#her and Bryce are shaking monstrous hands

[mekanikaltrifle]

here, my friend, some FREAK CREATURES taking a gay little nap (they were enjoying some gay Warrens time)

@roseate-lagomorph

[theladyofbloodshed]

Chapter 1

Notes: This is set after the canon events of ACOSF when Nesta and Cassian go to the Prison. Instead of opening the wards to the cells, she ends up in Lunathion. Bryce doesn't exist in this universe and no magic language beans are required.

Nesta could not do more than twitch her fingertips as an invisible, oppressive weight bore into her, like it’d flatten her into dust upon the starry ground of the strange chamber in the Prison.

Let go, she silently bade the Harp, gritting her teeth, fingers brushing over the nearest string. Free me, you blasted thing.

A beautiful, haughty voice answered, full of music so lovely it broke her heart to hear it. I do not appreciate your tone.

With that the Harp pushed into her harder, and Nesta roared silently. Her nail scraped over the string again. Let me go!

Gone was Cassian’s voice. He was kept out by the wards, witnessing it all.

Shall I open a door for you, then?

Yes! Damn you, yes!

It has been a long while, sister, since I played. I shall need time to remember the right combinations…

Don’t play games. Nesta chilled at the word it had used. Sister. Like she and this thing were one and the same.

The small strings are for games—light movement and leaping—but the longer, the final ones … Such deep wonders and horrors we could strum into being. Such great and monstrous magic I wrought with my last minstrel. Shall I show you?

No. Just let me out.

As you wish. Pluck the first string, then.

Nesta didn’t hesitate as her fingertip curled over the first string, grasping and then releasing it. A musical laugh filled her mind, but the weight lifted. Vanished.

And then everything swirled around her like she was being sucked down a plughole into a vast emptiness. The stars on the floor span, turning white with their speed.

Nesta clung to the Harp as wind whipped her face. She was falling – but into what, she didn’t know. It reminded her of the Cauldon, that endless dark, the never-ending cold. Nesta drifted through space and time until she plummeted downwards.

Her body hit stone, taking the wind out of her.

Nesta blinked, trying to right herself. The lights around her were blurred but there was noise – chatter and distant music.

A bright light came towards her. A long, blaring sound pierced her ears. There was a screech and the light stopped feet from her body curled on the stone.

‘What the fuck,’ came a female voice.

Something slammed and footsteps sounded. ‘Are you alright? I nearly hit you. You landed in the middle of the road.’

‘Move back. Official 33rd business,’ a male voice said.  

Nesta was shaking. The bright lights were still in her eyes. Her hip and leg throbbed from the landing.

‘She’s armed, Hunt,’ somebody said.

The male who’d spoken gave a wearied sigh. ‘Ten minutes left of our shift and a fae has to leap in front of a car.’ He stepped closer to her. ‘Hands up. Don’t reach for the sword.’

Something silver and metallic was pointed at her by his hands. The male was fae. Or, looked it. He had wings similar to the Peregryn that she’d met in the Dawn Court with beautiful, grey feathers. Across his brow was a tattoo. Sable hair hung to his shoulders. The other male was slightly shorter with white feathers and fair hair.

Neither was dressed like anybody she’d seen before. Their clothes reminded her slightly of Illyrian leathers but the materials were different.

Nesta looked around, now that her eyes had adjusted to the light. Nobody was dressed in familiar clothing. People had small rectangles in their hands bearing lights and sounds. The fair haired male tutted and started moving them off, saying she was not a spectacle.

‘I’m going to need you to slide that sword over to me in its sheath. Do you understand?’

Where was she? This wasn’t Prythian.

Where are we?

The Harp refused to respond to her, going mute in this strange, new world.

‘Hey,’ the male with grey wings said, not unkindly. ‘Slide it over now.’

Slowly, Nesta reached for Ataraxia and pushed it across the smooth stone towards him. He kept his metal object pointed at her as he bent down and slung her sword over a shoulder.

‘Now your instrument.’

The other male had returned and collected that. He turned it from side to side, examining it. The first handed the sword to him. ‘Fly those to Vik. Get her to run her tests on them. I’ll bring her in.’

***

Ten minutes. That was all they had left after seven days straight. Hunt was looking forward to a glorious day off but Logan had said they should walk back to the 33rd rather than fly. If they flew, they still likely would have seen a female fall from the sky, but they could have pretended it didn’t happen and finished their shift on time. Now, it meant hours of questioning plus paperwork for what he guessed was an undocumented fae who’d rocked up in Lunathion.

