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“Thank you.”

Not one man seemed fully intact as the ship returned to port. The other Iron Claws were already there, sitting peacefully on the harbor's waters as if they had not just returned from horrors out at sea.

“You have nothing to thank me for,” Iros said.

They both looked thrashed about, dirty, sunburnt, and exhausted. If a person were to see them in the streets, they would not guess that they were men holding high titles.

They collapsed on a bench not too far from the pier, trying to catch their breath and get the sway of the water out of their gait.

“A thanks and an apology,” Ivan said, itching the back of his head where the salt water dried and crusted, irritating his skin. “It was not my place, not my rank. I was… out to prove something. Perhaps many things.”

Iros sighed, allowing his head to drop back and closing his eyes.

“I have no business dealing with the naval forces. I am a fortunate man that you had come when you did.”

“I do not intend to stay.”

“Hm?” Iros opened his eyes, and the line between his brows creased. “I do not think the Iron Claws will recognize any other commander now. Today, we have departed from the times of peace at sea. Today, they needed a leader, and they chose one.”

The sky was losing light and gaining color. Ivan stayed quiet for a minute, looking up at it, his face only showing the slightest drop of the corners of his mouth.

“I’m going North.” He finally said although he rubbed his thumbs nervously together at the words.

Iros looked at him with disbelief.

“A change of heart.” He said, “Makes one curious as to what had gone on with the Rusalka.”

“A revelation,” Ivan answered with a serious tone.

“What you’ve done was both foolish and brash.” Iros said, “I hope that you are not repeating that mistake now.”

“Was it not yourself that told me that I was to go?”

Iros shook his head.

“I told a different person this. Your motivations are your own, but if I can speak bluntly - Ivan - with her, there is no hope. They are as bound to one another as any two people can be. If that is why you go, I will turn a blind eye to my duty to spare you the hardship if you stay.”

“I know.” Ivan sighed, his own words taking him by surprise. “I should have known it from the very moment I had met her, but how could I? She was never anyone else’s to have.”

“Then why do you go?”

“Because,” he took a level breath, “I still believe that she can do good. Good that no one else can. I swore to myself I would see to it that she never come to harm from mortal men - and there are many closing in on her now. I want to be a part of what she is doing, even if I must stand at arms length.”

Iros considered him with an unreadable expression.

“You are a good man, Ivan.” He said, his voice tired. “And I am glad that of all the people she could have come across, it was you.”

“Would have been a whole lot easier if it wasn’t.” Ivan laughed, but there was no mirth to it.

The two sat in silence, watching the up-and-down movement of the ships on the water, glad to have land beneath their feet.

When they returned to the commander’s post, they were met with many armored men standing outside. Iros’ face immediately took on a stern expression, his posture straightening.

“General,” one of them greeted him. His voice shook with certain admiration. “The governor has returned - your presence is requested at once.”

“Thank you.” Iros nodded.

Ivan did not move to join him, but the High Templar stopped in the doorway and motioned for him to enter.

“Come, I doubt Governor Naeem knows a blacksmith from a captain; you are always welcome at my side.”

Lord Naeem was seated at the desk that Iros had previously occupied. His face was fallen, his eyes nervously darting about the discarded papers on the desk. When the door opened to reveal the two men, he looked as if he was going to let his spirit depart.

“General!” He exclaimed, his voice shaking. “I had not known! But I have been away to the east, and I return– to this? Oh, All-Father above…”

“Your Lordship.” Iros greeted the man. It would have seemed more formal if the High Templar did not at that time, have so much in common with a fishing net, both by accessory and smell. Lord Naeem did not seem to notice this.

“...the East is gone, the sea serpent coming toward land, a number of Iron Claws lost to the depths –and Nashtuun has fallen! What have I done to deserve such as this…” He kept mumbling, dropping his head into his hands.

Both the men stood deathly still.

Nashtuun had fallen…?

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“Yaro?”

“Eh?”

“Do you know how to get to the Western Wound?”

She joined him out in the gardens. Since returning from Nashtuun with Marat, the man had free roam of the entire palace. Although no official title had been granted, Yaro could be found in most war-related meetings behind closed doors.

And there were many now.

“Why would you want to go there?” He asked, his brows raising suspiciously. “It-s on the northern line; no s-en-se going back there.”

“I need to know.” Val insisted. She sat on the other side of the bench where he was lounging.

“You go we-st. Then you go north. Then you turn around and go home.” He shook his head. “I thought you’d been there already?”

“I have, but,” she uneasily remembered how much she used to rely on Marat to lead them, so much so that she hardly ever knew where they were, “I need to know how to get there from here.”

