Page 101 of An Archer's Redemption

I chuckled and shrugged off each question.

None of them mattered.

I loved Declan Rea more than life itself. I loved him with the force of a storm crossing the sea, with the swell of the rising tide, with the dawning of every new day that ever brightened the sky.

Seeing Declan smile, watching him flick his unruly curls or run fingers through his tangled mess, filled me with warmth more powerful than any flame.

It made no sense.

It felt like I had leaped off a towering cliff and fell . . . and continued to fall . . . and would forever fall.

My entire life revolved around my family name, our wealth, our power and position. My entire future was designed to become Lord Byrne, to fulfill all of the duties and expectations that came with that title: I would grow strong, learn well, marry, sire heirs, and rule.

That was the plan. It was what my father had taught me since the day I could understand his words. It was the banner on which my mother stitched all her hopes.

And then I met Declan.

Fucking Declan Rea.

The moment our eyes met that first time, I knew my life had changed forever. I might not have understood how, but I knew it would never again be the same.

I knew he would be part of my life until I had no more life to live.

And my heart swelled with that knowledge.

Now, separated by a continent and a sea—and divided by magic’s whim—my duty included him. More aptly, my duty was bound to him as much as any person or city or nation.

I was his.

And he was mine.

How had the Spirits shone so brightly on me? Why had they favored me thus?

My cheeks pinched as I smiled too broadly for my face.

When Declan returned and could finally be himself again, I would make sure his family of green-cloaked men and women were there to welcome him home. He might now be an immensely powerful hero, something that still confounded and terrified me in equal measure, but he remained Declan, the boy who craved acceptance and love as much as any man, perhaps more so.

I would see him embraced if it stole my last breath.

He deserved that much.

He deserved so much more.

Ideas swirled like fish in a frenzy. I hoped I could remember each thought when I finally returned to begin the work. Still, it felt good to lean into something useful, something that mattered. It felt important.

Of the thousands of Rangers who served prior to the invasion, only a handful, perhaps fewer than a hundred, remained. Most of those would still be posted in coastal towns or standing guard on our eastern border, the border where Melucia abutted neighbors who barely owned weapons, much less armies. Their presence served to quell the occasional smuggler or bandit more than guard against an enemy force.

We would need to rethink that strategy. Perhaps the Guard could take over the eastern watch. Constables might serve better for those duties, freeing up dozens or more to join the western rebuilding effort.

Rebuilding.

I stepped through the tree line and froze.

Grove’s Pass—or the shell of where Grove’s Pass once stood—spread before me.

My heart fell into my shoes.

Only a few buildings still stood. Most were skeletons of their former selves, haunted specters of wood smeared with char and ash.

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