The female in question seemed compliant thus far. Hunt hadn’t cuffed her. She was a skinny thing that couldn’t overpower him. From the spike of her ears, she was fae, not human. After basic questioning, they’d likely call in the captain of the aux from the fae side – and Hunt planned to be in his bed by then. Technically, this female had done nothing wrong except fall from the sky with a sword and nearly be hit by a car. It was strange enough though that Micah would demand their heads if they hadn’t brought her in. He was off in the north, summoned by the Asteri. Peace for once.

‘Where are you taking me?’

He kept his hand clasped around her upper arm as they walked. ‘To the 33rd.’

She frowned. ‘The 33rd what?’

Hunt glanced at her. ‘Legion.’

How had she never heard of the 33rd? Who the hell was this?

‘Are you fae?’

She must have hit her head hard. Hunt ushered her along, surveying her for obvious injuries as they went. ‘No. Malakim. Definitely not fae.’

Her silver eyes stared at him then at the ground, processing something. A med-witch would need to see her to remove her concussion.

Hunt led her to one of their interrogation rooms. The white walls looked yellow beneath the lights and she shielded her eyes from it. It was protocol to at least chain her to the table to prevent her from running, but from the bewildered expression on her face, Hunt couldn’t do it.

‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘Coffee?’

‘I’ll get you a coffee,’ he said, offering a tight smile as he backed out of the room.

He met Isaiah in the corridor.

‘Viktoria’s already working on the items. Both are definitely imbued with magic,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Logan’s filled me in. Fell from the sky?’

‘Yup. Literally.’ Hunt pressed the coffee cup into his hand. ‘I don’t think she knows what coffee is so good luck.’

Isaiah gave a short laugh. ‘Do you think she’s one of the Avallen Fae?’

‘I have no fucking clue where she is from. Another planet by the looks of things.’  

Naomi was waiting behind the interrogation room, computer at the ready. Hunt waited behind the screen of glass too as Isaiah introduced himself and put the cup of coffee in front of her. From the thin frame, Hunt should have grabbed her a snack too. She wore leathers like she was about to do battle. The sword would explain that too – but not the instrument. It seemed to be a common theme that swords were toted by pricks in Lunathion, however this female seemed not too bad so far.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Nesta.’

‘A last name?’

‘Archeron.’

Naomi’s fingers flew over the keyboard. ‘Not a single Archeron in history. Or a Nesta.’

‘I don’t think she’s lying,’ Hunt murmured. It would be a strange name to make up. Better if she gave a common one.

Isaiah spoke gently. ‘What house are you aligned with, Nesta?’

Nesta blinked a few times then, ‘Uh. The House of Wind.’

There was another click of keys beside him then Naomi drew a blank again.

‘What can your magic do?’

‘I don’t have magic.’

‘Why do you have a magical Harp?’

‘I’m a bard.’

The delivery was so flat from Nesta that Hunt couldn’t help but snort with laughter.

Isaiah’s wings flexed at the table. ‘Will you play for me?’

Nesta inspected her nails. ‘I don’t play for free.’

‘What’s the sword for?’

‘When people don’t pay me,’ she quipped.

This female had woken up and found her dry sense of humour then. Hunt examined her through the glass. She didn’t look like the fae of Lunathion. The majority had the same colouring as the king – red hair, tanned skin. Others were brown-haired. The prince was a rarity with black hair, but not unheard of. It tended to be the Avallen fae who were blonde. She certainly fitted the description for now with a limited knowledge of technology; she’d stared at everybody’s cell-phones with utmost confusion. But even Avallen fae knew how to use technology when they left their misty isles.

‘Which king did you pledge allegiance to?’

At that, Nesta gave a harsh laugh. ‘None of them and I never will.’

‘Who is the king of Avallen?’

‘Fionn,’ she said, brandishing her hands in the air with disinterest.

‘Danaan is here,’ a voice said over the intercom. ‘Sending him down.’

Ruhn Danaan was captain of the fae auxiliary unit and exemplified what it meant to be a fae prick. One day, he’d also be their king. And Hunt could not stand him.

He swaggered in, tongue flicking against his lip-ring. ‘This better be good, Athalar.’

Hunt gestured to Nesta Archeron currently stonewalling Isaiah as he attempted to interrogate her on her origins.

‘Don’t know her,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Wish I did.’

‘Is she one of the Avallen fae?’

‘No idea,’ replied Ruhn in a blasé tone. Hunt could stink alcohol on him. Likely the prince had been with his little pals doing what they did best and partying until dawn.

Sensing his frustrations, Naomi stepped in. ‘She fell from the sky. There’s no record of her family name in the history of Midgard. Nesta isn’t aligned to any house, seemingly has no knowledge of Lunathion. She cannot name either fae king – but did mention Fionn. She came with a sword imbued with magic – and a Harp.’

Ruhn finally took notice. He leaned closer to the glass, nose almost touching it. ‘Her eyes are silver.’

‘A fascinating conclusion, Danaan.’