He eyed her with even more suspicion than before.

“Ember S-word know you’re a-sking?” He said.

“I would appreciate discretion for the time being.” She said flatly. She could not go to Marat, not yet. Not while he was spending each day busy with the refugees.

Yaro nodded but seemed unconvinced.

“It-s a long way. Can’t take the main road, either. Gotta s-tick to the des-ert mountain-s. Cro-ss the river at Titan-s Pa-ss, head north.” He motioned with his hands as if tracing a map.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Titan’s Pass…” She muttered—the Iron Wall. She would have to go all the way there?

“You’re not going to make it, you know.” He warned her. “Can’t do the de-sert on your own.”

“Have you never done so? I thought you had gone everywhere?” She asked, purposefully meaning to press on his pride.

She and Yaro had been spending much time around each other since Iros had left, and Marat had been busy with the newfound reputation as a Savior of the South. She never expected to see the red-bearded man after what had happened with the mountain pass and the northern armies, but then he appeared at the same time as Marat. As friends.

The idea of Marat having friends at all still astonished Val.

“You’re not going to get me that way, mi-ss.” He shook his head. “You are half a-s tall and weigh a good tenth of what I do.”

“Yaro,” she allowed herself to show how desperate she was. “I cannot speak to… the Ember Sword.”

Gods. That name.

“...he is busy, with the second city falling it is chaos, the people sleep in the streets. I have to do something.” She glanced to the side, ensuring no one would hear. “I think I can trap it. But it has to be tied to a Wound because it doesn't have any threads of its own.”

“Every time you talk like that, I get indige-stion.”

“Yaro.” She was growing frustrated. “I know you are bored to death here; come with me then. You do not even care about the war.”

“There are other thing-s to care about here, Valeria.” He said. “Don’t you try to s-way me a-s if I am a s-impleton.”

She leaned against the backrest, defeated.

“If Ivan were here, he would…” She started saying and immediately regretted having opened her mouth about Ivan in front of Yaro. She felt his eyes singeing her.

“You don’t get to talk about him, Valeria.” He said point blankly.

“I’m sorry.”

“You s-hould have s-een him before he left. Heart ripped out and thrown to the goat-s.”

“Please, don’t.” She felt sick at the thought. She missed Ivan. But by gods, she missed him. He did not deserve to be treated as she had treated him. Right from the start.

Yaro sighed deeply.

“You want to go to the Wound; you talk to the Ember S-word.” He said, ending the conversation.

She sighed, bid Yaro a good day, and went off to look for Marat.

Val did not want to do this, the moment she told him - he would say that she could not. That the path was cut off, that they could not spare the men to take her.

He trusted her, but his heart outweighed his confidence. He would tell her to wait. He would be far more concerned about her safety.

And Yaro was right. Alone, she would not survive. She was not a fighter.

Val stopped at a second-story window overlooking the outside. Just beyond the gardens, a tall wooden fence was put up to separate the Alabaster Palace from the large courtyard. Tents were set up from that point and stretched all the way to the city center. The narrow streets of Barzah did not have the space, and anyone with any room to spare was forced to house the refugees from Nashtuun. She knew that the camps were set up outside the walls as well, but the unlucky people to have ended up there had a very long wait for food and water.

It was a heartbreaking sight. One that Val had been avoiding in shame.

Within the confines of the palace, it was peaceful, and life went on nearly as normal. There were a few more people as the nobility from the fallen city called in favors and secured their places in any spare quarters available. But, the air was calm aside from the stressed-out Marat rushing to and fro.

The devastation beyond it was something else. She could hear their cries from her window, day and night. Val did not feel she could take the sight of the people themselves. Marat had been out there all day, every day, and she had not so much as gone outside.

Val stopped in front of a side door that led to storage. Through there, she could get to the courtyard without being seen. She frowned at her clean, if plain, clothes and neatly braided hair. She knew that no one out there would have the same privilege.

Hesitantly, willing herself to push the door open, she stepped outside. The sun was hot, hotter than she anticipated. She took a deep breath and went toward the tall wooden fence. The guard there eyed her, but recognition crossed his face, and she thought she saw fear on it as he hurried to pull the latch and open the gate to the outside.

Immediately, she saw the makeshift tents. They were put together from whatever was available or provided by the crown. Some were made of cut dresses, some of hay covers, and more from linen sheets that did little to protect anyone from the elements. Clotheslines were hung amongst them, the desperation of the people to have any semblance of normalcy among the heartbreak. She smelled cooking fires despite the heat. The odor of unwashed bodies hung in the air even so far away from any people.

