Page 28 of Reign

He scuttled over to the leftovers. “Too kind. Thank you, sir. Thank you,” he said, scooping up the bowl before waddling off.

The Walled City.

The ragstone wall was over nineteen feet tall, with a moat of brown, stagnant water encircling it. We crossed a rickety drawbridge, its splintering planks connecting the city to the land. The stench of rotting flesh was pungent, forcing me to fight the urge to heave with every step. Vagabonds and lepers, shunned from society, huddled along the length of the bridge, their grimy palms cupped, begging for money, mercy, or a morsel to eat. As I quickened my pace toward the reinforced gate, I noticed many of the beggars were branded—red, leathery crosses were burned into their foreheads. These were marks I’d never seen before.

I tugged on Bash’s fraying coat sleeve. “Do you know why they’re marked?” I asked quietly.

He nodded. “Anyone with magical heritage but no abilities is branded. It’s a warning to the other freemen that they might be dangerous.”

“That’s obscene,” I muttered, my stomach knotting as I tried not to stare at the mutilated.

Bash shrugged. “The Walled City’s not a kind place,” he told me, rummaging through his pockets.

He plucked out a silver coin and tossed it into the lap of a young woman. Beneath the boils blooming across her face, her beauty might have rivaled Avice’s. Her blackened fingers trembled as they clawed at her threadbare skirt, finally grasping the coin. Pus seeped from her sores as she managed a feeble, grateful smile.

“Poor girl,” I murmured, covering my mouth.

Fresh air filled my lungs as we joined the back of the queue, a long line composed entirely of young men. It snaked out of the entrance but was slithering forward steadily. As we approached the gate, guards bearing the King’s crest—carved into their chest plates—patrolled the crowd.

One of them yanked the great helmet off his head, clearing his throat as he prepared to bark orders. “All conscripted soldiers, report to the registrar before entering the Walled City!” He repeated the command as he marched back and forth, his armor clinking with every step.

An elderly registrar, his face more wrinkled than a walnut, sat at a crooked wooden table balanced on uneven cobblestones. Each time he set his quill down, it rolled away, forcing him to catch it just before it toppled to the ground.

“Name?” he droned, not bothering to glance up from his inkpot.

Bash stepped forward confidently. “Sebastian Carpenter, from the Headlands.”

The registrar flicked through his heap of parchment before slipping out a sheet. He flicked the nib of his quill against the paper, then gestured toward a mound of beige packsacks.

“Take one. Inside you’ll find essentials, courtesy of King James. Then proceed to Regal Square—his Royal Highness will address the soldiers before you march to Cambas.”

Bash slung a packsack over his shoulder as Arthur cleared his throat.

“Arthur Bates, Headlands.”

“John Fletcher. Same as them.”

The old man nodded as he licked the nib of his quill. “You’re both on the list. Please, enter with haste—you’re holding up the line.”

I clung to Fletcher’s shoulder, hoping to sneak past unnoticed. But meaty hands grabbed me, thrusting me toward the registrar. I glanced behind, meeting the gaze of an unimpressed guard who loomed uncomfortably close.

The registrar exhaled. “Name?”

“I’m not joining the fight,” I said, hoping to put a swift end to the misunderstanding.

“Are you able-bodied?” he asked, tickling his palm with the quill’s feathery end.

“Yes.”

“Older than sixteen years?”

“Yes.”

He nodded sharply. “Your name, boy.”

“I haven’t been conscripted,” I insisted.

Arthur tutted, stomping back to my side of the table. “His name’s Finn Smith,” he said, whacking me on the shoulder—ever fearful of something, and this time it was getting in trouble.