Darlac relished the cool forest breeze on her face, soothing her sunburnt skin. Now that she had a purpose and a duty to keep her busy, she felt she was slowly recovering from what had happened in Vordakai's tomb. Of course, the main issues were still there. Maegar had thrown away the independence of his barony on a whim, and Baroness Guelder had accepted whatever he'd offered to her in gratitude. Cephal Lorentus was dead by Darlac's hands, and this fact was not much easier to bear than Guelder's death by Darlac's inaction would have been. The sapling of love she'd been nurturing in her heart for years, so healthy and full of life not long ago, was now being smothered by guilt. She'd proved herself unworthy, putting her own survival ahead of trying to save her beloved, the very reason why she'd delved into Vordakai's tomb with Tristian. Try as she might to convince herself that she'd done the reasonable thing, she couldn't banish the thought that Maegar would have rushed into that portal for her without thinking twice.

  None of that mattered now. Darlac focused on the task ahead: a final war effort against the Tiger Lords dawdling in Varnhold, and a silent act of rebellion against Varnhold's new liege. Perhaps it would go unnoticed, like a mouthful of spittle in a steaming bowl of soup, but it was still something. A prank that could be the start of an uprising, or a last flare of disobedience before bending the knee, depending on how she would frame it.

  Was there a better way to spite a druid than by chopping down trees?

  Bolga's decimated group had finally recognised the urgency of their departure and reunion with their tribe, being too few in number to attempt an incursion into Brevoy. Without a Defaced Sister transporting them through the First World, their only chance was to sneak through Nightvale's wilderness and ultimately cross the East Sellen to arrive in Glenebon. What they didn't know was that the Nightvale garrison, temporarily serving under Darlac's banner, had blocked the paths leading out of the mountains to the river Crooked, and that, thanks to the Varnhold lumberjacks and a handful of Darlac's men, the forest itself was a deadly trap for the intruders. This time Darlac was not in the mood to build a golden bridge for the retreating enemy. Not if that bridge would land them in an allied country.

  A woodpecker swooped down from the canopy, flying along the path. Poor Faeli, she'd needed some serious mental gymnastics so as to not freak out at what Darlac was about to do. Still, she never questioned her orders.

  The bird cried three times.

  They were coming.

  Darlac nodded at Gekkor, positioned behind a thick, gnarled tree trunk, bow in hand. The cleric acknowledged the silent order and started a soft prayer.

  The first barbarians came in sight shortly. They marched in a dense formation, probably hoping to discourage Hilla's men from harrying their rear. The Varnlings were outnumbered, two to one. However, unlike the Tiger Lords, they had trees at their disposal.

  Now that the entire enemy troop was within range, Darlac held up a hand and started the countdown. 3... 2... 1...

  Koiiiiii-koi-koi-koi-koi-koi!

  At the signal of Tehara's seagull cry (better than any bugle call could ever be), Darlac laid the palms of her hands on the rough bark of the tree providing her with cover, and pushed for all she was worth. The strongest of her squad, also hiding behind thick tree trunks on both sides of the path, did the same. The trees had been meticulously prepared by the lumberjacks, their trunks cut through only to the extent that they remained standing as long as nobody touched them. Creaking, the toppled trees crashed down across the path, one after the other, blocking the way forward, cutting off the line of retreat, burying many of the surprised barbarians underneath. Yells of pain and fear broke the silence of the forest, squelching the carefree birdsong in the canopy.

  About a dozen Tiger Lords were quick enough to dodge the falling timber and scatter from the formation, and were now seeking the enemy with weapons in hand.

  "Archers, ready! Fire at will!"

  The first arrows flew out. Darlac only had five archers, and the surviving Tiger Lords were giving them a run for their money. They made use of whatever cover their gear or the forest could provide, crouched behind shields, lay low among the fallen branches, darted from one tree trunk to another. Except for one. A half-orc woman sporting a side shave and a sizeable falchion, shouting a challenge into the woods. That had to be Bolga.

  The Varnlings knew to leave her for Darlac. Gekkor muttered an extra blessing, squeezed Darlac's shoulder, then let her go with a reassuring smile.

  Darlac signalled to the archers to stand down, and deployed her melee warriors to wipe out the rest. Letting her men rush forward, she walked down the slope at a leisurely pace, swords in hands, halo alight, seeking out Bolga. The half-orc let out a terrible roar, working herself up into a rage.

