Page 6 of A Dagger in the Ivy

We reach our horses and find a pair of young men who’ve been kind enough to water them. Giorgi tosses them each a coin and gives them a nod of gratitude.

At least there are some kind souls in Aragheni.

“Celeste.”

The voice of my uncle, our army’s general, echoes in my head, stopping me in my tracks. His telepathy magic is one of the reasons he leads the most powerful defense force in all of Terre Ferique.

My soldiers stop along with me, knowing I must be receiving amessage. If it were instructions for the squad, they’d all be able to hear. The fact that they don’t means it’s personal, and my squad knowingly allows me the silence I need to concentrate on his message.

“Return to The Garrison. It’s urgent.”

Shit.A pang strikes my heart. My first thought is of my ailing brother, who lies on his deathbed, barely hanging on. I clench my fists, not wanting to believe that the time has come. But unfortunately, I don’t share my uncle’s telepathy powers, so my questions will have to wait.

CHapter

Three

The air in the war room at the Garrison is thick with tension. The smell of metal hits my nose, and I find it’s a stark contrast to the scent of the rotting corpses in Aragheni that still lingers in my nostrils. The war room, a place where strategy and decisions shape the course of our kingdom, feels even more suffocating than the battlefield. My uncle, General Kormak Moorgrin—my deceased mother’s only brother—stands at the head of the table, his face kind but weathered with lines from years of battle. His gaze, as sharp as the blade hanging at his side, meets mine as I approach. The softness of his dark, chestnut eyes reminds me of my mother.

“Tell me he still lives.” It took every ounce of resolve to come directly to my uncle’s side and not continue on to the castle to see my brother.

Uncle Kormak stands. In a few strides, he is in front of me and takes my hands. His somber expression escalates my fears before he even utters a word. “He’s barely hanging on. You should go to him right away.”

I don’t want to believe his words. I want to tell him he’s wrong. That there’s some kind of mistake. That Bennett Westergaard is a strong andpowerful man who can overcome any disease that threatens to stop him. But I don’t say anything because every syllable gets stuck in my throat when I try.

“Come, Celeste.” His voice is gentler now. “We’ll go together.”

He puts a hand to my back. With a silent nod, I follow him through the dimly lit corridors of the Garrison, my footfalls echoing like a dirge in the empty halls. Shadows dance along the walls, casting a pall of gloom over everything in their wake. The air feels choked with sorrow, and I place a hand on my throat as if to break free from its oppressive weight.

We make our way to his carriage, which sits at the ready outside the Garrison. The ride to the castle only takes three minutes, but it feels like an eternity stretched out between breaths. In an effort to press down on my emotions, I concentrate instead on my uncle’s uniform, a distraction technique that helps me deal with my anxiety.

Like me and my squad, my uncle wears his leathers. Predominantly black, the uniform exudes an air of authority and sophistication, crafted from sleek yet sturdy materials.

I know we are closer to the castle, but my eyes stay fixed upon the embellishments of Delasurvian bronze and gold that adorn the uniform, adding touches of regal splendor to the ensemble. The jacket is fastened with a series of gold buttons down the front, and it tapers at the waist to give a fitted appearance. It is adorned with a prominent gold emblem of a phoenix on the left breast, symbolizing strength and rebirth. The shoulders of the jacket are accentuated with gold epaulets, adding a touch of regality and formality.

Underneath the jacket sits a high-collared white shirt, which adds a contrast to the black, bronze, and gold. Though my trousers and those of my squad are black, my uncle’s are a light tan, providing a complementary contrast to the dark jacket. The trousers are tailored and fitted, tucked into black, knee-high boots. The uniform as a whole forms a striking silhouette against the dim surroundings of the carriage interior.

A shadow engulfs the carriage, and I look up. The castle looms ahead, a formidable structure of stone and iron, its high walls andtowering spires casting long shadows in the afternoon light. The banners of Delasurvia flutter in the breeze as the carriage comes to a halt.

I don’t consider the castle my home. Not really. Even as a child, I was reluctant to embrace the ways of being a princess. More often than not, I would be found playing with swords rather than learning the proper way to sip tea. I chose trousers over skirts and skipped my lessons, preferring to be out exploring the world instead. Delasurvia was never one of the more privileged countries, and even our courtly ways were simple ones. Still, as soon as I was old enough, I chose to live at the Garrison and be surrounded by soldiers instead of traipsing about our humble castle learning a courtly life.

I find it difficult to move with the heavy weight in my chest, but my uncle takes my hand and helps me until my feet touch the ground. As we pass through the grand archway, the intricate carvings of ivy and mythical creatures seem to come alive.

The courtyard is bustling with activity, soldiers and servants moving with purpose, their faces etched with concern. I feel the weight of their stares, knowing they are aware of my brother’s condition and are curious about the fate of their king. Our footfalls seem loud upon the marble floors, and the high ceilings echo with the hushed whispers of court intrigue, the flickering torchlight casting long, dancing shadows on the stone walls.

My uncle walks beside me, his presence a steadying force as we navigate the labyrinthine corridors. The scent of polished wood and aged parchment fills the air, mingling with the faint aroma of the castle’s kitchens preparing the evening meal. Each step brings me closer to my brother’s chamber, and my heart tightens with a mix of dread and hope. I cling to the belief that he might still recover, that there is still a chance to save him.

As we reach Bennett’s chambers, a sense of foreboding washes over me, the darkness within mirroring the turmoil in my heart. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever lies beyond the heavy, oak door in front of us.

“Go to him. I’ll wait out here.” My uncle squeezes my shouldergently, offering silent support.

I strain to make my voice work. “What about you?”

“I’ve said my goodbyes.” His words stop fast, and I get the feeling that he can’t bring himself to face Bennett again.

I nod, pushing the door open and stepping inside, my eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room. The flickering light from the candles does little to dispel the shadows.

I step farther into Bennett’s chamber, and my heart clenches at the sight before me. My brother, at one time a towering figure of strength and vitality, now lies on his deathbed, a shadow of his former self. His once-muscular frame appears gaunt and wasted, a stark contrast to the robust man he formerly was. Dark, umber hair that used to be thick and lustrous now hangs limply against his temples. His half-closed eyes, once the same chestnut brown as mine and our mother’s, no longer seem filled with warmth and life. Instead, they appear dulled and distant, reflecting the pain and weariness that consume him. Despite his weakened state, there is still a hint of the proud king in his bearing.

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