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To think that the news he had waited for since opening his eyes was so meager.
Remembering the trouble she had stirred up in the past, he could understand the retainers’ chilliness, yet a foul temper rose in him all the same.
He threw the letter into the soldiers' campfire and turned back to Daren, his gaze hardening.
“Ready an escort.”
“Does that mean…?”
“The moment the withdrawal is settled, I ride for Kalmor.”
“Understood. I will finish the handover at once and assemble the riders.”
Daren bowed slightly and strode off toward the Wolfram Cavalry's encampment.
Varkas watched the paper curl and blacken in the embers before turning back toward the command tent.
Once the Northern Alliance—nearly eight thousand heavily armored men—had finished pitching camp, Varkas posted a contingent of imperial elites in the rear and marched the rest toward the southern reaches of the Yotengar Mountains to seal every passage out of the rebels’ stronghold.
He choked off every road where supplies might pass, then raised a new allied camp along the border between the East and the North.
The position was ideal: close enough to reinforce the Northern Alliance should the tide turn against them, yet placed to cut off any retreat.
Bjorn Blodar Heimdal was cornered like a rat in a trap.
Varkas slipped a hand beneath his coat and pressed against the scar on his flank.
It was the first defeat he had suffered since his knighting.
Not that he had no wish to repay the disgrace with his own sword, but the man’s end was already written.
A fool driven by reckless ambition, who had plunged the entire North into slaughter. There was no point in carrying a grudge against the thrashing of a man ruined by his own stupidity.
Varkas cast a cynical eye over the sharp, elegant ridges of the Yotengars before turning his mount.
Across the great camp nestled along the mountain slopes, the standards of houses loyal to the Emperor snapped in the wind. He took in the sea of colors, then spurred his horse toward the perimeter.
At the gate, the officers he had chosen to command in his absence stood in a straight line. Daren, who had been speaking with the knights in the center, caught sight of him and cut through the ranks.
“The handover is done. You can ride at your leisure.”
“I’ll return as soon as Raina’s betrothal is settled.”
“There’s no need to rush. You haven’t fully recovered, have you?”
Daren stepped close to the horse's flank and lowered his voice, keeping the words between them.
Varkas’s brow furrowed. He had not realized Daren had noticed.
“Leave this place to us. Stay in the East a while and rest,” Daren added firmly.
He spoke without hesitation.
Varkas held his gaze for a second, then let out a quiet breath and pulled the reins around.
“If anything breaks, send word by the fast couriers.”
With that, he cleared the checkpoint and took the gentle slopes leading down toward the East.
Behind him, thirty knights in blackened steel armor fell into a double column.
The sun was already slipping beneath the horizon when they reached the eastern march.
After spending the following morning looking over the border settlements around Tarlin, Varkas led his men southeast.
When they crossed into Kalmor at last, the vast plains of spring lay open before them.
For an instant, a strange sensation seized him, as though he had stepped out of time itself.
Balto was a frozen country where winter held sway for half the year. In that place, time often felt dead and still.
He squinted up at the clear sky and the warm sunlight, feeling entirely out of place, before urging his horse faster.
Before long, hamlets scattered across the hills gave way to the sprawling fortress city. As he passed the outer rings and entered the great keep behind its double curtain wall, hundreds of retainers hurried out to meet him.
“Welcome back, Your Grace!”
Varkas dismounted in a single motion, letting his gaze sweep over the soldiers in the bailey and the household staff from the outer grounds. Despite the wild rumors that had circulated after his wounding, the retainers’ faces held only anxious relief.
“You have endured a long, grueling march, Your Grace. Seeing you on your feet puts all our fears to rest.”
Modrian came forward, speaking in a firm, carry-all voice intended to settle the household's nerves once and for all.
Varkas answered with a brief nod.
“It seems I caused unnecessary concern. As you see, I am whole, so let that be the end of it.”
“A blessing indeed. The heavens must favor Your Grace above all others.”
The old knight's praise was grand, almost theatrical.
A heavy weariness settled onto Varkas's shoulders. He tossed Toruk’s reins to a stablehand.
“I require rest. Dismissed—return to your posts.”
At his word, the assembled crowd broke apart.
He crossed the yard and passed beneath the inner archway. Moving through the garden where the first buds were showing, he drew near the Great Hall, where the inner castle staff stood waiting by the entrance.
Varkas had intended to walk past them without a word, but his stride broke. Among the servants gathered to welcome their master stood someone who had no business being there.
The air in the corridor seemed to freeze.
He stopped dead, staring down at the woman at the head of the maids.
Her dark gold hair was plaited tight and pinned up under a loose white veil, and she wore a plain, unadorned gown of grayish brown.
As he looked over the unfamiliar, almost monastic dress, she lifted her bowed head.
Like a stone saint set in some temple cloister, the sunlight striking through the tall windows broke over the lines of her face.
The sight was so unreal it made his throat tighten.
Though her clothes were severe to the point of penance, she was breathtaking. More than that, she looked healthier than when he had left her.
Staring at a face so serene it felt entirely foreign, Varkas finally spoke.
“It has been a long time.”
Her blue eyes flickered faintly. But whatever moved behind them vanished before he could read it.
Lowering her lashes, she replied in a quiet, measured voice.
“…It has been a long time.”
Her clasped fingers twisted lightly into the folds of her skirt. Yet her next words came without a ripple.
“I heard you took a wound. It is good… that you have returned in safety.”
His brow twisted.
Before he marched, she had spat nothing but hatred and curses at him. Seeing her stand there now, greeting him with the cool detachment of a stranger, turned his stomach.
He closed the distance between them, bearing down on the woman who acted as if they were nothing to one another.
Her shoulders grew rigid under his shadow. But when she raised her eyes to his, they were empty of any fear.
A sudden, savage impulse to shatter that calm rose in his chest.
“You must be disappointed that I survived.”
He leaned down and murmured the words against her, close enough to see her lips part with a small tremor.
He waited for the venom to spill from between them. But she offered nothing. She only looked up at him in silence, her eyes shrouded and unreadable, and that stillness struck him in the chest like a dull, persistent blow.
END