  Darlac sidestepped the first swing of the falchion easily, her blades grazing Bolga's leather armour from the side, but not quite cutting through it.

  "How dare you show your faces here?" she spat, all the while dancing away from Bolga's furious attacks, hoping to tire her out. "Stabbing us in the back while we were fighting a powerful enemy? Sneaking into the house while the owner was away, rooting around in his treasure chests? How did the mighty Tiger Lords stoop so low? Where is your pride and honour?"

  Alas, a raging barbarian was not the most susceptible target for her attempt to force repentance.

  Bolga roared, froth flying from her lips, laying about with her sword in an effort to swat that annoying red fly, all in vain. Darlac ducked, dodged, spinned away, her feet light on the forest floor. She didn't remember there being this quantity of bramble vines underfoot, but somehow she didn't get stuck in them. Unlike her foe, who momentarily ignored the stabs and scratches of the unusually large thorns, and didn't notice that she was dragging along a bush's worth of vines as she moved. Her final charge ended in a shameful trip over a thick tendril curled around her ankle, and as she fell forward, Darlac's blade was there to meet her.

  Blood splashed into Darlac's face as she drew her sword back and put some distance between herself and her victim. Orcs and half-orcs tended to survive a lethal injury a bit longer than they were supposed to, notorious for taking their slayer with them to the Boneyard – and today Darlac didn't feel so keen to return there. Faeli (because she must have been the one controlling the overgrowth) was on her guard, too, and made sure to immobilise Bolga using an additional bunch of vines.

  Darlac shoved down the memories bubbling up in her about the time she'd been on the receiving end of this type of wound.

  "Sorry, Bolga," she said. "I hate to intervene in your tribe's internal affairs, but I can't have you threaten my homeland or my allies, be that Brevoy or Nightvale."

  Bolga struggled against the vines, but her rage was gone, and her strength was ebbing away. Nevertheless, she seemed much less bothered by the damage to her throat than Darlac had been. She flashed a gloating, tusky grin, and forced her ruined windpipe to work by sheer obstinacy.

  "Too late," she rattled. "The great Armag is coming. His troops gather in Glenebon. He will sweep your allies away like the rubbish they are, and make us a great nation once again. You can tell the traitor Hilla that he will hang her by her tits and toss her shiny eyeballs to the magpies. And you will fare no better."

  "Thanks, Bolga," grunted Darlac. "Any more last words?"

  "Fuck you."

  "Rest in peace, then."

  Darlac's blade flashed, and Bolga's head rolled down her neck in a gentle trickle of blood. There remained too little to spray properly.

  "Faeli?" Darlac turned back to her companions, her eyes settling on the druid. "I want you to go eagle and take this head to the spriggan cave near Blackstones Ford. Just drop it at the entrance. Perhaps Agai and his people will rest easier tonight. Then report to me in Varnhold Town."

  The forest was quiet again, the scent of crushed pine needles and fresh resin mixing with the stench of blood and death.

  "Soldiers!" shouted Darlac from a vantage point up the slope. "Our task is done here, for the time being. Thank you all for your brave perseverance. Once we head home, take a little time for yourselves. Tomorrow may bring new challenges, and if it does, we will stand ready to face them. For Varnhold!"

  "For Varnhold!" echoed her men and the mountains.

  Darlac dictated a forced march back to Varnhold Town. Her soldiers didn't complain, happy to finally return home, even though they likely suspected that they wouldn't have much time to rest.

  "So it isn't over, right?" said Tehara softly, walking beside Darlac. Justice had been put to work carrying the wounded. Luckily, there was only one.

  Darlac shook her head.

  "Armag Reborn is in Glenebon. I don't know what the hell Hannis Drelev is doing, but definitely not what he was supposed to. It's just a matter of time for Kassil to send us an order of mobilisation."

  Perhaps he already had. Darlac realised with frustration that she didn't even know what the proper chain of command was. Whom should she warn? Guelder? Kassil? Maegar? All three of them? Worse, this new challenge would thwart her plans of leaving Varnhold and starting a new page somewhere else, preferably in Lastwall. She couldn't walk out on her homeland when the country it was now part of was under attack. Not that she was looking forward to serving under Kassil's command. After their conversation about dragons at the summit, she didn't expect their cooperation to be smooth and seamless.

  Still, nobody had promised her a rose garden. And rose gardens were overrated, anyway.