The murmur of voices rose ahead. She could hear dogs barking and somewhere, women shouted to each other as they tried to coordinate various daily tasks—an echo of what used to be their lives.

She felt the entirety of her body tense and twist inside; the flood of emotions that came was far more devastating than she could have thought.

People looked at her with hollow eyes and grayed, fallen faces as she passed, but no one spoke to her. Everywhere, she heard people repeating what had happened to them right before they left the city. So many recounted having to leave their loved ones behind when soldiers broke down the door and forced them outside - just to find out later that these acts had been to save their very lives.

Many of the refugees left behind children who had been gone or playing somewhere outside. They left elderly parents who had been adamant about staying still and hidden until the noise and explosions had ended. Soldiers had gone back to get the survivors since, but there were none.

She stopped outside of other tents where she could hear women speaking, their voices broken up by sobs.

One woman was at the tail end of her story; she found her husband drowned in a barrel of water as he was retrieving it for tea.

Another spoke of grabbing her child's hand and running when she heard the first of the explosions. They were halfway through the city following the crowds of their neighbors when her son tripped, his hand being torn out of hers. His head had hit a rock, and he did not stand back up. She tried to go back, but the mass of people pushed her forward.

A man spoke of his assistant in a butcher shop that was preparing a meat animal when the chain on which it was hung broke, and it fell - crushing him where he stood.

Here and there, she saw soldiers building shelters and latrines. Others handed out supplies and broke up fights as people tried to claim more than their fair share.

They put up poles with stretched canvas to create space for medical care. This was where she saw Marat. He was holding up a pole as another man secured it with ropes. When he saw her, her heart dropped - he looked at her with such surprise on his face. He had not expected her out there at all, and she hated herself for this.

“Val,” he said, motioning for another man to take over for him. He wiped the sweat off his face, although this was futile - it became drenched again within moments. “What are you doing out here?”

“I just…” she found it hard to speak. She was overwhelmed, stricken with grief at the sight of the people, and wanted nothing more than to leave this place.

He saw the look on her face. His remained rather blank, only exhaustion from the heat reddening his skin.

“I think maybe you should go back to the palace.” He said. “It is not safe out here. Not for you.”

“I want to help.” She said.

“Val, this is not what you think it is.” He shook his head. “These people are devastated, but they are also angry. It has been only days but fights and theft grow rampant. People with nothing to lose.”

“I see women volunteering.” She insisted, finding that she was growing angry. This was what she had expected of him - this was why she did not want to ask him about leaving to go west.

“They aren’t you.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Val…” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, tired and visibly getting irritated. “You think they won’t know you out here? The second they realize you’re ‘the Witch’ you will be swarmed with people asking things of you, wanting things, blaming you. They expected things from you in Nashtuun when they heard about who you are and why you were there. They will expect things still, things that they don’t realize you cannot do. I am tired, Val. It is very hot out here. And I do not have time to argue with you right now.”

She pursed her lips, wanting to say more, wanting to push back on his words. But she knew he was right. And to her disappointment, she felt relief at this.

“I must speak to you when you return.” She said quietly. He considered her but only nodded and did not say anything else.

As she made her way to the front gates, she began to see more eyes on her. Eyes that held recognition. It was not only from the people but the soldiers as well. She saw what Marat had been talking about. It sent a chill through her and hastened her steps, which in turn almost made her collide with General Asim.

He looked as tired as everyone else. He was not wearing any clothing that indicated rank, and his shoulders were slumped. He looked at her for a moment; his face, too, was surprised.

“Valeria.” He greeted her reluctantly. “You should not be out here.”

“I’m headed back now.” She said.

He paused on her, and she got the impression that he wanted to say more. There was a strangeness to his gritted jaw, almost as if the sight of her had been offputting to him.

“You should know,” he said, “Iros has arrived from the South. He has brought the scoutmaster with him. I think it best that you stay away from him.”

“What…” the word came almost as a whisper, and her eyes widened. She did not give him a chance to say anything else, grabbing her skirts and hurrying toward the gates.

She lost her breath as she ran up the steps of the palace, bursting through and glancing around as if she were going to see the two right by the door. She went through hallways and corridors, past gardens and baths, through the dining halls and lounges.

Finally, she came upon them as the two were bent over a map laid out on a table. Iros was pointing at something, and Ivan’s eyes followed his finger across the terrain. She stopped suddenly, and her steps made them both look up.

Ivan straightened, his face full of emotion.

“Valeria…”

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