‘Let me talk to her.’  

It was Isaiah’s call so he allowed the prince into the interrogation room, claiming that not only was he fae royalty which gave Ruhn a pass to do what he liked in the city, but also a member of the aux. When he entered, Nesta knew him. Her eyes went wide then she stared down at her lap, murmuring something to herself.

‘Hi,’ said Ruhn who turned the chair around and leant his chest against the back. ‘Your coffee’s going cold.’

Nesta raised the cup to her mouth to take a sip then promptly spat it back out. ‘That’s vile.’

‘Need sugar?’

She folded her arms across her body. Anybody else would have called for their lawyer now or asked what they were being charged with. The thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Nesta seemed more interested in the security camera and even the lights above her head.

‘Are you high fae?’ she asked Ruhn.

‘I’m fae,’ he said. ‘Vanir. What other Vanir do you know?’

Nesta swallowed. Eventually, she suggested, ‘Illyrians?’

Ruhn gave an encouraging nod and lied that he knew them. Beside Hunt, Naomi was doing her best to search for the term.

‘Who else?’

‘Peregryns.’

‘Yeah. Peregryns.’ Ruhn gave another nod. ‘Those big birds that brought you to the 33rd. What are they?’

‘Malakim.’

Which she only knew because Hunt had told her.

‘What’s Sabine?’

‘I don’t know her,’ she replied.

Well, shit. She definitely was not from Lunathion because everybody knew Sabine, unfortunately. Naomi’s laptop made a pinging sound. ‘Toxicology report. Nothing in her system. Not even a drop of alcohol. Definitely no drugs.’

On arrival, the on-duty med-witch had given her a once over but had not found any major injuries beyond a few bruises from her heavy landing.

Isaiah drummed his fingers on his watch face. ‘We can’t hold her for anything. By rights, we’ve held her longer than necessary with nothing to charge her for.’

‘She’s clearly not from here.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I’m reluctant to call Micah back until we have full specs on the items that she brought with her.’

‘We can keep those for a week,’ said Naomi.

Ruhn emerged from the room, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his long, black hair. ‘She’s fae. Definitely. No idea where she’s from though.’ Ruhn pulled out his cell.

‘Calling daddy?’

He threw Hunt a grin. ‘Not a chance. I’ll keep her at mine.’

‘No,’ said Hunt with a snort. ‘Do you think we’ll hand over a disorientated female to you and your little pals?’

‘Careful with what you’re insinuating, angel.’

Isaiah cleared his throat. ‘Until we know more, Nesta Archeron is a free citizen of Lunathion, not under anyone’s jurisdiction.’

‘She’s fae,’ Ruhn insisted. ‘She answers to my father.’

‘You didn’t hear her, Danaan,’ Hunt said, fighting the grin from his face. ‘She’s pledged allegiance to no king and never will.’

‘Hunt, discharge her. Ruhn, I wonder if you could take a look at the sword,’ asked Isaiah, guiding the prince out of the room.

Hunt cared little for the fae but he wasn’t going to send a lone female who had no clue where she was to the Ruhn Danaan home for parties and orgies. He took up Ruhn’s vacated seat, also sitting backwards on it at the table. Nesta watched him closely.

‘How do you know Ruhn?’

‘I don’t,’ she replied, voice clipped.

‘You looked like you did.’

Nesta furrowed her brow. ‘I thought he was somebody else.’

Hunt nodded his head towards the cup. ‘You didn’t like my coffee?’

‘It was foul.’

‘Oof. No offence taken.’ He began writing out her discharge forms, explaining them to her as he wrote. It would go under a section two; the 33rd reserved the right to question any citizen at any time without reason or without consequence. Anybody from Lunathion would have kicked up a fuss over how long they’d been held for. This one had no cell, no purse, no identification, literally nothing on her person so she likely didn’t know her rights. ‘You can collect your items in a week.’

That was if they found nothing they could charge her for.

‘A week? I need the Harp.’

‘Playing in a tavern?’

Hunt glanced up at her then jerked back. Her eyes were swirling. They looked as if silver flames were trapped within, writhing to get to the surface.  

‘You’re free to go, Nesta. I’ll see you out.’

The walk out of the Comitium was just as interesting. The most inane technology snagged her attention. At the coffee machine, she came to a halt to stare at it in wonder then in the waiting room, her eyes catalogued the television screens, jaw hanging open.

‘Don’t worry. You won’t miss Fangs and Bangs.’

Nesta opened her mouth to say something then the phone rang in the office. That also hooked her attention. She was child-like in her wonder as a malakh answered the phone.

‘That device allows you to communicate?’

Hunt touched two fingers to her forehead. The temperature seemed fine. ‘Try and see a med-witch. Have them check you over for concussion.’