  She arrived in Varnhold Town from the north, once again, and the din of life on the streets filled her with unexpected relief. The worst part of Varnhold's history was over. Whatever the future held was bound to be better. Especially if the Tiger Lords wouldn't make it through the East Sellen.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Darlac dismissed her soldiers, bade farewell to Tehara and Gekkor for the time being, and headed to the keep, bracing up for the hardest battle still ahead of her. She allowed herself a little procrastination and visited the graveyard, where an unsettling surprise awaited. A marble headstone with the names of the citizens of Varnhold Town who'd perished in Vordakai's tomb... including Cephal Lorentus. Maegar had taken care of the funeral in her absence, robbing her of the best opportunity to own up and confess what she'd done. Now she had no clue about the official version of Cephal's death, but she was fairly certain that it had little to do with the truth. And now she would have to maintain the lie, firstly in order to protect Maegar's reputation, secondly because a confession would alienate part of the Varnlings from her, which she couldn't risk right now.

  And if that wasn't bad enough, she ran into Tirval at the ford of the Kiravoy.

  "We need to talk," said the Warden instead of a greeting. She looked... different. Her eyes were more intense, more earnest, the wrinkles at the edges of her mouth deeper. Whatever it was, Darlac didn't feel comfortable lowering her guard, like she'd always done before in Tirval's company, and this frightened her. Was she about to lose another person close to her heart?

  "Later, Tirval. I need to see the baron. There is a war brewing in Glenebon."

  Tirval cocked an eyebrow.

  "So you say Nightvale's attention is now turned to the west. Sounds like a good time to act."

  Darlac's stomach squeezed into a knot. So Tirval was serious about this. And it fell to her to make her friend abandon her notions.

  "No, Tirval. This is not the time. As long as we are facing an external threat, Varnhold and Nightvale must stick together. I will not have the barbarians lay waste to our land, just because someone put independence ahead of survival."

  The half-elf pursed her lips, looking Darlac up and down.

  "Who are you, and what have you done to my friend? You know, the one who was all about supporting the Aldori's efforts to reclaim independence. What are these double standards? Plain cowardice? Or is there something more to it?"

  Darlac swallowed a spirited retort. She had to keep this conversation civilised.

  "Tirval, we... you have no right to question the baron's decision. Like it or not, we are forced into a cooperation with Nightvale, and that's that. We need to wait and see how it works out. Should we have reason to be unhappy with it, we'll look into ways to solve the problem."

  Tirval held her gaze for a while. Darlac steeled herself against the awkward silence, until Tirval relented.

  "Go, then. Give my regards to His Grace, or whatever he is now."

  Darlac crossed the river, gingerly stepping from stone to stone, resisting the urge to wade into the water barefoot. Heavens, how she wished for a bath, alone or with Maegar, like when... no. Nostalgia hurt too much right now.

  As usual, she found Martyn on his post at the heavy doors of the throne room. As usual, he greeted her with a grandfatherly smile and made no attempt to stop her.

  The baron's throne stood empty. Maegar was sitting behind Cephal's desk, talking to an elegantly dressed messenger perched on a chair across from him. He was wearing an eyepatch borrowed from Tehara, a keepsake from her pirate days.

  "As I previously said," he was explaining, "the fact that my General is in the course of eliminating any Tiger Lord stragglers in Varnhold's territory shows it more clearly than the summer sky that we have already fulfilled our duty as Restov's allies to a greater extent than could be expected from us, considering the ordeal we've just –"

  As Darlac closed the door behind herself, the baron jerked his head towards the noise, a skittish, impatient move. A timid smile of genuine joy spread over his face upon seeing her. By the Inheritor, how it hurt to see that.

  "Ah, here she is, all fresh from the fight. As your request belongs to her competency, I suggest you repeat it in her presence."

  The messenger rose from his seat and greeted her with a bow.

  "General Darlac?"

  Darlac didn't correct him. Until Baroness Guelder stated otherwise, she considered herself General of Varnhold.

  "I'm bringing the message of Lady Jamandi Aldori. There is –"

  "A Tiger Lord attack going on in Glenebon," interrupted Darlac. "I surmise Brevoy is in great trouble if Lady Jamandi reaches out to my people only just recently freed by a selfless ally from the clutches of a lich."

  "Indeed. The Brevan war effort currently consists of the forces of Restov and House Surtova. The call went out to the allied states of both Nightvale and Varnhold."

