Somehow, I make myself keep still, studying the king instead.
The golden mask covers most of his face, but it curves elegantly across the lower half to reveal full lips drawn in a tight, emotionless line. A thin layer of dark auburn stubble graces his strong jaw. His eyes peer out like two distant stars in the night; pale blue, beautiful, eerily cold.
Most of the soldiers seem as surprised as I am to see their king. They exchange wary words and uncertain glances. Some are still bowing, as if they’re hoping he won’t make eye contact with them—that he won’t blamethemfor the chaotic state of their encampment. Others are still working to getthe chaos under control, attempting to capture the intruders who didn’t flee at the king’s arrival.
The dragon hatchling is still beside itself, screeching and straining against its bindings, trying to drag itself in my direction. For an instant, I almost wishwewerebonded, only so that I might be able to command it to shut the hell up; the racket it’s making certainly isn’t helping my nerves.
Gareth’s fingers dig harder into my arm. “Everything is under control here, Your Majesty. You needn’t have come.”
King Reave motions, and the ones who arrived with him all dismount in unison. Their horses remain unnaturally still as the riders form rank and move methodically into the camp, gliding without noise or flourish toward the remaining intruders. They don’t draw their weapons right away; they merely lift their hands, motioning toward their targets.
Those targets seem too stunned to try and escape, and my throat tightens as I realize…it’s because these golden-masked riders all have magic as well.
It doesn’t seem as powerful as what their king commands, but it’s still brutally efficient at freezing singular subjects in place. Once those subjects go still—completely defenseless—the riders finish them off with quick, precise stabs. It’s a calculated slaughtering, one the king watches without any sign of emotion.
I still don’t know who these camp invaders actually are. Whether they were truly our would-be saviors, or if they would have turned out to be even worse enemies than the Mouren Army.
But it’s making me sick to my stomach all the same, watching them get cut down so ruthlessly.
“Stop,” I hear myself say. “Stop!”
The king cants his head toward me. But instead of ordering anyone to stop, his pale eyes flick from me to Gareth. “This is her, then?”
“Yes.” There’s an odd tightness in the commander’s voice.
“I will speak with her alone,” says the king.
“No, you won’t,” I snarl. “Not unless you stop this senseless killing first.” Tipping my head toward Briar, who is being held by two soldiers, I add, “And not until you let her go, too.”
The king’s eyebrows are hidden by his mask, but I imagine they’re raised. He still makes no move to stop anything, even when the tense silence between us is interrupted by the wet, squelching sound of another sword gutting its target.
“Stop this senseless killing,” I repeat, breathlessly, “and then maybe I’ll listen to whatever you have to say.”
“Hm.” King Reave glances casually at the killing in question, just as yet another body hits the ground. “A few worthless, cowardly lives spared in exchange for making this go more smoothly for me?” He shrugs. “Well, why not?”
He ends the slaughter with a single word, spoken in a language I don’t understand—whatever language is reserved for the higher ranks of Mouren, I assume.
His riders fall back with the same silent grace they attacked with, moving to stand at attention next to their horses. The rest of the Mouren soldiers disengage as well, focusing on putting out any remaining fires, righting supply crates, and tending to their wounded.
The surviving camp intruders scatter into the night.
The king watches them go with a slight frown. A dragon roars overhead. He glances up at it, and for a moment I tense,half-expecting him to go back on his word, to set the beast upon the runners.
Instead, he calls out an order to every soldier within earshot. “Form a perimeter. They likely have reinforcements lurking nearby.” His attention shifts to the ones still holding Briar. “And keep her secure until I say otherwise.”
I open my mouth to protest.
Then the king looks at me.
Fully,trulylooks at me.
His gaze is as effortlessly powerful as his magic. I don’t consider myself easy to intimidate, but it’s hard to resist taking a step back as he comes closer, his eyes unapologetically sweeping over my body, assessing every inch of me. They linger for an instant on the knife clenched in my hand.
I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch, as if hiding amusement.
“Come inside,” he orders, jerking his head toward the largest of the nearby tents. He enters it without another glance my way, as if it hasn’t even occurred to him that I might not listen—that I might try to fight my way free and bolt the second he turns his back. He doesn’t even order anyone to take my knife. Maybe because he isn’t used to anyone disobeying him.
Or maybe because he’s smart enough to realize I won’t risk anything happening to Briar.
