves highlighted a shadow a few feet away.

Princess screamed, hooves clattering on the cabin’s wooden floor.

Princess! Someone was trying to steal her.

Rufe gave up stealth, dashing across the clearing and into the cabin, pausing long enough to trade dagger for sword.

Princess shrieked again, followed by the scream of a human throat. The human scream cut off abruptly.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Rufe whirled, lifting his blade. Steel rang against steel. He listened, anticipating the next blow and blocking. Fighting in the dark made no sense. He went low, slashing at the attacker’s leg.

A man howled, dropping to the ground. The sword fell.

Rufe reentered the cabin and approached Princess. A woman lay at her feet, hair matted with blood, eyes staring at nothing. “Princess, you’re getting an extra grain ration when we arrive—” He started to say “home,” but he had no home.

Lying in Niam’s arms was the closest he’d been to a home in ages, a sanctuary he’d never have again. He dropped and searched the woman’s clothing, finding a small dagger but nothing else of value.

He lit a branch to use as a torch and returned to the man sprawled outside, blood forming a pool beneath him. There was something familiar about him, only he appeared dirtier and thinner than before. Someone unused to Delletinian winters and yet he’d somehow survived. Bleeding, but not dead yet.

The memory came clear. One of Illa Trandores’ men, who’d likely deserted after confronting a pissed-off Draylon last season. “You kidnapped Yarif DiRici.”

“Not me,” the man moaned, clutching his injured leg. The amount of blood squeezing through his fingers said he wouldn’t have long to endure the pain.

“Who are you working for? Why did you attack me?”

“Not you. Just…” The man gasped. “Wanted. Mule. Supplies.”

Rufe stepped back, lowering his sword. If this man tried to escape, he wouldn’t get far. The light slowly faded from his eyes, leaving Rufe alone once more.

Torchlight let Rufe locate the first man who lay where he’d fallen. No valuables hid in the men’s pockets nor the woman’s. Poor bastards seemed to be common thieves, after all. They survived bleak Delletinian weather only to attempt stealing from the wrong man.

Listening didn’t alert him to the presence of others.

A few of Illa’s mercenaries had escaped from well-trained soldiers and a mountain bent on taking lives.

There still might be more about. Rufe packed his belongings, saddled Princess, extinguished the fire, and resumed his journey, leading the mule.

Best to put distance between himself and the bodies in case of other survivors.

Or wolves.