  Darlac bit her upper lip. This was worse than she'd thought. A joint army of Aldori and Surtova was a recipe for disaster at best. At worst, it was a great way for the Surtova to let the Tiger Lords nip the Aldori insurrection in the bud before it could even be realised.

  "How about Baron Drelev? Has he been defeated? Is he even doing his duty?"

  "We... lost contact with Baron Drelev not long after his inauguration."

  Darlac let the silence draw long, but no other explanation was forthcoming.

  "I see," she said. "Tell Lady Jamandi that Varnhold stands with her. I presume time is of the essence, right? I will set out tomorrow with the troops I can muster. Since we have yet to recover from the blow we suffered, and most of our troops are hired out abroad, our contribution will be modest. Expect a hundred soldiers, including Baroness Guelder's men she put at my disposal. I'll see if I can gather more."

  "Are you sure, General?" said the baron, narrowing his eye.

  "Entirely."

  "So be it, then."

  Darlac's brain worked frantically to set up her to-do list. She needed to have Gekkor contact Baroness Guelder for permission to march through her territory and include her garrison in the reinforcements. In the very unlikely case Guelder wanted to stay out of the war (and incur Darlac's deepest contempt and disappointment), she would have to make a detour through Brevoy. Then there was the issue of the supply train, the civilian personnel...

  After the messenger departed and Darlac issued a bunch of orders for Martyn to forward, she finally remained alone with Maegar. He rose to meet her, and they measured up each other with shy, stolen glances, avoiding but also craving eye contact. Darlac was the first to make up her mind and pull him into an embrace. Heavens, how she'd missed this... Still, it was not as it used to be. A few months ago, their embrace would have continued in a neverending kiss, fingers fumbling to get under each other's clothing, an unquenchable thirst for the other person's body. Not today. The invisible wall she'd sensed between them last time was gone, but so was desire, too.

  "We need to talk, Felicia," he said softly. "Come. Sit with me, somewhere close."

  Darlac nodded, happy to hear him out first. He took her by the hand, led her to the dais where his empty throne stood, and settled down on its edge. Darlac took a seat beside him, wondering how he would eventually get up from there with his bad knee.

  "Sorry about... the last time we talked," she said, forcing herself to look into his eyes. That refused kiss burnt her heart like a fiery brand ever since.

  "No need to be sorry, love. The way you stopped that kiss from happening was... enlightening, in a sense. It showed me the way and gave me strength to embark on it. Felicia, I'm a broken man. I'm not my old self anymore, and I'm not sure I'll ever be the same. You are young and full of life. You deserve better than to go sour beside a depressed old fart. So... I think it would be best if I let you go."

  It took a while for Darlac to digest his words. She didn't have to break up with him. He took this burden off her shoulders, and she felt thankful. But that was not something she was comfortable saying aloud.

  "Yes, that might be best," she muttered. "This... adventure left both of us scarred in different ways, and... Never mind. Holy fringe, I'm bad at breaking up."

  "Absolutely not. No tears, no pleas, no vows born out of despair, no crockery thrown at my head. You're doing great. The only bad thing is that it makes me love you even more."

  A sad smile spread on Darlac's face.

  "I can't promise I'll stop loving you anytime soon, either."

  "You don't have to. I sure will keep you in my heart for as long as it beats... And to address the leopard in the room, I want to make it entirely clear that this has nothing, nothing whatsoever, to do with Guelder."

  Darlac raised an eyebrow. "Really?" Hell, how she'd hoped to avoid mentioning that woman.

  "Really. Set up a Zone of Truth if you wish."

  "No, Maegar. I won't humiliate us with that. Just say what you have to say."

  "I know people talk, but please don't believe them. I have never offered marriage to her or even talked to her about it, and I don't intend to, either. There's no denying that I have a soft spot for her, but I refuse to be a burden to anyone, either to you or to her. More importantly, I refuse to be the cause of resentment building up between the two of you. Tomorrow you'll march to war and fight by her side. I want the two of you to continue to be the amazing allies and friends you've been this far. Also, she has this not-so-weird theory that you don't need romance to maintain a heartfelt relationship with someone. I've been testing it on her, and going forward, I'll want to test it on you, too."

  Darlac couldn't help but grin.

  "Friends?" She held out her hand, and Maegar took it.

  "Friends. Forever. Or for as long as you choose to put up with me."