The eastern scout station is basically a glorified watchtower staffed by guys who think coffee and gossip are their primary job responsibilities. Lucky for me, gossip is exactly what I need.
“Prince Cassian?” The commander looks like he’s just seen a ghost. Which, fair enough—I probably look like death warmed over in a microwave.
“Need intel on Valen’s fortress. What’s the current situation?”
“Sir, we weren’t expecting—”
“I don’t give a shit what you were expecting. Tell me what you know.”
The border patrol captain steps forward, clearly the smartest guy in the room. “Heavy activity past three days. Reinforcements, supply runs. And…” He glances around. “Confirmed sighting of a female prisoner. Matches the description we were given.”
My heart stops. “Inside the fortress?”
“Yes, sir. Locked down tight. East tower, if our sources are accurate.”
East tower. Stone walls, minimal windows, the kind of place you put someone you never want to see daylight again.
“How many men does Valen have?”
“Couple hundred. But they’re not expecting trouble.”
Famous last words.
The ride back to the capital is pure strategic planning disguised as controlled panic. Lucy’s alive. Lucy’s imprisoned.
Time to return the favor.
By the time I hit the palace gates, I’ve got a list of every soldier, every guard, every half-drunk kitchen staff who owes me a favor or fears me enough to keep their mouth shut.
“Marcus,” I corner my old training partner in the armory. “Remember when I saved your ass during the border skirmish?”
He grins. “Wondering when you’d call that in.”
“Tonight. Gather the men who served under me. Quietly. Tell them it’s personal.”
“How personal?”
“Life-or-death personal.”
His expression shifts. “When do we leave?”
“Soon. Very soon.”
Next stop: the stables. “Henrik, I need horses. Good ones. Fast ones. And I need them ready to ride at a moment’s notice.”
“How many?”
“Twenty. Maybe thirty.”
“That’s a lot of horses for a man who’s getting married tomorrow.”
“Yeah, well. Plans change.”
The castle’s buzzing with wedding preparations—flowers, food, enough silk and gold to fund a small army. Which, ironically, is exactly what I’m planning to do.
I slip through servant corridors, avoiding anyone who might ask uncomfortable questions about why the groom looks like he’s planning a military operation instead of a honeymoon.
“Captain Reeves.” I find him in the war room, studying maps like he’s actually paid to think about strategy.
“My lord?”
“Hypothetically speaking, how many men would it take to breach Valen’s fortress?”
“Hypothetically? Fifty, if they’re good. A hundred, if you want to be sure.”
“And if you only had thirty?”
“I’d say you’re either very brave or very stupid.”
“Probably both.”
He studies my face. “This isn’t hypothetical, is it?”
“Nope.”
“When?”
“Tonight. After the wedding guests are too drunk to notice half the guard disappearing.”
“And if we get caught?”
“Then we were never here.”
He nods. “I’ll gather the men.”
By midnight, I’ve got thirty of the most loyal, slightly unhinged soldiers in the kingdom ready to commit treason for someone they’ve never met. The power of shared hatred for political bullshit, I guess.
“Listen up,” I tell them in the stables. “We’re going to rescue someone important. Someone who shouldn’t be where she is. This is voluntary, unofficial, and if we get caught, you don’t know me.”
“Where are we going?” Marcus asks.
“To remind Valen that some things aren’t for sale.”