The transition from the Southern lowlands to the foothills of the Iron-Spire Mountains was not a gradual shift; it was a violent transformation. The air, once thick with the scent of jasmine and rotting swamp water, turned thin and sharp, smelling of pine resin and old stone.
Kaelen sat in the corner of the carriage, his body aching in ways he hadn't known possible. The fever from his untreated wounds had peaked somewhere near the border of Oakhaven and then broken, leaving him hollowed out and shivering. He watched the frost creep across the glass of the carriage window—a crystalline lattice that seemed to be trying to lock him inside.
Across from him, Valerius was a statue of indifference. He had replaced his silver mask with a high-collared leather tunic and a fur-lined mantle that made him look twice as broad. He was reading a series of dispatches by the light of a dim oil lamp, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested the news from the North was worsening.
"Eat," Valerius said, not looking up from his papers. He kicked a small wooden crate toward Kaelen's feet with the toe of a polished boot.
Kaelen looked down. Inside were dried venison, a wedge of hard cheese, and a flask of watered wine. His stomach cramped painfully at the sight, but his pride remained an iron bar in his chest. "I am not a dog to be fed on the floor."
Valerius finally looked up. The lamplight caught the jagged scar on his face, making it look like a pale lightning bolt. "No, you're a five-thousand-crown investment. And if you starve to death before we reach the first pass, I'll have to go back to that muddy square and find a replacement. Do you think Gills has another disgraced General in stock?"
Kaelen's jaw tightened. He reached down, his manacles clinking—a sound that had become the rhythmic soundtrack to his new life—and took a piece of the meat. It tasted like ash, but he forced himself to chew. He needed strength. Not for Valerius's war, but for his own survival.
"We'll reach the Grey-Watch Post by midnight," Valerius said, leaning back. "The guards there are loyal to my brother, Prince Callum. They'll be looking for a carriage bearing the crest of a Southern merchant. We are currently flying the flag of the House of Vane—a textile trader."
"You think a flag will hide the fact that you're carrying a prisoner?" Kaelen rasped.
"You aren't a prisoner, Kaelen. For the next three hours, you are my mute, sickly servant. Wrap that cloak around your head. Hide your face. If you speak, I'll have to cut your tongue out to keep my head on my shoulders. Do we understand each other?"
Kaelen felt the sting of the insult, but he nodded. He knew the Grey-Watch. He had burnt it to the ground ten years ago during the Summer Campaign. If the Northmen recognized him, Valerius wouldn't have to kill him; the guards would skin him alive and hang him from the battlements.
The First Fracture
The carriage ground to a halt as the sun dipped below the jagged horizon. Outside, the wind howled—a lonely, predatory sound.
"Halt! State your business!" a muffled voice shouted from the darkness.
Kaelen felt the carriage tilt as Valerius moved toward the door. The Prince's aura changed instantly; the cold, calculating strategist vanished, replaced by the arrogant, bored persona of a wealthy merchant. He opened the door just a crack, letting in a gust of snow that bit at Kaelen's exposed skin.
"Merchant Vane," Valerius drawled, his voice pitched higher, laced with a pampered Southern lisp that made Kaelen's skin crawl. "Delivering fine silks and spices for the Governor's feast. Is there a problem, Sergeant?"
"The roads are closed to Southerners. Orders from the Crown Prince," the guard grunted. Kaelen heard the clank of armor—heavy Northern plate. "And who's that in the back?"
Kaelen pulled the cloak tighter, ducking his head into the shadows. He felt a sudden, sharp pressure on his thigh. Valerius's hand was gripping him, a silent warning to stay absolutely still.
"Just a servant," Valerius sighed. "Picked up a lung-fever in the lowlands. I'm hoping the mountain air kills him or cures him; either way, he's stopped being useful for lifting crates."
The guard stepped up to the carriage, his torchlight spilling into the interior. The flame danced off the brass buttons of Kaelen's borrowed cloak. Kaelen held his breath, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword that wasn't there. His fingers brushed against the cold iron of his shackles instead.
The guard lingered, his eyes squinting through the gloom. "He looks big for a house servant. Broad across the shoulders."
"A waste of good muscle," Valerius remarked casually. "He was a blacksmith's apprentice before the sickness took his breath. Now he's just an expense."
For a heartbeat, Kaelen considered throwing himself at the guard. He could end it all right here. A quick death at the end of a Northern spear was better than this slow degradation. But then he remembered Elara—her small hand tucked into his when he had left for the front, her promise to wait for him.
He stayed still.
"Pass through," the guard finally spat, slamming the carriage door shut. "And tell your master that if that servant dies, don't leave the body on the road. The wolves are fat enough as it is."
The Midnight Vigil
As the carriage began to climb again, the silence inside became deafening. Valerius didn't let go of Kaelen's leg immediately. His grip was white-knuckled, his breath coming in shallow hitches. The "bored merchant" had evaporated, leaving behind a man who was clearly terrified of his own shadow.
"You're shaking," Kaelen whispered.
Valerius jerked his hand away as if burned. He turned his face to the window, the moonlight illuminating the tension in his neck. "The cold is getting in. That's all."
"You're a bad liar, Prince. You're terrified of your brother."
Valerius turned, his eyes flashing with a sudden, feral anger. "My brother didn't just exile me, Kaelen. He watched as they branded my face with a red-hot iron and told the kingdom I was a leper so no one would touch me. He took my name, my birthright, and the woman I was supposed to marry. Don't talk to me about fear."
Kaelen looked at the scar—the mark he had thought was from his own blade. Up close, he could see the truth. The edges were too clean for a battlefield wound. It was a deliberate, ritualistic mutilation.
"I didn't know," Kaelen said softly.
"Why would you? To you, we were just 'the monsters from the North.' You didn't care about our politics, only our borders." Valerius reached out and grabbed the chain connecting Kaelen's wrists, jerking him forward until they were inches apart. "That's why you're here. You don't care about the throne. You don't care about my people. You only care about the tactics. And that makes you the only man I can trust not to betray me for a better offer."
"Trust is a strong word for a man holding a leash," Kaelen countered.
Valerius leaned in closer, his scent—snow and old parchment—filling Kaelen's senses. "In the North, we have a saying: 'The wolf and the hound both have teeth, but only one knows why he bites.' I know why I'm biting, Kaelen. Do you?"
Before Kaelen could answer, the carriage lurched violently. A scream cut through the night—the high-pitched shriek of a horse in pain. Then came the thud of an arrow hitting the carriage wood.
"Bandits?" Kaelen asked, his instincts snapping into place.
Valerius pulled a dagger from his boot, his expression hardening into granite. "Worse. My brother's 'Huntsmen.' It seems we weren't as convincing as I thought."
Valerius reached over and, with a quick click of a key he'd hidden in his palm, unlocked Kaelen's manacles.
"If you run, I'll find your family," Valerius warned, handing Kaelen a short-sword from the hidden compartment beneath the seat. "But if you fight... maybe we both live to see the sunrise."
Kaelen felt the weight of the steel in his hand. It was balanced, sharp, and familiar. For the first time in weeks, the "Lion" felt the phantom itch of his mane.
"Stay behind me, Prince," Kaelen said, his voice dropping into the low, authoritative tone of a commander. "And try not to get in my way."