Page 61 of Reign

Fitzroy extended his gauntlet to me, seeking aid. Without hesitation, I accepted it and helped him upright. He removed his blood-splattered helmet, cradling it under his arm as we surveyed the carnage around us.

The ships that hadn’t become floating infernos sailed inland, seeking refuge from the dragon’s wrath.

I shaded my eyes with a hand and squinted toward the decks. Though I could see white-haired figures, their faces were obscured by distance. I kissed my fingers and held them to the gods, praying Bash was aboard a safe ship.

Fitzroy’s army lay scattered across the beach. Many of the fallen were unidentifiable—their features nightmarishly distorted. Savaged flesh clung to their mangled limbs, twisted into barbaric forms that defied human semblance.

On the far side of the beach, ogres gorged on the dead, clawing chunks of man and goblin from the wreckage and hungrily devouring them, as though the battlefield were a banquet.

“May the gods have mercy,” Fitzroy muttered before doubling over and spewing into his helmet. Even after his stomach was emptied, he continued to retch, his body convulsing. I reached out to console him, patting his metal-plated back. Each of my taps made a hollow twanging sound, which I doubted offered much comfort.

Fitzroy rose unsteadily. His face was flushed, and the whites of his eyes looked like they’d been struck by crimson lightning strikes. For the first time, he appeared utterly helpless.

I tugged down the sleeve of my worn tunic and used the linen to gently wipe the blood from his rosy cheeks and the bile clinging to his stubbled chin. He didn’t resist, allowing me to clean him the best I could without warm water or an unsullied cloth.

“Thank you,” he murmured, gazing down at me with weary eyes.

As I removed the last specks of blood from the tip of his nose, a shadow swept overhead, consuming the daylight. The rushing wind drowned out all other sound, and I forced myself to look up.

The white dragon was aloft. It had seemed large while ravaging the ships on the horizon, but as it soared directly above us, I understood the sheer scale of this beast—it was truly gigantean.

On the dragon’s back sat Regina, gliding effortlessly through the clouds as though they were one. Her silver mane galloped in the wind, and her sparkling armor shimmered in the shafts of light piercing the gloom. She inspected the carnage below, her expression almost bearing a grin, as if satisfied with the destruction she had orchestrated.

Then, with astonishing speed, she turned and flew toward Annwn. The remnants of her army followed in her wake, retreating to the safety of the Isle.

“She’s magnificent,” Fitzroy said, his gaze fixed on Regina. “We’re all going to die.” A single tear trickled down his cheek, parting the grime smeared on his face.

“Retreat!” Fitzroy bellowed, dodging the dead as he sprinted toward the water.

The trumpet sounded once more, signaling to the soldiers that this battle was over. But as I watched the white dragon vanish into the clouds, I knew the true fight had only just begun.

I observed the docking boats. Most of the men who had once been aboard the ships were now in the water—swimming frantically back to shore or drowning in the deep. I waited, praying for white hair to bless the black shores. My hands trembled as I nervously chewed at my nails, biting deep enough to make my skin bleed.

Just as despair threatened to overwhelm me, a glimpse of white emerged amid the chaos. Fletcher flung his arms outward, opening his chest to the sky as he yelled to the gods. My stomach plummeted, fearing his anguished cries were for Bash.

I scanned the beach frantically, my vision blurred by panic as I searched for him among the living, the injured, and the lifeless.

Fletcher fell to his knees, crying through his gritted teeth as he pounded the blood-soaked sands with his fists.

Desperation drove me toward the sea. I needed to know if Bash was still alive. Before I scoured every inch of water, a familiar figure emerged from the waves, dragging himself ashore.

Bash staggered forward, drenched and disheveled. His long coat was gone; now he wore only a blood-soaked tunic that clung to his muscular frame.

“Bash,” I called out, approaching cautiously, unsure of his state.

Relief softened his furrowed brow when his eyes met mine. “Smith,” he whispered, pulling me into his soaking embrace.

I breathed him in, though the salty brine overpowered his familiar scent. It didn’t matter—I was grateful he was alive.

Another set of arms wrapped around the two of us. Though I couldn’t see the face clearly, I knew it was Fletcher by the mismatched rings adorning his fingers.

As I pulled out of our hold, I noticed there was a member missing from the Headlands clan.

“Where’s Arthur?” I asked, half expecting to see his potbelly wading through the water.

“Dead,” Bash replied, his voice trembling. “An ogre hurled him over the gunwale. I prayed he might survive the fall, but he didn’t. I saw him floating among the other victims—face down and bloodied.”

Fletcher lowered his cap, concealing his eyes beneath the brim.