Page 55 of Oath

They cursed him under their breath, but they listened. They kept moving. That was all he needed.

At midday, when the drills ended and the men slumped by the fire, Clyde sat among them. He accepted a dented tin cup of broth from Merreck and pretended not to notice when it burned his tongue.

“Tell us again about Blackholt,” Marreck said, nudging him. “They say the ale there could drop a horse.”

“It could,” Clyde said, deadpan. “And it often did. Horses were cheaper than barrels.”

A ripple of laughter circled the fire. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Another knight leaned in, grinning. “And what about the women? They say they’re wild in the north.”

Clyde didn’t flinch. He set his cup down, looked at the man steadily. “Wild enough to bite,” he said. “You’ve teeth marks, Marreck—you’d do fine.”

The laughter came louder this time, shoulders easing as men clapped Marreck on the back until he swore. Even Renn, pale and thin beside the fire, managed a crooked smile.

Clyde allowed himself the faintest curve of his mouth before standing again, looming over them all. “Eat. Rest. Tomorrow, you’ll fight twice as hard, or you won’t fight at all.”

They grumbled, but the spark was back in their eyes. Enough to last another night.

Clyde turned away from the fire, pulling his cloak tighter. He couldn’t tell them the truth—that their supplies dwindled faster than they could replenish, that the demonic beasts they’d fought were no natural enemy, that they were already outmatched before spring thaw.

But he could give them order. He could give them steel. He could give them the illusion of strength, and maybe that would be enough.

And when the fire’s warmth no longer reached him, he found his tent again, sat down on the same half-rotted log at its entrance, and let the snow bury him in silence.

The laughter lingered faintly behind him.

The ache of absence lingered sharper still.

The courtyard of Valemont Keep rang with the clang of hooves and the bark of protesting voices. Stablehands scrambled to cinch straps and shove saddles into place, while vassals crowded the steps, their cloaks flapping in the winter wind like the wings of frantic crows.

“My lord, you cannot—” Branvel wheezed, clutching his fur collar as if it might choke him.

“You’ll freeze before you’ve crossed the border!” another cried.

“Then I’ll freeze well-dressed,” Aerion snapped, yanking the reins of his stallion with a ferocity that startled the beast into rearing. His sapphire cloak swirled about him like a flame, his hair loose, his eyes fever-bright. “If the Hound refuses to write, then I’ll hunt him myself.”

“You cannot abandon the duchy—”

“Watch me.”

He had one boot already in the stirrup when the cry came:

“My lord!”

It was Heston, his butler, hurrying across the icy stones with no regard for dignity, one hand clamped around a cylinder of leather. His face, usually composed into polite indifference, was flushed with urgency.

Aerion froze.

Heston reached him, panting, and held the cylinder aloft. “By hawk. Just now.”

The world tilted. Aerion snatched it from his grip with shaking fingers, tore the seal, and unfolded the parchment.

The words blurred at first. He blinked hard, forcing them into focus.

Snow like ash. Pale and cold. Melts in my hands.

Will you wait that long?