Calm and sure, he works with deft fingers ensuring the braid is tight but not painful. He wraps a leather strap around each plait before nodding. My braids stretch nearly to my waist.
Lachlan bends down and lifts my feathered helm from the chest. I turn to face him. His expression is a mix of admiration and longing.
“I’ll be right beside ye,” he whispers, placing the helm upon my brow. “I love ye with everything that I am until my last breath and beyond. Dinna waver for one second on that battlefield. Dinna be a hero, ye stay alive. Nae matter what. The world doesna exist without ye.”
A knock on the door interrupts my reply, and Mathilda peeks her head in. Already dressed for battle, her kohl-lined eyes are connected with a broad streak across her nose. Two vertical lines intersect the black around her right eye, and a rune of power is written on her left cheek.
“Luna is waiting to do your war paint,” she says. A feral grin widens her mouth.
“I’ll be right there,” I reply, looking back at Lachlan. The door closes with a soft click, and I let loose a small sigh.
Taking his hands in mine, I murmur, “One sailing.”
He presses his brow to mine, closing his eyes. “One sailing.”
Luna works quickly, smudging the kohl across my eyes and the bridge of my nose. A rune of strength marked over my left eye, three slashing lines like a misshapen ’n’. Tyr’s mark, the arrow ’t’, is marked on my cheek.
“This will give you strength,” she says. “And victory.”
Her fingertips are soft, and her voice more kind than I’ve ever heard before.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Are you ready?” Freya’s voice cuts through the throne room.
We’re all here, except for Evander, who is instructing Ramses on how to bring our warriors through the gates when they’re called. I rub at my medallion, the key that will open the gates for them, and tuck it under my chest plate.
“Ready,” I reply.
“Stick close together,” Freya responds. “The gate is finicky with this many people. When we hit the ground in Tuadanaan,stay in formation.” Her tone is commanding. A leader who has seen innumerable battles and has led her people each time.
My nerves are frayed. Trembling knees and sweaty palms, I force down a swallow to keep from puking all over myself. I’ve been in this position before. Leading my small group of friends through the capital to take my throne back. But this is a much grander scale of fighting. This will be all-out war.
Lachlan squeezes my hand and pulls me in front of him. Tane and Mathilda are to our right, and Evander, Luna, and Mina on our left. Freya, Harald, Odr, and Piominko are in front of us. We step as one right over the large golden rune etched onto the floor.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and hold it. The air around me tingles like a million snow flurries brush against my skin. A kaleidoscope of colors pours down from the ceiling before a flash of gold burns them away.
My knees sway as my feet hit solid ground—lush, verdant grasses. We’re no longer in the throne room. Screams of death and battle cries pierce the heavy air.
Explosions of fire drown out the screams and my ears ring. Dirt flies from a close impact and splatters my face and armor. Smoke chokes out all the breathable air, making my throat and eyes burn.
“Our scouts told us they have the palace surrounded and that they’re attempting to breach the walls!” Freya yells, unsheathing her sword. “We’re going to attack their left flank and drive them apart. We need to create a big enough opening for the Fae’s cavalry to drive a wedge between their armies.”
I’m having a hard time focusing on her words. The world around me is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I’ve been dropped into a treasure chest. Jewel-colored forests lie behind the fairytale-like castle in front of us.
The castle is constructed of white marble that shimmersiridescently like pearls. Golden spires rise high into the powder blue sky that is swiftly being devoured by inky black smoke.
As far as my eyes can see, chaos reigns supreme.
Chaos and—death.
It sweeps across the land with invisible hands, plucking the souls out of warriors. Their bodies crumpled when struck by arrows or swords.
It’s a creeping black mass, leaving destruction and ruin in its wake. Like ink spilled onto a storybook page.
A white stallion gallops towards us and the male atop it is exactly what you’d picture as Prince Charming. His gold armor catches the light, reflecting rainbows around him. A long blade with a bejeweled pommel gripped firmly in his hand.
“Freya!” He yells, lifting his sword in greeting. Delicate pointed ears and sapphire eyes mark him as a fae, but the sword in his hand marks him as royalty.
