Page 62 of Reign

“Tom’s gone, too,” I squeaked.

That was as much detail as I could give—unable to recount how the ogre had crunched through his neck like it was made of carrot.

Together, we heaved ourselves toward the encampment, joining what remained of the living. A part of me envied the dead—they were spared the burden of navigating life after witnessing such unimaginable devastation.

Aftermath.

No one had said it, but I knew that any sense of hope had died on the black sands alongside our hundreds of fallen comrades.

I watched the smoke curl from the blazing bonfire as Bash gently cleaned my wounds from the goblin attack. His touch was careful, washing away the dirt and dried blood from my back—and I appreciated how, even exhausted from the battle, he still took the time to care for me.

I flinched as he dragged the cloth through a particularly deep cut.

“Sorry, I need to get all the sand out—these are nasty,” Bash said, lifting the shreds of my tunic and squeezing warm water over the laceration.

I clutched the rags tightly against my chest, making sure my breasts stayed concealed.

Seeking distraction from the throbbing pain, I observed the survivors huddled around the fire. Some soldiers still wore the remains of their armor, while the poorer men clung to their tattered, threadbare cloaks.

Red caught my attention—crouched low to the muddy ground, stabbing at clumps of dirt in front of him with a knife as though each mound were a goblin’s head.

Most of the men downed pints of ale faster than Regina’s dragon sank ships. The drink served its purpose, numbing them to the horrors on the beach.

Among the soldiers singing sea shanties, I noticed Godwin—his battered face wrapped in a bloodstained rag, a slash splitting his upper lip in two. If he wasn’t careful, there wouldn’t be an inch of his skin not scarred by war.

Despite his injuries, he clapped his hands and stomped his feet to the off-key rhythm of a drunken song.

Not all found solace in music and drink. For some, every sip made them weepier than a pus-filled sore, as they struggled to find light in the darkness.

From beneath the brim of his cap, Fletcher peered upward—his sad eyes meeting the flickering flames.

“I cannot believe Arthur’s dead and I’m still alive,” he said somberly.

“I know,” Bash murmured with a heavy sigh. “Only this morning he was—”

“There’s one man to blame for all of this,” Red called out, cutting Bash off. “The blood of every fallen soldier stains his hands.”

He rose to his feet, clearly tired of bludgeoning the ground.

“Who?” I asked, unable to restrain myself from getting involved.

“Fitzroy,” Red spat the name.

He crossed the camp, crouching down to meet my face.

“The only place he can lead an army is straight to its demise.”

From nearby, a sharp tut rang out.

“Don’t speak about our commander like that,” a man snapped, dried blood flecking his cheeks. “He fought beside us, shoulder to bleeding shoulder—no less than equals.”

“That’s more than can be said for the last commander,” Godwin piped up—his marked and bloodied face looked menacing in the flamelight.

He shook his bandaged hand at Red in absolute disapproval, sparking murmurs of agreement around the fire.

The men’s loyalty to Fitzroy blazed as fiercely as the flames. For them, the son of the King could do no wrong.

Red raised his hands, palms outstretched in a gesture of innocence.