Chapter 42 - New discoveries
The dining hall's fire crackled low, casting a warm flicker over the long oak table—half-eaten roast boar glistened faintly, wine cups glowed red in the dim light, but the air hung tense, heavy with unspoken weight.
The king leaned forward, his gray beard shifting as he spoke, his voice steady yet laced with a growing strain that pulled every eye to him. "Maltheris isn't slowing down," he said, his gaze sweeping the generals, then settling briefly on Liam, Kael, and the girls. "The military's running on fumes—border towns are getting hit harder every week. Graveth and Slymere took heavy blows just days apart—troops pouring in, causing havoc." He tapped the table with a thick, calloused finger, the wood giving a soft thud—his crown caught the firelight, a dull gleam against his dark robe as he shook his head. "We're holding, but it's costing us more than we can spare."
A general to his left shifted in his seat—broad-shouldered, gray hair cropped tight, a jagged scar slicing his cheek from jaw to brow—his voice came out low and gravelly, like he'd shouted too many orders. "Graveth held its ground," he said, setting his cup down with a sharp clink that echoed in the quiet. "Caught 'em at the river bend—two dozen troops, light armor, fast blades—cut 'em down before they hit the mills. Lost six of my men, though—solid fighters, not green kids." He rubbed his jaw with a rough hand, his eyes narrowing—victory felt hollow with graves freshly dug.
Another general spoke next—lean and bald, a burn scar twisting the skin along his neck—his tone clipped and dry. "Slymere fought off troops but they caused quite the trouble on the outskirts before we pinned 'em. Killed most, chased the rest into the woods—cost us eight good souls." He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest—pride warred with fatigue in his voice, his burned neck catching the light as he sighed.
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The king nodded, but his brow creased deeper—his fingers drummed the table now, a restless rhythm against the wood. "Victories—clean ones, I'll grant you—but they're gnawing at us," he said, his voice dropping lower, almost a growl. "Troops are bone-tired, supplies are stretched thin—each fight chips away a little more. Maltheris isn't throwing his full weight—just jabbing, wearing us down, working us out like a hunter bleeding prey." He glanced around the table, the fire popping loudly in the stillness—generals shifted uncomfortably, their scarred faces tightening—Liam chewed a bite of bread slowly, Kael sipped his wine with a steady hand, and the girls sat quiet and listening—the room felt the truth settle in, heavy and cold.
Liam swallowed his bread, setting his fork down with a faint clatter—his voice broke the quiet, rough but firm as he leaned forward. "A lot's happened since I left the capital," he said, his eyes flicking to the king, then around the table. "Borders were tense back then, but nothing like this. It's bigger now, uglier." He rested his elbows on the table, his cloak rustling—the weight of weeks on the road pressed into his words, his brow furrowing as memories of quieter days clashed with the chaos he'd seen.
The king met his gaze, nodding slowly—gray eyes sharp with understanding—but before he could respond, Lysandra's voice cut through, cool and clear.
She sat up straighter, her silver hair catching the fire's glow as it spilled over her shoulders—her silver eyes flicked to Kael, then back to the king. "Kael made an observation in Lorvayne—might be worth hearing," she said, her tone calm but deliberate—her hand rested lightly on her wine cup, fingers still as stone.
Every head turned—generals craned their necks, the girls shifted, and Liam's jaw twitched—all eyes landed on Kael as he set his cup down—eyes steady, no trace of his usual smirk.
The king tilted his head, his beard brushing his chest—his voice curious but firm. "What'd you see, then? Out with it."
Kael leaned forward, elbows settling on the table—his voice came even and deliberate, repeating what he'd told them back at the pub in Lorvayne. "Maltheris isn't moving randomly—his troops hit particular spots, specific towns—Graveth, Slymere, Lorvayne's docks, Drenvar—all spread out, all light raids," he said, his green eyes scanning the room, emphasizing each point. "It makes us think he's sending waves, keeping us scrambling—but it's planned. These aren't his main force—just scouts, skirmishers—wearing us thin while his real army gears up somewhere else, out of sight." He paused, letting the words sink—the fire snapped, wine cups sat untouched—his observation hung sharp and clear, cutting through the room's haze.
The king leaned back in his chair, one hand stroking his gray beard slowly—his eyes narrowed as he turned Kael's reasoning over in his mind. "Planned, you say," he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful—fingers tracing the coarse hair—then he nodded once, firm and decisive. "Makes sense—too much sense, damn it. Victories piling up, clean kills—Graveth, Slymere, Lorvayne—yet we're stretched, bleeding slow—it all fits." He stopped stroking, his hand dropping to the armrest—his gaze drifted for a moment, frustration flickering across his face. "How'd I not see this sooner? His troops dancing us ragged while the real hammer waits—clever bastard." He shook his head, then looked at Kael—respect clear in his gray eyes. "Sharp eyes—damn good catch, Lorvayne's hero—I wish I'd had you here months back."
Liam's jaw clenched tight—his fork scraped his plate with a harsh screech—anger simmered low, fuming at the side—Kael's words rang true, no arguing that, but the king's praise burned—Lorvayne's chaos flashed in his mind, their dock clash, now this—his knuckles whitened around his cup, wine sloshing faintly.
The generals murmured agreement—scar-cheek nodding slow and gruff, burn-neck grunting low—Lysandra's silver eyes flicked Liam's way, cool and assessing— Selene smirked faintly, her tail swaying lazily—Erynn frowned, her green eyes darting between them— Kael sat steady, green gaze calm, no gloat.
Maltheris loomed clearer—Liam's heat stayed quiet, smoldering under his skin.
The king straightened, his voice rising firm—cutting through the murmurs like a blade. "If you're right—and it damn well looks it—we're chasing ghosts while the real fight brews," he said, his eyes sweeping them all—firelight danced on his crown—urgency hardened his tone. "We've won battles—good ones, hard-fought—but it's a feint, a slow bleed—Maltheris is playing us for fools." He tapped the table again—wood thudded—drawing every gaze sharp. "We need a plan or we're finished before winter."
Liam's fume simmered—Kael's nod was slight—girls leaned in—generals braced—Eryndor teetered—conversation turned—Maltheris waited, its shadow growing long.
