Aren stiffened, then glared at the other man, but Jor only shrugged. “You don’t honestly believe we aren’t all keeping a close watch on you, do you, boy? We only just got you back, and we aren’t keen to lose you again. Especially not to her.”
“It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
“Right.”
“I just needed to get her out of my system.”
Jor handed him back the bottle. “You could bed that woman every night for the rest of your life and never get her out of your system, Aren. That’s the trouble with love.”
Aren clenched his teeth, wishing he could will away the ache in his chest.
“Ithicana is never going to accept a queen they can’t trust. Especially not one who has already caused so much hurt and loss. And if you stay with her, it won’t be long until they don’t trust you either.”
Part of Aren wondered how his people could trust him now. Wondered why they still followed him after all the endless mistakes that he’d made. Continued to make. “I made my choice.”
“Then you need to send her away now. Keep her around and that”—he gestured in the direction of Nana’s house—“that will keep happening. It needs to be over. A clean break.”
The thought of leaving Lara now, when she was at her weakest, made him want to vomit.
But Jor was right.
Taking one more mouthful, Aren stood. “Gather everyone and get the boats ready. We move on Midwatch tonight.”
52
Lara
Lara rose slowly from the depths of sleep, her eyelashes sticking as she peeled open her eyes and blinked in the faint light filtering through the window. The throbbing ache of her leg was rivaled by that of her skull, and her mouth felt as dry as sand.
Pushing up onto her elbow, Lara eased her legs over the side and stood, wincing at the pain that lanced through her body as she limped over to the table where a pitcher of water sat next to a glass. Someone obviously brought it in the night. Was it Aren? She immediately rejected the thought. He’d meant what he’d said: Last night wasn’t an error he’d repeat.
Her eyes stung, but she rubbed at them furiously, refusing to cry anymore. It was done. They were done. All that mattered now was liberating Ithicana and having her revenge on her father.
But the only way that was going to happen was if she could prove that she could keep up. That she could still fight.
Going to Nana’s shelves, she searched the contents for pain suppressants as well as stimulants to compensate for exhaustion. Shoving them in a bag along with clean bandages for her injury, she started down the path to the village.
Her skin prickled with unease at the silence, the only sound the roar of the ocean in the distance and the faint breeze rustling the tree branches. The air smelled of damp earth and vegetation, but she caught no trace of woodsmoke or cooking food. Peering upward, she tried to pinpoint where the sun was through the clouds and the trees, but it was next to impossible to determine the hour. Given Aren had planned to leave in the morning to take Midwatch, it must still be early.
Then the clouds shifted, revealing a sliver of sunshine to the west.
Ignoring her pain, Lara broke into a run.
She reached the village in minutes, her stomach plummeting as she searched for signs of someone. For anyone. But the Ithicanians were gone.
Aren had left her.
A scream tore from her throat, and Lara dropped to the ground, hammering her fists into the dirt in a fruitless attempt to ease her anger. Her frustration. Her hurt.
What was the point? Why was she even trying? She wasn’t wanted here—not by the Ithicanians and not by Aren. So why should she stay?
Because you promised. Because you said you wouldn’t stop fighting until Ithicana was free.
Then the faint sound of a horn filled her ears, distant. It repeated, closer this time, then again farther off, the signal moving north. Passing the word.
Word that the Valcottans had been victorious at Southwatch.
It was over. Just like that, it was over.
Ithicana was free.
Pressing her face into the dirt, Lara wept.
53
Aren
Hauling the dying Maridrinian soldier’s head back by his hair, Aren pulled his knife across the man’s throat, then dropped him back into the mud, surveying the battleground around him.
The Maridrinians had been ready for them—not that it had done them any good. Aren and his forces had climbed the cliffs and taken the garrison from behind in a fevered hand-to-hand battle that he knew had cost him. Now, healers scrambled to aid the fallen.
How many had died in the fight to retake the bridge? Hundreds. Possibly more. Compounded on those lost when it had fallen, and in the year since. Catastrophic numbers.
It was enough to make him sick.
Then the sound of horns filled his ears. The message rippled past Midwatch, moving north, and he exhaled a ragged breath even as his soldiers began to cheer.
Valcotta had taken Southwatch. Zarrah had delivered on her word.
And if the battle proceeded as planned, it wouldn’t be long until Northwatch conceded to Harendell, and Ithicana would be free.
Except the last thing Aren felt was victorious.
Wiping his knife on the dead man’s uniform, Aren started up the path toward his home, stepping over corpses as he went, the sun already low in the west.
It didn’t take him long to reach the clearing containing the Midwatch house—the home his father had built for his mother. The home he’d given to Lara back when he’d had ambitions and dreams for a better life for his people.
A fool’s dreams.
The front door hung from broken hinges, and even before Aren stepped inside, he knew the Maridrinians had used the home hard, the smell coming from within nearly stopping him in his tracks. Of soldier and filth. Spilled wine and rotting food.
Of death.
But he forced himself to go inside, blade in hand in case one of the Maridrinians had escaped the slaughter. The floor was covered with dirt, the paneled walls cracked, artwork either missing or destroyed. The table in the entranceway was overturned, a dead Maridrinian on the ground next to it, his opened guts already buzzing with flies. Aren glanced into the dining room, eyes moving over the stacks of filthy dishes and shattered glass, the floor covered with broken wine bottles from what was likely now a looted wine cellar.
He kept on down the hallway, glancing into rooms as he passed until he reached the door to his own, which was ajar, a naked dead man in his bed. A whimper caught Aren’s attention, and he turned to find a Maridrinian woman hiding in the corner. “Get out,” he said, and she scuttled past him and into the hallway. Someone else could figure out what to do with her.
Aren surveyed the room, the dead soldier’s belongings interspersed with his own, waiting for a reaction in himself. For some form of emotion. Sadness. Anger. Anything.
But all he felt was numb, so he walked out into the courtyard, striding to the center where he’d once stood in the eye of a storm and made the most catastrophic decision of his life.
More horns sounded, this time word coming from Northwatch that the Harendellians had the island under their control.
Aren stared at the waterfall. At the discarded wine bottle bobbing in the pool, steam rising around it.