The surviving soldiers of the Black Watch did not survive the hour.
Malakor offered no parole, and Aurelia sought no mercy. In the harsh, frost-bitten borders of the northern provinces, prisoners were an anchor that dragged marching columns down to the bone. When the last iron-shod boot ceased kicking in the mud, they stripped the supply wagons of grain, dried venison, and fresh leather, setting the rest ablaze.
The fire climbed high into the wet night, casting long, jagged shadows against the sheer granite face of Mount Sorrow.
Down at the lower bend of the switchback, four heavy draft horses stood shivering in the dark, their coats steaming beneath heavy wool blankets. Malakor severed the traces of the two strongest beasts with a flick of his belt knife and swung a battered military saddle over the roan gelding.
"The mountain roads converge at Oak haven," Malakor said, pulling the cinch tight with a brutal tug of his forearms. The leather groaned in protest. "It's an imperial waystation. Three days' ride if we push through the night, four if the snows in the high passes turn to ice."
Aurelia stroked the velvet muzzle of the second mount, a lean black mare whose flanks bore the brand of the Concord's royal couriers. The beast was trembling, but it possessed the deep-chested frame of an animal bred for endless endurance.
"Oak haven sits along the arterial trade line to the capital," she said, glancing over the gelding’s flank to meet Malakor's gaze. The orange glare of the burning wagons flickered across the sharp contours of his face, accentuating the fresh cut over his cheekbone and the unyielding coldness of his eyes. "The High Inquisitor will have garrisons fortified at every river crossing once Vane's failure reaches the court."
"Let him fortify," Malakor replied, turning to face her.
He didn't mount. Instead, he stepped into her space, his heavy presence crowding out the bitter wind that howled down the pass. He reached up, taking her chin between his rough thumb and forefinger, tilting her head back until her dark curls brushed the wet wool of her collar. His touch was firm, rough with the dried salt of rain and blood, yet there was a dangerous, possessive stillness in the way he held her.
"The ritual binding is settling in your marrow," he murmured, his thumb brushing slowly across her lower lip, testing the heat that radiated from her parted breath. "I feel the drag of your fatigue through the link. You burned half your life-force sealing that abyssal fracture."
"I am fine," she snapped, though her pulse betrayed her, leaping beneath the heavy pressure of his palm.
"You are half on your feet," Malakor countered, his voice dropping into a low, graveled warning that sent a slow, coiling heat straight through her belly. "And I have no intention of watching you topple into a ravine because your stubborn pride refuses to lean."
Before she could spit another defense, he caught her beneath the arms and lifted her onto the mare's saddle as though she weighed no more than a bundled cloak. Aurelia’s breath hitched at the effortless display of strength, her thighs gripping the wet leather as she caught the reins.
Malakor stepped back, mounting the roan with the fluid grace of a born predator. He pulled his hood up, shadowing his eyes, but she could still feel the smoldering amber heat of his stare boring into her profile.
"Stay beside me, Aurelia," he ordered softly, wheeling his horse toward the dark descent that led into the northern pine forests. "The world thinks we died in that crypt. We will let them celebrate until the shadows reach their throat."
Aurelia kicked her heels into the mare's flanks, matching his pace stride for stride as they plunged down the ruined switchback, leaving the burning pyre behind them to be swallowed by the mountain mist.