Thunder rumbled in the distance, matching Leoric's rage. Dark clouds painted the night sky, obfuscating the stars directing them south. Damp clung to the air, stamped out of the mud and tinged with the metal tang of blood.
Fated words whispered in his ear, a dark cloud is forming on your border. Branelynn was always right, in one poetic way or another. But what twisted in him was the other words she'd uttered, all while staring at Rhosyn, sacrifice—there will be blood spilt.
He kicked at a metal object, the helmet scattering across the field and a few of his men glanced at him, sheepishly.
They'd known they'd lost the battle, grateful he'd returned, and knew they needed to retreat. Valric's men were only a few hours away. But that meant leaving Rhosyn and Leoric didn't know if he could.
Rhosyn had sacrificed herself to her enemy again—and it ripped him up inside.
"Your Grace." Sir Dain Crowe stood a few feet away.
The man was reliable, someone Leoric had battled with in their adolescence in the northern raids. His face was grave and Leoric knew it was because of his own temperance. Surrounding soldiers almost leaned in, glad someone else confronted their commander and duke.
"We need to move, recover and reassess how to attack," Dain declared.
He was right. Militarily, they should regroup and counter-attack.
Leoric cut himself off before emotion could slip into the judgement.
"Very well," he asserted. "We meet Valric—send a messenger ahead, reporting what happened here."
He started for his horse, a young lad held his sword ready, retrieved from the battlefield. The soldiers in earshot relaxed, relieved they weren't charging into a larger force that had already taken out a fair number of their men.
It didn't stop people from tip-toeing around him. They knew what he was leaving behind. Men had seen the two horses riding across the field. Couldn't send anyone fast enough to dissuade the riders—not that Rhosyn would've complied.
She'd promised him she'd stay.
Leoric sheathed his sword and took his horse's reins.
"Your Grace!" a voice called from behind.
He turned to find Sir Caerwyn storming toward him. A few soldiers hesitated, not knowing if they should intercept the furious knight or if they'd only regret it.
The man's jaw strained, streams of dirt washed by tears, already long dried.
Leoric waited for him to near. Sure that he'd hit him, and somehow he wanted it.
The hand that came up clutched his shoulder instead. "What are my orders?"
He looked just as lost as Leoric. Torn in two directions. Between heart and head.
Leoric released a lungful of air and still didn't feel the relief. The prince wouldn't let Rhosyn out of his sight and he tried stopping his mind from exploring any further. Lest he abandon all logical sense and return to her. Even if it meant death.
According to speculative reports, the Crown Prince had sailed to the northern cliffs. A dangerous achievement. He must've camped there for at least a week, maybe two. He seemed to have been preparing to lay siege to Dagmar Castle and changed strategy when he saw military movement.
If Leoric was him, he'd return to his ship and travel safely south, rather than risk encountering a larger force heading for Ravenstair's mountain pass.
Plus, he was sure that King Alestan didn't know the prince was here. He wouldn't likely give Rhosyn over to be tried as a traitor—it was certain death.
"Sir Caerwyn," Leoric commanded, low and serious. "Take the Queen's declaration to Duke Caldren—tell him to make it known."
If the prince and the king wanted to play, Leoric would bury them in every way he knew. Weaken their hold, word and legitimacy. Then he'd hunt them down and finish them.
"Yes, Your Grace." Caerwyn bowed deeply. "We'll get her back—to my dying breath."
Leoric nodded once and swung up onto his horse.
Yes—and he'd turn every law, every blade, every name against them.