He held the door open for her as she stumbled off into the blackness, just as perplexed as she’d been when they’d found her in the road.

Nesta wasn’t Hunt’s duty. His shift should have ended two hours ago. He was a slave, but a slave who could be off-duty – especially when Micah was out of town. Yet, he couldn’t stop the sense of dread from clawing in his chest as he watched Nesta amble aimlessly into the night.

This female would cause him a headache.

 ***

Seven days.

Nesta needed to survive seven days with only the clothes on her back in this strange city. There were worse places that she could have arrived to. The dungeon had not truly been a dungeon. It lacked the prowling beasts of the Hewn City. The only issue had been how bright the lights were. They hadn’t been the faelights that Rhysand conjured.

There were more lights hanging from towering metal poles on the smooth roads. There were still many out in the darkness but not all of them were fae. Some were like animals with cloven hooves instead of feet or caprine horns that jutted out from their hair.

Nesta didn’t know what to make of it.

She’d left Cassian calling her name in the Prison. Now she was in Lunathion. Wherever that was.

The city was so noisy.

Nesta needed space to think and to breathe so she fought her way out of the densest areas of the city towards a massive river. The sounds of it calmed her. She crossed over it, into the darker area where it felt more peaceful. Nesta sucked in breaths, thinking of Gwyn and her teachings to focus on the inhales and exhales and nothing else. That was easier said than done in a foreign land with no allies, no weapons, and no way back to Velaris.

Something was moving across the bridge towards her.

It made her skin prickle.

It wasn’t walking. It was gliding.

Her hand reached over her shoulder for the pommel of her sword and remembered it had been taken.

The creature made a low, gurling sound from the back of its throat then reached out a grey hand stripped of flesh in places.

Nesta backed up a step, but more were behind her, moving in that same eerie way without a sound.

The air went static.

A bolt of lightning hit the ground which forced one of the creatures to retreat.

The male who’d chaperoned her to the Comitium landed between her and the bulk of the creatures. Lightning wreathed his hands. His hair rose from the static.

‘You will not feast this night.’

Hunt jerked his chin at her, summoning Nesta to him. An arm clamped around her shoulders then he pushed off from the floor. As they lifted off, his other arm swooped beneath the back of her knees.

The motion was surprisingly fluid. Nesta did what she always did if Cassian flew her and put her arms around his neck for support.

‘What were they?’

‘Reapers,’ he replied. ‘I’m guessing you don’t have them where you come from.’

‘We have creatures just as foul.’

‘Yeah. Well, maybe don’t go for a midnight meeting with the Under-king if you want to see the dawn, Nesta.’ Hunt flew them a short distance then landed back amongst the lights on poles. He kept one hand clasped around her wrist like she might run while pulling one of the metal rectangles from his pocket. It displayed numbers that he tapped. His thumb moved down the screen, the words it showed flew by too quick for Nesta to read. ‘It’s Athalar. As you said, she’s one of your kind. She needs to be put up in a hotel.’ A pause. ‘Near the Dead Gate. I’ve flown her near Jesiba Roga’s house of horrors, but she’ll end up wandering through the meat market if I leave her.’ Hunt gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Either a hotel or the barracks with me, but not a chance I’m leaving her in your custody.’

Hunt slid the device into his back pocket. ‘The prince of pricks is booking you a hotel for the night. You hungry?’

The malakh lifted her into the air again to cross the city. They returned to the huge building where he had first taken her but did not stay long. Nesta was told to wait in the corridor outside a room while Hunt retrieved a bag of items. They stopped off at a restaurant along the way while he waited for news from the prince of pricks, whoever that was.

‘Noodles,’ he said, gesturing to the flimsy packaging.

Nesta stared down at them. They reminded her of yellow strings but there were chunks of meat and vegetables amongst them and a sweet-smelling sauce that made her ravenous. Hunt paid for it all, including the drink that was filled with bubbles.

‘Not a fan of coffee, but you like soda,’ he said between mouthfuls.

‘It is so sweet.’

‘Yeah because it’s all sugar.’

Nesta slurped it down, not caring if the ice hurt her teeth.

Hunt pulled the device – a cell phone – from his pocket. ‘Danaan came through. Let’s go.’

The lodgings were nice. One of those moving portrait boxes was hung on the wall and Hunt pressed a button on another rectangle to make it work. He pressed a few more buttons, the portraits changing rapidly.

‘Here we go. Fangs and Bangs, as promised.’

There was a half-naked female on the screen lounging on a long chair near a body of water. A male, equally as bare and bronze, was discussing their relationship beside her.

‘What do all of those buttons do?’

Hunt shrugged one shoulder. ‘Nobody knows. That’s volume. Channel up and down. On and off.’

‘It controls it?’

