Page 3 of Of Iron and Moonlight

The ridge bent, the path narrowed, and snow began to replace dirt.

The air grew cleaner, then colder, then so thin it hurt to breathe.

In the delirium of a man who had not yet accepted—or fully grasped—the magnitude of his predicament, Gavriel found his thoughts drifting to the forge. To the moment in tempering when the color shifts: red to orange to that uncertain space. Miss it, and the edge will be brittle or dull. There is only a narrow band in which a blade becomes what it is meant to be.

Gavriel could not have said why, but he felt himself in that narrow band now—dragged away from a field sealed in ice that would melt within the hour, leaving nothing behind but the knowledge that men’s lives can be turned as easily as a blacksmith turns a billet on an anvil.

Part One

Irene Edwards

Chapter 1

Isander

Amerieth lingered amber above tiled rooftops like a gold coin forgotten on a windowsill, the Third Moon slow to descend even as her sisters had set and the chill of night faded. Beneath her daily liaison with the sun, Isander Kal stood on the marble steps of the derWhitte townhouse, one hand near the hilt of his sword.

The moons drew most people into reflection: omens to the commonfolk, symbols to the moonpriests of the Sanctum, cycles that governed season, ritual, and fate. But to Isander, Amerieth simply marked an early hour—and early hours often carried danger. His eyes swept the thoroughfare again, lingering in the corners where he knew trouble liked to wait.

Valestra was among the finer districts of the Empire’s sprawling capital, where most greater noble houses maintained their city residences. Sycamores lined the quiet lanes. Stately windows sat shuttered against the breeze. Liveried servants hurried along the walks. Nothing unusual disturbed the gentle cadence of a city waking from its slumber.

Only after scanning the street twice more did Isander ease his stance. At his nod, the coachman drew the family carriage to the front steps, horses stamping against the marble.

Today’s summons meant a final visit to Vaelstrom Palace before their return to Emberglade. The annual court season had just concluded, and without the emperor’s unexpected invitation, they would already have been on their way home.

The townhouse doors opened, and Duncan derWhitte emerged. He wore simple but sharply tailored court attire: a doublet of forest-green velvet threaded with silver, and no ornament beyond a cloak fastened with a clasp bearing Lemierre’s sigil. Dark curls, combed into disciplined waves, framed a face both solemn and composed.

“Your Grace.” Isander bowed, the public kind.

Duncan returned the greeting with a nod, equally correct, and moved toward the waiting carriage with deliberate calm. Just before placing a polished boot on the mounting block, he faltered—the hesitation slight enough another man might have missed it.

Isander did not. He caught the discomfort touching Duncan’s features and the brief flicker in grey eyes already too old for his thirty-three years. To those who did not truly know him, Duncan carried himself as a man effortlessly in control and consistently at ease. To those who did, such moments betrayed what lay beneath.

Nearly a year ago, on a bright late-spring morning not unlike today, the derWhitte carriage had left Vaelstrom for home. Somewhere along the forested roads of Lemierre, they were set upon. Duncan’s father, Alaric. Garriden, the eldest son and heir. Corwin, the second son, a Moongazer of the Sanctum. Garriden’s boy, scarcely twelve. Three generations of the derWhitte line slain in a single stroke. Names were offered and suspicions traded, but certainty never followed, despite tireless investigation.

Ever since, Duncan suffered carriages the way a man suffers nightmares: with clenched teeth and no escape but endurance.

Isander slipped inside after him, concern tightening his chest as he watched his friend brace. The carriage jolted. District after district unfolded on their path toward the tip of the Vaelstrom peninsula. Shutters lifted in the artisans’ quarter. Market squares clamored with Lemierre’s oil, Kryovarre’s furs and wax, Ardor’s spices, Duskmere’s textiles and stonecraft. Ships crowded the harbor. The capital of the Vaelclair Empire stirred with its usual restless hum.

Beyond it all, across the water, sprawled the Vael Citadel. Its black stone bastions stretched low across a star-shaped cluster of isles, like clenched fists against the sea. Isander and Duncan had spent nearly a decade there in the Vaelclair army. Some memories were forged with discipline and pride. Others, Isander preferred buried.

“Any luck unraveling the reason for the summons?” Isander asked, mostly to distract himself.

Duncan sighed, following the passing view beyond the carriage window. Long, elegant fingers lay tensely against his knees. “I can think of nothing.” He exhaled again, slower this time. “I’ve already assured Wolmer that Lemierre will supply marble for the Trisolarum Basilica, and we’ve spoken at length about the tension with Kryovarre over our borderlands. Beyond that, I know of nothing that would demand my presence with such urgency.”

“Perhaps it is only a social call,” Isander offered, though he did not believe it.

“Perhaps,” Duncan allowed, with the faintest smile that confirmed he did not believe it either. “We’ll know soon enough.”

Their carriage creaked up the final causeway, where the sea wind cut sharper off Capital Bay. Vaelstrom Palace rose ahead, pale marble crowned with ranks of tiled rooftops, its broad loggias and galleries overlooking the water. From pointed towers, banners in the white, gold, and deep blue of House derVaelclair snapped against the sky. Despite Isander’s misgivings about court and the delayed return home, he could not deny its majesty. It was a seat of power and spectacle both. Impeccable. Immovable. Impossible to ignore.

Guards in polished steel stood at attention before the entrance, bearing the sun-and-moons sigil of the Vaelclair Empire on their chests. Upon recognizing the ducal carriage, they stepped aside without hesitation, and the gates swung wide with the deep groan of metal on stone.

They were greeted by a palace in quiet chaos. Twice each year, Emperor Wolmer derVaelclair opened his doors to commonfolk for petition days. Corridors and waiting chambers swelled with farmers, merchants, and all those in between. An overwhelmed steward ushered them past the crowds—not to the throne room, but to the emperor’s private study. An intentional choice meant to put the commonborn at ease.

“Duncan derWhitte, Duke of Lemierre,” the herald announced at the door, as Gleister, Wolmer’s anxious but diligent secretary, escorted them in. “And his Captain of the Ducal Guard.”

Wolmer sat behind a heavy oaken desk, head bent over parchment, quill moving steadily. The trappings of rulership were stripped to simplicity. He wore no crown, only a well-cut doublet of dark wool. Greying blond hair was tied back from a face lined more by worry than years.