Page 47 of King's Warrior

“Yes. A massive sinkhole drove the villagers away. One of many in this area. Thankfully, the sinkhole claimed no lives.” Never had Niam been grateful for the ground collapsing, as this particular sinkhole led Rufe to him. “A sinkhole is how we discovered gold.”

“Then we went to your keep.” Rufe's sly smile spoke of shared memories when Niam’s incredible loneliness got the better of him, driving him to befriend an injured Cormiran and, later, to love him, though Niam dared not speak the words. They were casual lovers by unspoken agreement, nothing permanent, no matter how much Niam might wish otherwise.

What would Niam's life have been like if he had been born a commoner? Or better yet, if he’d been Rufe’s fellow soldier, sharing dangers and adventures by day, a bed by night?

But no. Wishes changed nothing—planning and action did.

How strange for Rufe not to comment on the gold discovery, as most people did.

Rufe waved his hand toward their surroundings. “We got Yarif back. He and Draylon removed their heads from their asses long enough to actually see each other without a cloud of prejudice blocking the view,”—he batted his eyelashes—“and together they rule Renvalle. Emperor Soland’s scheming brought him to a bitter end, putting the honorable Avestan on the throne.” Rufe grinned, the dimple showing on his cheek. “And I met a dashing young king.” He spurred his mule to a trot and resumed his position in the line.

A dashing young king.

“And I met a charming rogue,” Niam muttered under his breath.

That night, they lay in their bedrolls, close enough to touch, but more than distance separated them.

Zanial’s judgmental glares, for one.

Niam awoke to find Rufe holding his hand in the predawn hours. Never had so simple a gesture warmed his entire being.

Riders met them the next day after they'd left the pass, and a young captain approached Niam dressed in a Delletinian uniform, with the typical blond hair and blue eyes of many in the high reaches. His mule didn’t appear to be a trained officer’s mount, though, the way it shifted and shied away, and the rider slouched in the saddle as though he’d never received formal instruction in the art of riding, as an officer would have.

His cloak, while fur-lined, showed wear. A captain could afford better.

The way his gaze flitted over the other men before landing on Niam gave away his awareness of Niam’s true identity. Niam’s instincts went on alert, and he pulled the hood of his cloak closer around his face. All around him, soldiers fanned out, subtly taking up defensive positions.

The imposter captain’s men hovered in the background, not coming close enough to make out clearly. Casseign nodded to two of his men, who blended into the forest.

Niam ensured Vihaan, Casseign, and Rufe flanked him before approaching, as much to hear the report himself as for protection. Something seemed… off.

“There’s blood on the hem of his cloak,” Casseign murmured. Vihaan and Rufe shifted closer, and Niam well imagined all three of them resting their hands on their sword hilts beneath their cloaks.

Tension hung in the air. Niam discreetly fingered the dagger at his hip before addressing the captain. “What word do you bring?”

“All is well, Your Majesty. Your family is eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

Niam feigned a relieved breath, making eye contact with Rufe until Rufe stiffened. Niam regarded the captain again, someone he couldn’t recall having met. A man with a touch of an arrogant smirk on his face, showing a decided lack of respect for Niam’s position.

While he’d never been heavy-handed, Niam didn’t tolerate disrespect, and this captain’s behavior lifted his hackles. “Captain, who is your superior officer?” he snapped.

The man blinked hard before answering, his smirk fading into a frown. “Commander Breshear, Sire.”

Niam turned to Rufe and Casseign, speaking in Renvallian. “This man says he reports to Commander Breshear.”

Casseign snorted. “Fresh from the great beyond, is he? Brashear’s been dead for at least two new moons. You two wait here. I’ll take care of this.” He rode out to meet the man posing as a captain.

“Look how he holds himself,” Rufe commented. “He’s unused to riding with a sword on his hip.”

While Casseign spoke to the captain, Niam’s men surrounded the other ten newcomers.

Rufe growled. “See the guy with the scar across his face?”

“Yes.”

“That’s one of Illa’s men. I gave him that scar.” Rufe clutched his sword hilt, flipping his cloak out of the way. Others did the same on both sides. “When I say the word, stay behind me or Casseign.” He positioned himself near Casseign, appearing relaxed as the two captains—one real, one fake—spoke in hushed tones.

Rufe unsheathed his sword in one quick move, grasped the reins of the imposter captain’s mount in his other hand, and yanked. The mule whinnied and reared. The captain toppled off her back.

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