Page 54 of Reign

Having delivered his rebuke, Fitzroy sank into his armchair, his demeanor relaxing. Together, we turned our attention to the unresolved conflict at the bar. Bash insisted Mr. Bednot had accused the wrong man, while Fletcher backhanded him a fistful of loot. With Bash discreetly pocketing the valuables and no evidence found on Fletcher, Mr. Bednot apologized for the misunderstanding.

“Do you associate yourself with that band of thieves from the Headlands?” Fitzroy asked, his tone steeped in disdain as he scrutinized the men.

“Your father stole the throne from his sister, and yet you wear your family crest with pride,” I retorted, flicking the signet ring on his pinkie. “Perhaps we’re more alike than you’d care to admit.”

Fitzroy barked a laugh. “Quick wit—I must admit, I do admire that about you. But I also suspect not biting your tongue will be the death of you—if not by me, then by someone else.”

Curling his lips, Fitzroy lifted the tankard and took a reluctant sip, as though he despised the taste.

“I find it amusing that you chastise my bite when you’re more unpredictable than the weather,” I said.

“I apologize for my temperament,” Fitzroy replied. His eyes had an unexpected glint of sincerity. “Purgatory’s proving far more difficult than I anticipated.”

“You’re not dead,” I reminded him.

“Yet,” he replied with a hollow laugh. “If there were any hope of winning this war, the King himself would be leading the army to battle.” He paused, looking around like he was searching for something. “But I don’t see him here or any of his legitimate sons. No one my father cares about seems to be within a stone’s throw of Cambas.”

“You’re here,” I remarked.

“You’ve proved my point. I’d wager one of his scholars has already penned a pitiful obituary for me,” Fitzroy scoffed.

“It sounds like you’re admitting defeat before the fight has even begun!”

Fitzroy dragged his gloved palm down his face in frustration. “You’re all useless,” he said, his voice brimming with exasperation. “None of you villagers can fight. Regina has the upper hand because she can freely employ magic to fortify her army. We might have many powerful sorcerers among our ranks—but they’ll never reveal their purple palms for fear of execution.”

“Do you believe magic’s evil?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Fitzroy tutted. “Of course not,” he muttered beneath his breath.

“And you think spellcasting’s our only way to win?”

He replied with a curt nod.

“Then why aren’t you trying to change the prejudice?” I demanded, slamming my fists against my thighs. “Your bravery could lead us to victory.”

I couldn’t fathom why, if he knew magic was the key to winning this war, he was doing everything in his power to avoid it.

“How can I change a kingdom’s ideology when I cannot even win a duel against a village girl?” he asked, a bitter edge to his voice.

“Shh!” I hushed, clasping my hand over his mouth.

He shook me off and took another sip of ale. “Dying isn’t even the worst part. What upsets me most is that this could be my last drink in a disorderly house, and it tastes like it was brewed in a cesspit.”

I ignored him, consumed by my thoughts. On the morrow, our soldiers would march into battle, expected to destroy the very thing that coursed through my veins: magic.

“Why are we fighting against what we are?” I asked, the absurdity of it all hitting me at once.

Fitzroy didn’t answer. Instead, he drained the last of his ale in one gulp.

“Good night, Smith. I have a battle plan to finalize. Enjoy your evening with the thieves and whores.”

As Fitzroy strode through the tavern, his knights fell into step beside him, ready to escort His Highness back to his tent.

“My liege, wait,” I called, following his entourage. “Fitzroy, don’t be a coward.”

I chased him out of the tavern and across the deck, but he refused to stop. As I reached for his shoulder, one of his knights blocked my path—as though Fitzroy needed protecting from someone half his size.

“Coward!” I yelled after him, hoping to provoke a reaction.