‘Yes. A remote. Where the hell did you come from Nesta?’

Nesta said nothing. She couldn’t bear to think of the people she had left behind. There was no guarantee that the Harp would be returned to her or it would even let her pluck a string to return to Velaris.

‘Bathroom’s through there. This is a key card. You press it to that black panel on the door handle to get in but try not to leave tonight, alright. I don’t want to retrieve your body from the Istros in the morning.’ Hunt blew out a breath. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll be by in the morning.’

Despite the day she had endured, the sight of the bed with tightly-pulled white sheets was calling to her. As soon as she hit that pillow, Nesta would be out.

Hunt rummaged in the bag that he’d collected from the Comitium. There were soft, grey pants and a white top. ‘For you to sleep in. There are slits on the back for my wings, but it will be comfier than those,’ he said, pointing to her leathers. ‘I don’t know how you breathe in that.’

‘Thank you, Hunt,’ replied Nesta, clutching the clothes to her body.

‘Tomorrow, we will talk. Off the record. About you.’ He swept his hair from his face. ‘I want to help but I can’t if you’re not honest with me. Sleep well.’   

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 7

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 3816 CW: Canon-typical violence, battle scenes Chapter summary: Rosslyn swoops in to save the day, but battle is not at all what she thought it would be.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Fourth Day of Guardian, 9:31 Dragon

Blood fountained upwards with the downward slice of Rosslyn’s sword, but she had no time to check whether the man was dead. Lasan, her horse, lurched beneath her, his hooves lashing out at any pushed too close by those behind, and only the specially designed cavalry saddle allowed her to keep her seat. In the time it took her to rebalance, another soldier pressed in to fill the gap left by his fallen comrade, blade raised to hack at her leg. She killed him. The force of her swing carried through to chop at the arm of a third aiming to strike her mount from under her. He reeled away, only to have his scream cut short when Cuno leapt up and tore out his throat.

This had been the pattern for almost an hour now, her face set in a wolfish snarl as she carved a bloody path through the enemy ranks, the ring of steel and the blood pounding in her ears enough to drown out the cries of the soldiers who fell to her sword. At her side, the vanguard of her force mimicked her savagery, and gradually the line before them grew ragged. Rosslyn saw open space and kicked Lasan towards the gap. The charger roared his fury and was answered by whinnies and shouts as the cavalry thundered back onto open ground, only to prop right towards the enemy’s latest scrambling defence.

She chanced a look back at her people as she steered them round for another charge. At every pass, her ranks thinned, more saddles were emptied by sword or axe, but the flotsam of bodies left in their wake showed the effectiveness of their tactics. The enemy was tiring.

She had followed the detritus of battle for the better part of the day, caution warring with urgency as she read the signs of the field – her father’s army had been met with overpowering force at Glenlough, and when they had tried to fight a retreat, they had been driven south off the road, away from Highever and any help that might come from there. The enemy had not counted on Rosslyn, or the column of horse she had brought charging down out of the sunset to smash into their unprotected rear. In her first pass the enemy’s contingent of archers had been entirely swept away, trampled under hoof or else hacked to pieces as they gawped in surprise.

Since then, she had plucked at the field, puncturing the lines of soldiers again and again like a needle biting cloth, trailing the bright thread of her cavalry behind her until the remaining forces were ground down against the shield wall of Highever’s defensive line. At first, they had resisted. Brutal pikes had been planted into the earth to form a bristling cocoon against a direct charge. Without suppressing fire from the archers, however, Highever had loosed its war dogs from the slips. The beasts had darted between the shafts, and in the chaos of their wake, Rosslyn’s cavalry had cut deep.

For the second time now Highever’s standard waved the flag of truce to offer terms, but from her vantage point Rosslyn saw the enemy’s line regrouping for one last suicidal assault.

“Have it your way, then,” she growled, and set her heels to Lasan’s sides.

The rest of the battle passed in minutes. With no foreign standard to claim, there could be no official declaration of victory, so the fighting sputtered into smaller, disorganised scuffles before dying out completely, a fire robbed of fuel. Leaving her officers to coordinate the search for any injured who might yet be saved, Rosslyn called her vanguard and cantered through the twilight towards the rise where Highever’s remaining infantry was waiting, overshadowed by the steep slopes of the mountain known as the Rothshead.

Lasan tossed his head with a snort when she tugged a little too sharply to check his speed. She forced her fingers to ease their grip on the reins. Ravens already gathered over the dead, swooping like demons through the gathering dusk in the corners of her vision, but her unease came from an altogether different source. The ranks of her father’s infantry parted before her; awed mutters followed her; ahead stood the imperious banner of Laurels on a blue field. Only when she dismounted did she realise how badly she was shaking, with a volatile combination of adrenaline and fatigue that took every ounce of her will to control.

