Midnight Moon

Chapter 44 - Lordly Manners

The rivers will run red,

And the stars will hold no light.

House Risalus will rise

When the midnight moon shines bright.

Veanna tucked her knees against her chest, huddling deeper into her cloak as Ren's Foretelling span in her mind. She took deep, cold breaths, savouring these last moments of peace and safety. She sat facing the direction they had come, watching the sunset fading in the west. She didn't want to think about where they were going, about the moon looming on the horizon behind her.

They had set up camp on the frosted ground as sunrise turned the black night ashen that morning, and slept through the murky day. Now night was coming, whether she was ready for it or not.

"Taking a look at your kingdom, Princess?"

Veanna glanced over her shoulder as Neyerith approached. He strolled towards her, hands in pockets, as casually as though he was about to head to a feast, not a battle.

She gave him a thin smile. "Something like that." She hadn't been thinking of the landscape as hers, and yet it was true that she held dominion over every rolling hill, every flowing river, every farmstead and town tucked into the earth. For now, though, they were just hills, and she could stare calmly at the peaks and valleys as traces of washed-out pink clutched at the thinning clouds. "Does Tia need any help?"

The Outlander had been reviewing their equipment, cutting down the loads they carried to only essential items. She had told Veanna to rest, promising to fetch her if assistance was required.

Neyerith shook his head. "Nope. I tried to help but, apparently, I was "making her life more difficult", so she made me leave." He flopped down beside her, his expression full of mock heartbreak.

"I'm sure you weren't getting in her way at all," Veanna murmured, and he smirked. "What about Calu?"

"She has him holding things. When I left, he had an armful of bedrolls."

Veanna grinned, absently running her thumb over the finger that had been pricked for blood back at the temple; the spot healed over but sore.

"Are you doing alright?" he asked, nodding to her hand.

"It's fine - it's hardly a grave wound." Her smile faded, replaced by the tension of guilt. "How about you? You were hurt worse than me."

He shrugged. "I'm not too bad. I was only scratched, and the healer gave me some salve to speed up the recovery. Here, try some on your finger."

She almost called him out on the lie about his injury, but wordlessly took the small pot he pulled from his pocket. It held a pale grey ointment, which she dipped her finger into.

"Careful," Neyerith added, "It stings a bit."

As the words left his mouth, a wall of pain disproportionate to the tiny injury hit her. It was like blood was being taken again, only this time the blade was replaced with a hammer. Veanna clenched her jaw to stop herself from wincing. "It's fine," she said through gritted teeth, praying her eyes didn't water.

He arched his eyebrows but didn't comment. She held the pot out, but he shook his head. "Keep hold of it. I doubt it can fix mortal wounds, but it might help with... whatever happens tonight."

Veanna nodded, pocketing the pot and looking away. She bit her lip. "What's proper fighting like?"

Neyerith's expression darkened, his shoulders tightening and jaw clenching. "It's as horrible as people say. When some say it's glorious... They're not entirely wrong, but it's more physical exhilaration and the relief of not dying." He swallowed. "Nothing makes up for the death, though. Nobody ever tells you about the stink, the weight of a corpse, the cataloguing of deaths afterwards, the waiting to know whether loved ones made it through."