I have never felt the urge to throw myself off this horse with the hope of death, more than right now.

  Perched on the saddle in front of Caspian, I can feel every inch of him. I can feel the steady rise of his breath, his arm brushing against mine as he adjusts the reins, and worst of all, his thigh pressing against mine every time the horse shifts.

  But none of that compares to the most single, horrifying fact that is eating away at the side of my brain like a rat.

  He definitely saw my butt.

  I felt the cloak slip, heard the faint intake of a breath behind me, and I hadn’t dared turn around to face it. And now, here we are. Me, sitting stiff as a statue. Him, sitting calm and silent, like nothing had happened. Of course, he’s calm. He’s Caspian. A soldier. A duke. A man who has probably seen a thousand battlefield horrors and scars far worse than a clumsy girl flashing him in the woods.

  He was married before, he’s seen butts.

  But it was my butt…

  The thought has been circling my mind for hours. How can I spend another night next to him?! Genevieve, you clumsy idiot!

  My face burns against the cold morning breeze, and I shift slightly forward, as if a few inches will help lessen the thick air between us. It doesn’t. Caspian tightens his hold on the reins, pulling me instinctively back against his warm chest.

  “Sit still,” he murmurs, his breath brushing past my ear, causing heat to flood up my neck all over again.

  I force myself to focus on the changing view ahead; the forest thinning, the plains opening and the sound of hooves as the land becomes more barren with frost.

  “You’re quiet,” Caspian says, addressing the stretch of silence.

  “Mmhm,” I hum curtly, refusing to elaborate.

  His chest gently rises with an amused huff. “Cold?”

  “No,” I mumble. “Just…mortified.”

  He doesn’t press further. He doesn’t have to; he knows what I’m referring to.

  We ride on, the landscape opening to old, abandoned posts. Ahead, near the crumbling edge of a stone wall, a figure stands. Its silhouette is layered in robes and gold, and the glint of steel at its belt shines in the sun.

  Caspian’s grip becomes firm as more figures join into view, their horses pawing at the earth. I thought we were only meeting Pavlore?

  Make-shift tents appear from behind them, and my heart jumps.

  It’s a camp. This is no secret meeting…

  “There,” he says under his breath, the sharp edge of his voice returning. “Pavlore.”

  Is he not concerned? Did he expect this?

  I square my shoulders and take a breath, silently praying that Pavlore cannot read anxiety from a mile away.

  We get closer, and it’s apparent that this isn’t just a casual meet-up. Men shift in the shadows of the tents, sharpening their curved blades and tending to…camels? At least that’s the closest thing I could describe them to. They have the body shape of a camel, horns of oxen, and the head of a buffalo. The men seem restless, like they’re waiting for a signal to appear.

  Caspian swings off his horse in one clean motion, his cloak rippling in the cold wind as his boots touch the ground. Without looking at me, Caspian offers me his hand, his gaze focused on the men. I take his hand without question and awkwardly slide down the large horse, my feet crunching the frost-hardened ground.

  The man at the centre, with black fabric wrapped snugly across the lower half of his face, steps forward. His eyes are the first thing I notice; they’re sharp and unyielding. He wears a silver hammered helmet, carved with intricate designs, and covers it with a cream scarf. The scarf wrapping reminds me of the Bedouin nomads, covering their faces and heads for secrecy and protection. He appears nothing short of a true desert warrior. His long, decorated robe sweeps back far enough to reveal a jewelled, curved blade at his hip as he walks.

  “Caspian, my friend.” His voice is rich in tone and has an unknown accent. A familiar one, nevertheless. “You’re late.”

  I further assess the man’s hidden face and realise I’ve met him before. Caspian spoke to him before we rode into Arrton. He looks a lot different in his natural clothing than the bulk of metal he was hiding in before.

  Caspian’s mouth tilts in a faint smirk. “Pavlore, my old friend.”

  They clasp forearms, a greeting I haven’t seen used here before. Must be a Paraman thing.

  “I have men for you,” Pavlore says, releasing him. Allies. “But they won’t fight on words alone. They want to hear you, my friend. They want to see if the man matches the myth.” His eyes flick past Caspian to me. “And I see you brought…unexpected company.”

