“If you won’t hear reason, carry a spare blade.” He twisted aside, pulling a scrap of cloth from a bag. He laid it on the plank and peeled it back to reveal several short daggers. “A sword only gets you so far.” He motioned us closer, huddling over the plain steel. “With Velli, they grow careless when they’re near.”
Gods above, they were in Radaan.
Cold flooded my veins, heat useless against the chill settling deep in my bones.
“And no matter whose banner you follow,” he continued, flipping a dagger in his hand, “those rats can’t be trusted. War’s coming. These might keep you breathing a little longer.”
“It’s already here,” Ronan growled, more hatred in his voice than I expected.
I knew the rest of his thoughts. He was bound to Nienna’s vengeance, and he would not leave her in a nation at war. He wouldn’t rest until she was safe and dragons lined the Craggs.
“Then you’d best be ready.”
“What makes you think I’m not?” The prince of Draconia let his heritage bleed through his mask of indifference. He leaned back from the daggers, wrinkling his nose. “Stick to hoes and shovels. Try a better pitch on the farmers.”
He turned away, leading us from the stall.
My thoughts collided, each one louder than the last. Tallon had allowed the Velli to cross the Craggs—welcomed it, no doubt. My people would never accept that, not in their lifetimes, never mind the weeks I’d been gone. Darius and Claydon’sol were only two among many veteran nobles. Their blood ran too hot; their hatred too fierce. It had only ever been tempered by my insistence on peace for their children’s sake.
That alone would never grant Vellos passage into Radaan.
Unease crept in, a tug beneath my ribs urging me to look back. My jaw set as a breeze swept the aisle, stirring the market and tugging at my cloak. When Elohios whispered, I listened.
I clapped Ronan’s shoulder and veered into a narrow alley between stalls. Within a breath, I pressed into a dark doorway rank with rot. Ronan flattened beside me, pack lowered without a sound. He drew a dagger and flexed his left hand loose. My breathing stayed measured. The hilt of my sword warmed my palm as I listened past the market’s clamor.
Heavy boots struck dirt at a jog. Metal chimed, blades brushing armor. Our pursuer stopped at the alley’s mouth. His shadow stretched across the littered ground, reaching for us without revealing its owner. With teeth clenched, I fixed on that form, daring him forward. Only a trained fighter would pause, waiting to see if prey still ran or hid in the dark.
Ronan leaned close, shoulder pressed to mine as we waited. My breath caught, a faint ringing filling my ears. We sat in stalemate, neither of us willing to make the first move.
Ronan’s hand snapped up, fingers flicking farther down the alley. The crash that followed prompted the warrior forward.
The black-clad fighter hugged the far wall, glancing our way as he jogged past. Just as he twisted to face us, I was already moving.
My sword sang as I drew it, sending the blade toward his neck. He ducked, snapping up a metal vambrace to knock it aside before charging straight at me.
Ronan hit him from behind, dagger pressed to his throat. The assailant lashed out, a boot slamming into my chest, using the leverage to hurl Ronan back against the stone wall.
Fast. Well trained.
He used the space Ronan’s fall gave him, drawing two long knives as he shrugged free and charged me again, his black hood flying loose.
Steel clashed. My body slipped into the familiar rhythm, the dance of blades as natural as breath. Survival took over.
Somewhere in the skirmish my cloak fell open, gold flashing against my chest. His gaze dipped, and recognition flared just as Ronan’s hand struck the back of his exposed neck.
An agonized cry was bitten off into a muffled curse as the man dropped to his knees, blades clattering against the dirt. We cut off his escape, swords trained on his bowed head.
My focus locked on the dark ink curling along his skin, markings peeking from beneath his cloak.
“Thresher of Nyryn,” I hissed, fury coiled tight in my chest. “Have you nothing better to do?”
“Locating the true king of Radaan is the highest calling.” His voice stayed level, as though the fight had been little more than a warm-up. His declaration rang with truth. Threshers did not exaggerate devotion. He lifted his face, dark hair falling loose as his eyes traced the chains of my mantle. “My brothers are spread across the kingdom, awaiting your return.”
“And who do you answer to?” I ground out. “The Bastard Prince, or the Chosen of Elohios? Choose carefully. Nyryn does not forgive falsehoods.”
Legends named Nyryn and Elohios as two sides of the same coin. Justice and vengeance. Honor and pride. Nyryn mighthave aided my crossing of the sea, despite my loyalty sworn elsewhere.
“I answer only to the Golden Warrior,” he said. “King of the Plentiful Plains. Chosen of Elohios to bear the Mantle of Radaan.” He pressed his palms to the earth and bowed, forehead to the dirt.
