Tobius scrunched up the parchment and tossed it aside.
“They can’t do that; half of our trade is through Dawnhill! The kingdom will fall into ruin!” Oren Harrin gasped. He pulled out a pair of thick-lensed glasses and began flipping pages through one of the books he had brought in.
Isec could see the man doing the calculations in his head of what this would cost the crown. But who was going to speak up for the people that this decision would devastate?
“Not to mention, tens-of-thousands owe their livelihoods to trade with Ashen,” Isec added. “Farmers, fishers, wineries, tailors, cobblers, the traders themselves. The lowborns in the kingdom rely on our dealings with Ashen.”
“I know, I know!” Tobius said, throwing his hands up.
Hart Moralis stepped in, calm and delicate as ever as he spoke. “It is nothing more than a mere show of force, my king.”
“It is a slap to Caldaea’s face,” Tobius spat. “And now with their prince’s injury, I fear that this cut to our trade lines may be permanent.”
Oren Harrin shook his head, as if not being able to comprehend it any further. The skeletal man was panicked.
“My king, the crown cannot survive this. It would shatter our economy. The peasantry will be in an uproar- and who will they turn to to blame for their starving and their poverty?” Oren Harrin gasped.
“Us,” Hart Moralis said coolly.
Isec gulped. What on Eos is going to happen to us?
Tobius huffed. “Moon Mother, protect us all. I sense great peril on Alyria’s horizon. The Broken Coast faces invasion from a foreign empire. Camridia’s queen is dead, and the king will soon follow her. And now Ashen breaks its ties with Caldaea and the Midlands and has effectively ruined the very prosperity that I have been building, stone by stone, for the last thirty fucking years.”
“We need to act now, my king,” Isec said sternly. “We cannot sit back and allow this to happen. Surely we can send word to our emissaries to come to some sort of arrangement with Ashen.”
Hart Moralis winced. “I’m afraid, that is not possible.”
The king raised an eyebrow. “And why not?”
“I just received a message from our emissaries in Dawnhill, only minutes ago,” Hart Moralis said with a sigh. “The city guard is forcing them out as we speak. After the ‘attack’ on Crown Bay, as they are labelling it, the Commander is not taking any chances until the king returns. Our diplomats have been ordered to leave Dawnhill.”
“Fuck it!” Tobius shouted. “Those shit-eating rats are cutting us off!”
“They are scapegoating us,” Oren Harris realised.
Hart Moralis nodded, tapping his fingers against the back of his hand. “And with Prince Wesley having attacked Prince Petir, I fear that Ashen now has more than sufficient reason to completely sever ties with us.”
Isec could not believe what he was hearing. “What do we do?” he said.
“Captain,” Tobius said, “close off the city. I want no Blacktree within a fucking mile of us at any time, you hear me? Moralis, send a message to Dawnhill. Tell them I request a meeting with King Emery in ten days’ time on neutral grounds. I wager that will give him enough time to have calmed down.
“Batir, I want you to gather a small force to bring with us. A thousand men should be plenty. We will not be attending any armistice without reinforcements. Harrin, prepare the navy. Every ship must be manned and out at sea from here on out. I am not taking a fucking chance with these bastards.”
“And what are we preparing for, exactly?” Oren Harrin said.
“Anything… anything and everything.” The king rose and hobbled out of the throne room.
Isec attempted to make out the king’s rambling whispers, but his efforts were futile.
Bring a small army to an armistice? Preparing the navy for war? Has he truly lost it this time?
Chapter 27 - Dead Man Walking
Tomas shuffled forward in what felt to be an endless march, with ankles and wrists chained together. He had spent much of the journey with his head down, staring at his own shoes. The world seemed to pass by in a constant blur.
Nothing mattered anymore. Rilan was gone, dead. Left to rot in the snow. They hadn’t even had time to dig him or the others who had been killed a proper grave.
He couldn’t believe it. At first, he was certain that it was some sort of vivid nightmare. But as the days passed, the realisation became more and more apparent.
Rilan was gone.
Tomas’s bandaged fists were aching terribly after lashing out at Ref on the night of the attack. His knuckles were split and swollen beneath the linens, yet the pain was somehow numb.
Numb in comparison to the ache he felt inside.
A familiar voice spoke at him. “Tomas, we need you to help guide us. We know not which path to take next.” It was Landry.
Captain Gharland’s company had made it to the foothills of the Creator’s Fist- the long mountain range that split the north of Alyria in two.
Mooncrest Mountain, their destination, was still a ways off but rose from the snowy landscape before them like an imposing goliath of stone and ice.
The foothills of the mountains were a labyrinth of rocky cliffs and gullies, stripped bare of most vegetation by blasts of icy winds. The land itself appeared dead.
“Tomas, please. Say something. We need your help,” Landry begged, patting Tomas on the shoulder. He refused to speak.
He thought back to Winterglade. The warmness of the inn they had stopped at. His conversations with the barmaid Hila. Her gorgeous smile and her soft lips against his cheek.
He thought back to Hollowhill. The tide of refugees fleeing their burning town.
The boy.
The boy Tomas had ridden past, with a