  My spine straightens, and I hold my breath at his sharp gaze.

  “She’s under my protection,” Caspian says smoothly, without further explanation.

  Pavlore hums and slowly nods his head. He holds the hilt of his dagger and circles us slowly. “I hope your reasons for dragging a storm into my camp are good ones.”

  Caspian’s jaw tightens, as if remembering something. “Do you have what I asked for?”

  Pavlore pauses and reaches into his flowing sleeves. He pulls out two thin bands of amber, etched with faint swirling symbols. They shimmer oddly in the light, like they’re alive with dancing gold dust.

  “Gems from the western oasis. They hold ferra and omit ferra. If both are worn, they will reveal each other’s location.” Pavlore explains before handing one over. “She’ll need it if you want to keep her secret.”

  Caspian takes the first bracelet and reaches for my wrist before I can react. His fingers are strong but delicate as he fastens it into place. The band tightens and clicks softly, and an orange glow spreads from Caspian’s finger onto the bracelet's clasp, and he lets go.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I pull instinctively at it.

  But it doesn’t budge.

  “I won’t bother,” Pavlore says dryly, watching me with a flicker of amusement and suspicion. “It only comes off when he says so.”

  My breath hitches. “Seriously?!”

  Caspian’s expression doesn’t flicker. “It’s for your safety.”

  I glare at him, and he raises his brow as if urging me to do something about it. Safety my ass. It’s a fucking tracker.

  Pavlore turns slightly, the wind tugging at his robe. “As for what you asked me for, Caspian. I have found a little more information. However, my people are old, but not old enough to explain what you’re facing. The Pawell was after their time. If you’re looking for true answers…you’ll need to go older. Further. To where the stones will speak louder than records.” His gaze sharpens. “The huts of Eibera. The oldest tribe on Arathus, they were here before the ferra. They’ll know.”

  Caspian bites the inside of his cheek as he puts his bracelet on. Brushing it with his finger as if Pavlore’s words made it weigh a thousand times heavier.

  Behind us, the camp stirs, and a low wave of murmurs and glances cast our way.

  “They won’t hide her forever. Power draws power, and she’s glowing more than you think.” Pavlore’s gaze hardens on me, and Caspian follows his eyes’ destination, and for a moment, they both look at me.

  I swallow a lump of air in my throat and look awkwardly between the men, until their gaze follows back to the camp.

  Pavlore lifts a hand, and the lingering men in earshot scatter like trained hounds. Fires are stamped, swords sheathed, and the low hum of conversation is dampened until the three of us are the only ones in the heart of the silence.

  Caspian tips his head slightly towards me, his voice low. “Stay close.”

  Translation: Don’t wander off, don’t speak, maybe don’t even breathe.

  I cross my arms, tucking my hands under the cloak to hide the tremble in them and keep my mouth firmly shut. If something happens here, I’m not even sure if Caspian can help me get out of it.

  Pavlore’s smile becomes slim as he leads Caspian into the camp. “You’re bleeding resources thin, old friend.”

  Caspian follows sharply, his boots asserting his power with each step. “You’ve been saying that since the siege of Cuverock.”

  “And I spoke true, did I not?” Pavlore says softly. “You’re too careful, Caspian. Always thinking three moves ahead. But the people? They don’t wait for strategies. They wait for moments.” He throws his gaze over his shoulder to the waiting men behind him. “You should know by now. They want fire.”

  “They’ll have it,” Caspian murmurs lowly to Pavlore, so low that even I almost miss it.

  Pavlore’s eyes narrow in approval.

  Then, Caspian’s voice becomes even more hushed and calculated. “And where do you stand on the maiden?”

  Pavlore glances toward me, head tilting. “She wears the shape of trouble.” Caspian did say that they’re spiritual people. Can he see auras?

  …and mine is troublesome? He sounds like those fake ‘fortune tellers’ in the dodgy vans at fairs.

  “She’s under control.”

  “Is she?” There’s no malice in his question, but it’s edged with enough curiosity that it’s sharp enough to cut. “You’re not a man to keep strays.”

  “She’s not a stray. She can be of use to us.” Of use to us? I thought he wanted me hidden…Is he using me as a political tactic? A distraction in this war?