Cuno was not helping. The dog all but threw himself on her as soon as her boots touched earth, wriggling and whistling for joy that she was alive, and reassuring her that despite his mask of blood and kaddis he was too and would very much like a scratch behind the ear, just to make sure. The fog clouding her mind lifted to reveal the reality of the carnage at her feet. She knelt down to wrap her dog in a fierce, one-armed hug, her eyes squeezed closed as her free hand clawed at the chinstrap that secured her helmet in place. When she finally got it off, her lungs sucked in deep, grateful breaths of cold air that brought tears to her eyes and a burn to her throat.

“It’s alright,” she whispered to him. “It’s alright, I’m here, I’m alive.”

A ripple of expectation circled through the waiting soldiers, torches were lit to ward off the night, and Rosslyn looked up unseeing towards the movement in the ranks directly ahead. Her noble upbringing reasserted itself, the need to appear in collected and in control at all times. She swallowed and stood, fists clenched, conscious of the unflattering streak of gore Cuno’s enthusiasm had painted across her cheek.

And from behind the wall of spears Bryce Cousland emerged, his movements the totter of a young foal, his armour no longer at parade shine but stained and crusted with dirt. A gash in his forehead caked blood down the left side of his face, giving an intensity to his expression that turned her father into a monstrous stranger. He stared at her without speaking.

“Hail to His Lordship, Teyrn of Highever,” she called out formally, with a respectful nod of her head. When the silence still pooled between them, thick as treacle, she felt her mouth edge into a nervous grimace. “Sorry I’m late.”

The silence shattered. In three resounding strides Bryce crossed the space between them and gathered her so tightly into his arms she felt the constriction even through the aurum plate of her cuirass.

“Oh, Pup. My darling girl.”

“Father…”

Rosslyn’s knees, relieved of the burden of supporting her weight, began to tremble in earnest as she leaned into the embrace, once more just a child seeking a parent’s warmth after a bad fright. In the unfamiliar dark with the stench of carrion all around, her father’s breath on her hair held comfort, his voice an anchor to the present moment though it was gruff and hoarse from the strain of battle. Even so, she was old enough now to discern the current of desperation that underlay his relief. With slinking precision, dread worked through the seams in her armour and turned her sweat cold.

“Where’s Fergus?” she asked.

Bryce pulled away, the clenched muscles in his jaw providing her with the answer he could not voice.

“When? What happened?” Perhaps if she had been faster, pushed her troopers harder –

“In the first engagement. I…” Bryce sagged, unable to meet her eye. “He couldn’t be reached.”

The onlooking soldiers dropped away; father and daughter stood aloof in the centre of the field, wrapped in the privacy of their grief. For Rosslyn, still rocked by the reality of battle, the loss of her brother existed only in her father’s stricken expression, and when she looked past him towards the rows of soldiers who stood attendance on them, she expected to see Fergus – a little battered, maybe, but without permanent damage – his eyes bright and his kind smile the same as it always was.

But he wasn’t there.

“No…”

The word startled Bryce from the scene that now replayed whenever he closed his eyes. He bunched his shoulders against it, once more shrugging into the mantle of leadership he wore so well.

“Listen to me, Pup,” he said. “There will be time to grieve, but it isn’t now. We’ve cut off the dragon’s wings, but the head is still out there somewhere, and its eyes still move. Right now, we have to decide what to do next.”

Blinking back the sting in her eyes, Rosslyn nodded. “We have wounded. And… I set some of my troopers to look through the – the dead. None of these people had any kind of insignia. Who are they?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed and stood taller. “We can tend the wounded in camp. Billets are being set up as we speak. In the morning we’ll regroup and work out the best course of action. In the meantime, I need you to tell me everything you know and everything you’ve seen on the road.”

“What about Arl Howe?” Rosslyn asked, following after him as he about-turned and marched for where the camp attendants had started pitching the tents. “The messenger you sent to Highever said you sent others to ask for his aid.”

“No word has come,” her father replied. “Either the messengers never made it, or something worse has happened.” He paused and turned to squeeze her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Pup, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Matters moved quickly after that. While Bryce’s adjutants handled the mundane aspects of setting the camp and assigning duties to the surviving soldiers, the Teyrn coordinated the hunt for those chased away by Rosslyn’s attack, and after his squires had stripped him of his outer layer of armour and given him towels to wash with, he retired to his tent with his daughter to plot the army’s next move. She proved alert and well-informed about the strength of their forces, offering astute insights with an eagerness that dimmed as the night wore on and exhaustion began to take its toll. A servant came in and deposited a loaf of bread and two bowls of stew just as a huge yawn caused her to sway against the table.

