The wagons groaned under the weight of the bullion chests, their heavy timber axles greased with tallow stripped from the garrison kitchens.
By noon, Oak haven was a plume of oily black smoke smoldering against the gray sky behind them. The four discarded supply wagons had been smashed and shoved off the timber pier into the river flume, their crushed frames choking the sluice gates until the reservoir overflowed, drowning the lower town in three feet of freezing, muddy foam. No imperial rider would cross the Iron River by that ford before winter set in.
Malakor rode at the point of their small column on the great roan, leading the two commandeered treasure wagons. Behind them trotted a string of ten prime cavalry coursers stripped of their gilded saddles and tied neck-to-rein.
Aurelia brought up the rear on the courier mare, her hood pulled low against the sleet that had begun to drift across the foothills. Her twin curved blades rested cleaned and freshly oiled across her saddlebow, but her senses were cast wide, probing the mist.
The silver tether in her core was alive, humming like a drawn bowstring.
Ever since their shared blood had sealed the abyssal gate at Mount Sorrow, the boundary between her mind and Malakor’s had thinned. She could feel the steady, rhythmic furnace of his sovereign aura beating against the cold air twenty paces ahead. She felt the predatory calculation in his thoughts—mapping terrain, counting leagues, gauging the loyalty of the sell sword captains who held the western passes.
And beneath the calculation, she felt his hunger for her. It was a constant, low ember that flared with sudden, fierce heat whenever his eyes caught hers in the gloom.
Malakor signaled a halt at the crest of a shale ridge where the pine forests gave way to the rolling scrub of the Western Barrens.
The wind here blew bitter and dry, carrying the scent of limestone dust and dead scrub-oak. Ahead lay the great sunken road—the old dwarven trade cut known as the Serpent’s Trench—which ran forty leagues straight toward the granite bastions of Val-Roc.
He wheeled the roan around and rode back along the column, stopping his mount alongside her mare. The beast huffed, steam billowing from its wide nostrils as Malakor looked down at her.
"The cipher checks out," Aurelia said, tapping the black iron cylinder tucked into her belt. "The western mercenary companies are under the command of General Kaelen—a disgraced noble from the Old Kingdom. Thorne’s ledgers show Kaelen hasn't received payment for his five thousand spears in over four moons."
"Kaelen fought under my father at the Siege of the Red Mere," Malakor murmured, his jaw setting hard as memory darkened his amber eyes. "He is an old dog who cares nothing for the Solar Concord’s holy pyres. He fights for bread, wine, and vengeance against the High Inquisitor who took his lands."
"And two wagons of unrefined silver bullion?" she asked, an arch smile touching her lips.
"Will buy his spears, his archers, and his absolute silence," Malakor replied.
He leaned across the space between their mounts, catching the back of her head in his broad, calloused hand. His fingers buried themselves into the damp curls beneath her hood, tilting her face up to meet his unyielding gaze. His thumb brushed along the edge of her lower lip, parting her breath in the cold air.
"You haven't slept three hours in the last two days," he said softly, the rough timber of his voice carrying an unyielding command laced with fierce possession. "When we reach the Trench’s way-station tonight, you sleep. Understood?"
Aurelia’s hand rose, her fingers curling over the heavy steel plates of his vambrace, feeling the sovereign heat radiating from his skin. "I will sleep when the silver is in Kaelen’s vaults, Malakor. Not a moment before."
Malakor’s eyes flared with dark amusement, his grip tightening in her hair for a breathless heartbeat before his mouth brushed hers, hot and rough against the biting wind.
"Stubborn little wolf," he growled against her lips. "Then ride fast. The road to Val-Roc does not wait for the weary."