  He’s not planning to use me as a tool for this war…right?

  That pulls Pavlore’s full attention. His eyes flick to Caspian’s hand, which is adorned with the amber bracelet.

  “...Mm.” Pavlore smiles slightly, like a man who dangles a toy just out of a cat’s reach because he enjoys watching the chase. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  He turns, robe flicking in the dust. “The huts of Eibera will test you both.”

  Caspian’s expression doesn’t shift. “I expected nothing less.”

  Pavlore inclines his head once, a squint playing on his eyes as he drags them back over to me. “If you fall, Caspian…Make sure it’s not for the wrong thing.” What does he mean by that?

  Without delay, he strides into the camp, his figure swallowed by his red and gold cape, and disappears with the smoke of the smothered fires.

  Caspian lingers for a breath longer, looking into the brewing dust, lost in thought for a moment.

  He then turns to me.

  “It’s time,” he says simply.

  My throat feels dry. “Time for what?”

  His mouth lifts, it’s not quite a smile, but it lightens my anxiety. “To see if the myth lives up to the story.”

  Caspian walks into the dense smoke, and I watch for a moment before taking a breath and following him through.

  Pavlore steps aside as Caspian strides towards the gathered men. They stand in a loose semicircle. Some are armoured, some cloaked, but they all watch with the same wary stillness of men who have seen too many promises broken.

  Caspian stops just short of the central fire. His cloak stirs in the wind, the faint gleam of the amber bracelet catching the light as he puts his hand on his chest.

  “I know why you hesitate.” His voice cuts through the flame's crackle and the wind's soft whips. “I, too, would hesitate, watching borders shift, kingdoms fall, and rulers claiming what was never theirs to take.”

  “?, ???, ????? ????????, ???????? ??????? ?????, ???????? ????, ??? ?????? ???????? ???? ??? ?????? ?????? ?? ????.” Pavlore repeats to the men in his own tounge.

  He turns slightly, sweeping his gaze over them.

  “I stand here not as a duke, not as a soldier, nor even as an exile. I stand before you as a man. A man who has bled upon the same ground you now stand, whose hands are scarred as yours are scarred. I stand not for titles, nor lands, but something older than borders, stronger than the chain of oaths.” Caspian places his fist to his heart. “For the right of every soul here to draw a breath, without bowing their heads and emptying their coffers.”

  “I know I am a stranger—a man of blood ferra. But Hadreil’s line has been run amok, his blood a shadow of its once glory. Greed and poison run through their veins, their line of males, ruined.” Pavlore speaks louder, as if outwardly agreeing with Caspian. “They cast the poor aside and punish them for it. Nesseth commands an army that attacks the innocent, orphans the young and pushes for his purse to be filled before that of his people. Rebels who only want freedom are skinned and hanged on stakes.”

  The men are silent but shift in their places. The air is so thick that even I find myself holding my breath as his words harden and his eyes sharpen like drawn steel.

  “You will not follow me because of a title, nor a story. But because soon you will no longer have a choice.”

  He lets that hang in the air for a moment, and the men adjust their positions. Caspian’s voice drops to a low, lethal tone.

  “Nesseth moves on Paraman.”

  “??????? ?????? ??...???????.”

  The men murmur, and the hands on their hilts tighten. Pavlore stops translating momentarily, letting the information digest, looking at Caspian with nervousness. He stands straighter and turns back to his men to continue translating.

  “I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But I will know soon,” Caspian says evenly. “And when I do, you will have the chance to stand…or to watch. The option is up to you, but I will fight and die with the men beside me.”

  Pavlore leans forward slightly, watching his men stiffen as the weight of Caspian’s words settles over them. Then, a slow smile creeps onto Pavlore’s mouth. “The myth lives.”

  My eyes turn and scan Caspian as he stands tall, the wind dancing through his hair. He’s a natural leader. This is more than just a war…this is liberty.

  He’s fighting for freedom.

  Unbeknownst to me, something shifts from inside myself. It could be anything, but slowly, I know that my hatred is turning into…admiration.

  Caspian glances once at Pavlore before stepping back towards me.

  “We’ll eat here and ride out.”