“Bedtime, I think,” Bryce commented. “Once you’ve eaten.” He handed her the slightly fuller bowl and the larger half of the bread once it had been torn over his knee. It was hard tack compared to the meals served at high table in the castle, but it was warm and would keep hunger at bay for half a day at least.

Rosslyn dug into the stew with only the thinnest veneer of decorum. “I haven’t had a bedtime since I was twelve. I’m not tired.”

“Don’t argue with me, girl,” her father replied, not unkindly. “You need your rest.”

“I still say splitting our force is a bad idea,” she told him between mouthfuls. “We routed them – whoever they were. If they had reinforcements surely it would be better to present them with a larger opponent to discourage attack. Why not dig in at Glenlough?”

“That might be a good idea if our casualty list weren’t so long and if Glenlough hadn’t been levelled. It offers us no defence now.” He rubbed a hand down the side of his face so that the last of the dried blood crumbled away; his meal lay untouched beside him. “No. The best course of action is to take an advance party back to Highever to prepare for the arrival of the wounded. The cavalry and the dogs will stay to act as an escort and follow on.”

“A lot of the injured can’t walk. Carts will need to be requisitioned from the villages nearby.”

Bryce hummed his agreement and finally scooped up his bowl, only to find the stew had gone tepid. “I’m sure you’ll be able to manage it.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. Her hand stilled with her spoon half way to her mouth as she realised. “You’re leaving me behind again!”

His fist slammed onto the table. “I am not.” His frown softened in apology for the outburst, but his voice retained its hard edge. “You will have your own command. Once the cavalry and the wounded infantry add up, I’m putting you in charge of the greater portion of our army, and I will be counting on you to see them safe, no matter what.” He sighed and ran a distracted hand through his hair. “There’s still a lot for you to learn about being a general, Pup, and one of those things is that sometimes, for the greater good, your own feelings must be set aside to get the job done. We are Couslands, and we do our duty above everything else.”

Cowed, Rosslyn, dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry, Father.”

“It’s alright,” he replied. “And now it really is time for you to sleep. Go on.”

He shooed her off with a wave towards the back of the tent, where a cot had been set up behind a partition to offer privacy. Having been on the road since before dawn that morning, even such a sparse bunk seemed a luxury, but Rosslyn hesitated nevertheless.

“I’m… not sure I can.”

In seconds, Bryce had crossed the tent, his soldiers’ reports forgotten where he dropped them. His padded gambeson squished as he folded his daughter into another tight hug, bringing to light a memory he had not thought about in years: rushing home from a campaign in the central Bannorn; taking the stairs to his keep two at a time, still in war-clothes, frantic with the news; his young wife’s maidservant, fiercely guarding her mistress’s rest, finally giving into his urgency by placing an impossibly tiny, swaddled bundle in his arms.

“I know,” he told his daughter now. “Try? For me?”

He guarded her as she nodded and staggered towards the bed, and helped gather the blankets around her shoulders like he had done during the fiercest winter storms of her childhood. Since that first time holding Fergus as an infant, he had watched his son grow to raise a family of his own, and then his pride as a father had been struck down before his eyes. It would not happen again. As Rosslyn’s breathing evened out and her muscles relaxed, he allowed himself to turn away, his mind already refocussing on the task at hand.

The attack on his troops might have been staged as a random event, but the wider events going on within Ferelden’s borders and the careful planning of the offensive itself suggested a deeper motive at work than simple greed for Glenlough’s wealth. Bryce’s instincts told him Highever was yet in danger, and that the worst of the fighting was yet to come. No doubt their hidden enemy’s plan had been to level the army completely and then to come upon Castle Cousland unchallenged – a plan that would have succeeded, had not Rosslyn come charging to his rescue.

He stared down at his maps once more. Her victory must not be wasted.

--

The following afternoon found Rosslyn preparing her own departure from the temporary camp. Even though Ser Gideon, the commander of her father’s house guard, had remained behind to assist her, she found it daunting to be the ultimate voice of authority. On the road to the battle, her own fears and training had driven her troopers forward, but now, planning to move a force comprised of so many parts was beginning to prove much harder than her schoolroom lessons had made it seem. She listened as her officers presented their final reports to her, nodding, glad they knew their business and that they had decided to trust the Teyrn’s orders to leave her in charge. As the army prepared to move out, however, she found her fingers worrying at the seal-ring her father had dropped into her palm when he said his farewells. It was too big to fit her properly, so she had donned her gauntlets to make sure it didn’t slip off and get lost, but she could feel it against her skin, heavy with the responsibility required of its owner.

“I’ll have it back off you when you get to Highever,” Bryce had warned her. “So mind you keep it safe.” He did not have to add that with Fergus gone, the official Cousland seal would one day be hers for real.

