A nervous chuckle works its way through them, and then the sword is pressed beneath my chin, the steel cold in the darkness.
“You don’t need a bedroll where you're going, witch. There'll be a lot of gold slipping into our hands for one like you, and I know exactly where to sell you for the highest sum. We just have to get you there without bumping into a high-fae battalion, so get moving.”
I stare him down, my gaze boring into his until he gulps audibly, the sword pressing into my skin. Even when a trickle of warm blood rolls down my neck. I have no fear to give him.
I know my fate.
CHAPTERTWO
Soren
The Fates have blessed you with a mate. You will find her at Port Asmyr the morning after the summer solstice, nine hundred and eighty-eight years from today. The Fates demand your patience, a virtue of importance for a king to hold, and your steadfast obedience.
You cannot defeat your enemies without your mate at your side.
With your union, you shall end the war and take your throne.
The clash of steel rings in the air and I brace myself for impact, ensuring I don’t fall from my horse as I swing my sword. An ear-splitting screech cuts through the noise and ends abruptly when my blade cleaves the witch’s head from his body. It thumps to the ground.
The snow never stops falling in the Outlands and the mountain ranges that form the gateway to the southernmost point of my kingdom, and even with the summer solstice edging closer, there’s a fine powder coming down around us. The Shard looms behind us, the ice that covers its peaks formed into jagged sheets of looming death. The witches lured us in here in a last-ditch attempt at victory.
In the slush of churned-up snow, the entire battlefield descends into chaos. Blood and magic and the brute force of steel swung by vastly trained high fae soldiers blends as my forces push back the deranged witches. We’re outnumbered three to one, but with our iron shields and armor, we have the advantage.
All the magic in the world won’t help if their offensive can’t land on us, and we’ve always been stronger, faster, and better equipped at hand-to-hand combat. The only strength they have against us is their numbers, and as I plough through the crowd sword first, killing every last witch I can reach without leaving my saddle, the odds become far closer to one to one.
I hear my cousin Tauron yelling my name, cursing my inability to hold the line and stay within his reach for protection, but I turn Nightspark and sweep back through without waiting for my soldiers to catch up. I let go of my title and every constraint holding me back and become nothing but my sword, killing for my people and for our future.
The bodies pile up, magic spilling out of them in a black acid that rots flesh until the entire battlefield reeks with the stench of dead witches. If we don’t take the time to burn them, the land will be poisoned and nothing will ever grow here again. Their blood is a foulness that permeates everything, the stink of it filling my nostrils and coating my throat until I’m not sure I’ll ever be rid of it. Bile churns in the depths of my gut even as I ignore it in favor of killing more of our enemy.
One pass turns into two, three, four, and I slash through the witches with my soldiers trailing behind me, picking off any survivors of my rampage. The weight of my sword in my hand is a comfort to me, and even when I’m coated in blood and dirt and blackened in witch bile, I don’t stop until every last witch is dead.
Thankfully, though we’ve taken injuries, the iron armor worked and we haven’t lost any men.
I’m keenly aware of our numbers and how finite they are. I’ve always been a strategic leader, weighing every move that my armies make to mitigate the loss of lives, but as the war wages on and the curse the witches laid upon the high fae continues to kill entire generations of our people, my ability and willingness to fight has become vital to our survival.
The witches’ numbers never seem to wane.
“What exactly is the point of naming me your Royal Guard if you’re just going to throw yourself headfirst into every stinking witch-blood battle without so much as a thought in my direction? You’re a stubborn brute, Soren, and when you end up losing a Fates-cursed limb, I won’t feel an inch of sorrow for you,” Tauron snaps, pulling up his horse alongside me with a snarl on his face that would terrify a lesser man.
Roan, my best friend and the only one of my inner circle I’m not related to, directs the soldiers behind us to move the bodies of the witches.
I’d love nothing more than to leave them here to rot.
It’s not an option for us though. We learned that lesson the hard way early on in the war. We’re already struggling to grow crops and feed livestock throughout the kingdom, and to lose any more land to the poison of our enemies is not an option. The Shard has never been a location for farming, but I won’t risk any further losses to the witches, regardless.
Tyton, Tauron’s brother and the last of my inner circle riding with me today, is already seeing to the injuries of our soldiers. His natural affinity for magic means he can do rudimentary healing, enough to get the wounded home. The maids who pass as healers back at Yregar have barely any more experience than he does, but we’ve made it work well enough.
“—we’re absolutely ruined if you get yourself killed, Soren. At some point you’re going to have to—”
“I was never in danger. We need to get moving—we have a long journey ahead, and if we’re ambushed on the way, we won’t make it.”
I don’t have to say whatitis. They all know, and Tauron’s mouth shuts with a click. I’m not using it as a trump card, and yet there’s no quicker way to get everyone moving quickly.
Within minutes the corpses are burning, the flames crackling as they flare green and blue from the magic in the witches’ blood. The stench intensifies until half the soldiers are pulling their cloaks over their faces to stifle it as best they can.
Roan nudges his horse closer to mine and murmurs, “The wind is blowing north. The witches will know of this loss before nightfall.”
I glance at the bright orange burst of dusk as the sun quickly disappears, taking the last of its warmth with it and leaving us with the cool breeze from the snow-capped mountains ahead. I give him a curt nod, and Roan calls out commands to move with haste, the risk of an ambush great. We can’t afford a delay.
