Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 24: What goes bump in the night

Another POV change! Grayson's POV

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"Bloody fucking hell, I feel like I've been shagged with a cheese grater."

Grayson arched a brow as Cedric let himself fall into the chair opposite him with a loud groan. He considered telling him off for his language, but it was a lost cause. After so many years of knowing him, he knew Cedric's foul mouth was as much a part of him as his loud laugh.

Instead, he filled a glass of water and pushed it across the desk towards Cedric, who grunted in approval and drank it down.

"What've you got for me?" he asked then, setting his papers down and looking at Cedric expectantly.

Cedric glared balefully. "I travel back and forth all through the night with no rest like hell is on my heels and this is the welcome I get? Some bloody friend you are, Blackwell."

Grayson clucked but stood and ambled over to where he'd left his own dinner, untouched, hours ago. He placed it in front of Cedric with a dry little bow. "Happy, m'lord?"

Cedric grinned and rubbed his hands. "Quite."

Grayson let himself fall back into his seat and rolled his wrist impatiently. "Well?"

"Hellish," he answered, wiping the chicken grease off his mouth with the back of his hand. "It was a right mess, and many of the men didn't want to leave, but I made them see reason. Staying there and being slaughtered like the rest of their soldiers isn't going to win us anything. They are more useful alive than they are in a ditch."

Grayson pressed his mouth grimly and nodded. The battle had been deadly the past couple of days. Many men had died when the fae attacked Woolmere and Hampton, but it hadn't stopped then. The men had wanted to keep going, undeterred, but it simply wasn't reasonable.

In the wake of Lord Hawthorne's supposed death, Grayson was now legitimately recognised as the leader of most of the troops in Woolmere. His orders had been to stand down and retreat, but he knew there wasn't a chance they would listen to him. Why would they? He was a spoilt young lord from another Duchy. These men had no reason to trust him or follow his orders. They were grieving and furious, wanting to avenge their fallen and protect their families, and no order from Grayson would suffice.

That's why he'd sent Cedric. Hart was a respectable commander, but above all, he was like them. He wasn't a silk-stocking nobleman with soft hands, he was a man who had been on the line countless of times. He knew rage, he knew loss, and he sure as hell knew how difficult it was to back down.

He was firm and reasonable, and he knew how to hold his own. It was a leader-like quality these men respected, and Grayson would forever be in awe of how he managed to be down-to-earth and charming, whilst still coming off as level-headed.

"They accepted, then?"

Cedric nodded and leaned back in his seat, nibbling on a piece of bread. "They agreed to your request. They decided amongst themselves who would stay behind and who would come to Codshire. They designated a leader and he'll come with the troops when they travel in a few days."

"Good. It's all going well, then." Grayson folded his hands on the desk and sighed in relief. He hadn't realised how tense his shoulders had been pinched until they'd finally eased.

It was still gloomy outside, and it would be a few hours before the sun rose, but he hadn't gone to bed, nor would he for a long time to come. There were too many preparations underway.

His uncle's men would be divided in half, some would come to Codshire to be integrated with his own troops, and the others would lay low in Woolsmere. It wasn't safe, but as long as they kept to themselves and acted as civilians, the Fae would leave them alone.