“Send the signal to the van,” she commanded, and watched the runner sprint to where the first of the carts laden with injured stood waiting to set off. They would set a slow pace, and the hours’ head start her father’s force had taken would lengthen far enough that no help would come if either group got into trouble on the road.

She turned to her horse and tried not to think about it, trusting her father’s judgement like she trusted the groom to hold the stirrup for her while she mounted. Tomorrow her company would meet the road, vehicles, cavalry, and dogs, and from there the journey would be quicker and easier, and this whole business could be put to rest. Lasan woke from his doze as she gathered the reins, answering her direction like any disciplined soldier. Behind her, the three-hundred strong cavalry waited for her orders, with Morrence at the forefront, promoted into Captain Tolly’s place.

“Ware rider!”

Heads turned as the scout galloped past the line to Rosslyn’s position under her banner. The horse’s eyes rolled wildly as he pulled back on the reins, the lather on its withers stark against its dark coat.

“I come to warn you my lady – a massive host on the road ahead!” The rider circled his horse when it refused to settle, waiting for her response.

Rosslyn felt all eyes turn to her. “Where? How far away?”

“More than a day, for now, but getting closer,” he replied. “Me and my partner, we saw them hunting for deserters from yesterday. He went after His Lordship, knowing that he planned to be ahead. I came to warn you.”

“Show me.”

The scout vaulted from his saddle, drawing a crumpled map from his satchel as he crossed the space to where Rosslyn waited. Lasan had picked up on the current of apprehension the scout’s arrival had stirred, and he fidgeted and watched the lad approach with a leery eye.

“The host is three thousand strong, by our estimate,” he said. “They carry no banner we recognised.”

“Mercenaries, then,” Rosslyn surmised. “Do they know we’re here?”

“I don’t know, my lady. They were marching at a fair lick along the road from Glenlough, so it may be they don’t see us as a threat.”

With good reason, she thought, lips pursed.

Three thousand able-bodied men. Had her father kept their army together, they might have made a match of it even with their crippled infantry, but alone, she had no chance of holding off a fresh stand of men with soldiers already shocked and tired from the previous day.

“Where is my father? Can he return here?”

The scout shook his head. “Not in time, my lady. This new force lies between us and him.”

Rosslyn forgot to breathe. Whichever option presented itself to her now mocked her with its consequences. To stay would be to wait for death; to meet this new foe head-on might spare her father some time to reach the safety of Highever, but at the likely cost of everyone under her command; to flee would be to doom the Teyrn and everyone with him.

It was what he had intended all along. She realised it like a punch to the stomach. The vanguard he had taken with him was nothing more than bait for whatever he had suspected was waiting beyond the ruins of Glenlough, his hurried departure that morning part of an act that would fool any enemy into thinking his were the last survivors retreating in disorder from the field of battle. And he hadn’t told her, because he had known she would have insisted against it. He had told her to protect her people, no matter the cost.

No matter the cost.

“What are your orders, my lady?” asked Ser Gideon, the commander of her father’s house guard, his dark face set in stern lines.

“We…” She coughed past the lump forming in her throat, and tried again. “There are logging trails to the west, over Elethea’s Saddle. We’ll go that way and head for West Hill, and Bann Teagan’s encampment there.”

“If you do that, your father’s men will be left open to attack and the city will be vulnerable,” Gideon replied. “And that’s if these bastards don’t set upon our fleeing backs. Can we really afford to take such a chance?”

Startled looks passed between her officers at his daring.

“I was charged with keeping these soldiers safe,” Rosslyn snapped at him. “Highever is no longer safe.” Sighing, she softened her glare and looked past the Guard-Commander, to the rest of the officers counting on her leadership. Some were seasoned men – grizzled veterans she had known all her life – but most were her own, who had not known war until she dragged them into it.

“I trust you to carry out my orders, Gideon,” she said, more calmly. “As I expect you to trust me. We make for West Hill. Let the men know that this isn’t just a leisurely stroll home anymore. The Teyrn of Highever wanted us to live to fight another day, and I intend to use every extra second he can spare us.”

In minutes their train was underway, moving away from the road and up along a muddy track deeper into the hills with the resignation that only comes to those who know they will have a long way to go and no opportunity to turn back. The cavalry was split into three rotating units to act as guards along the length of the march, the idea being that those in front could stop to rest their horses and allow themselves to be overtaken before joining the rear. Every soldier able to walk had been given their weapons, and those not insensate had been told to keep an eye out for suspicious movement, just in case.

As she watched the column trail past her, Rosslyn twisted around in her saddle for one last look north. Her heart thudded in her chest as if it wanted to break out of its cage and fly towards the home she feared she might never see again, but she squashed the urge and settled instead for a prayer of hope. Please, Maker, keep them safe. Then, squeezing her eyes closed, she set her jaw and urged her horse onwards.