Page 29 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

And was no one concerned there’d be consequences for standing up to him? No one was worried there would be backlash of the most torturous kind? Did they truly think he’d just take this lying down? Perhaps it was the rumors of his absence that gave them courage. Perhaps, if he emerged out of the woodwork and took back command of his armies…

But he didn’t want to go back to being the Dark Lord of Ruthven™. He just wanted his legacy before Ravana ruined it to remain untarnished, like a trophy put behind glass. Yet that wasn’t how it worked. He couldn’t have his dark reputation if he didn’t upkeep it, and he couldn’t keep it alive if he was actively helping take it down.

What he wanted was all so contrarian and frankly gave him an even bigger headache than he already had. Just as he began to turn back towards the infirmary to lie down and sulk there, a great arm went around his shoulders and squeezed him tight.

“Bernard!” It was Brim. He smelled like an entire brewery. “Why’re you wandering the streets all ’lone? It’s a time for celebrating! Come this way! We’ll get you some frothy beef and a roast ale sandwich.”

Brim led him towards the village center, where he nabbed him a mug of ale and pushed him into the crowd. There were hundreds of people—including Gueldefore, who’d wrapped the magpie and marigold flag around his shoulders and was being fawned over by dozens of fans—out on the center’s large patch of grass, many of whom were dancing, singing, snacking, and all other sorts of -ings around a giant bonfire that blazed joyously. Morfran wilted. Even the fire seemed happy to have thrown off the chains of his rule.

Brim sat him at an empty log before the bonfire, as if Morfran couldn’t be allowed to do anything for himself due to his concussion, and then sauntered off to find him a sandwich. Morfran just watched the flames, morose, until Bronwen joined him on the log.

“Hi,” she said after she sat, almost shyly. Unlike those around her, she seemed almost…disheartened.

“Hi,” he replied. Scratched his neck. Shuffled in his seat. Sighed. “Thanks for cutting me loose earlier.” First thing he noticed when he woke was that he was no longer bound, nor did the men in the cots beside him act as if he needed to be. Though that might have been because they were distracted with not bleeding to death.

“Thank you for not running.” She paused. “I suppose I should stop thinking you’ll do that, since you’ve already proven you’re not that type of man. Twice, now.” Her words irritated him a little. Of course he’d flee, but only when the opportunity was ripe. Right now he just wanted a little bit of respect and a sandwich. “And for what it’s worth, thank you for helping us. I know it isn’t what you want to be doing.”

They fell silent again, and although it was slightly awkward, the animosity between them was mostly gone. They’d been on the same page on the battlefield, despite her strange hiccups with the soldier and lighting the wick, and although he was still cranky about his fading legacy and being forced to actively demolish it, he was curious about her.

She was curious about him, too, it seemed, because she eyed him and asked, “How did you know you’d be able to rouse our men and trick the soldiers into believing they were zombies?”

Morfran snorted. “Sheer stupid luck and audacity,” he mumbled, not bothering going into much detail. “But you.” He cast a side glance at her. “You took that soldier down quite swiftly, even though you’d dropped your dagger. It almost looked like you’ve had practice.” He waited. What he was really asking was whether or not she was actually an assassin.

She finally admitted it, looking at her hands. “I went to an assassin’s academy when I was younger. Everyone from the forest helped pitch in to help pay my tuition. I took all the extra courses I could, and joined all the sororities available—Death Zeta, Alpha Kappa Killers. When I graduated, I got jobs all throughout the kingdom. I was…I was quite good.” It didn’t sound like a brag. It sounded like she was ashamed.

He took a sip of his ale. “What was your assassin name? Maybe I’ve heard of you.”

“The Red Rogue.”

He choked on his drink. “You’re the Red Rogue?”

“Yes,” came her moody reply. “Why? You going to make fun now?”

“Not at all.” The Red Rogue was a living legend in the kingdom and had been a thorn in his side for the past decade. She’d sabotaged war camps in unconquered territories, rescued rebel prisoners in encampments clear in the north, even assassinated big-name generals, which had greatly hindered his efforts. She was also notorious for leaving red lipstick kiss marks on the cheeks or foreheads of those she killed, a trademark of her work.

She’d been a major problem for him—and an impressive one. He didn’t know if he wanted to shake her hand or strangle her or both, so instead he just kept both hands on his mug and narrowed his eyes at her.

“You were such a pain to Lord Morfran,” he said. “He set the gold price on your head to five hundred at one point.”

Her smile was bitter. “I know. But now what is it?”

“Pardon?”

“You said I was a pain to him. I’m not any longer.” She huffed, dropping her chin in her hands. Such was her apparent distress that he offered her his mug, which she grabbed and took a swig from. “I was one of the best, if not the best,” she said, miserable. “I was the one selected to assassinate Queen Ravana one year ago.”

He stiffened. “That was you?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “I even got into Castle Atrago and into her perfume room, where she was powdering her nose. Had my dagger out and everything. But I don’t know what happened next. Suddenly there was powder everywhere. My blade missed her neck. She was no longer sitting at her vanity, and I didn’t know where she’d gone. So I assumed I’d botched the job and fled.”

He remembered that day. He’d been thinking of hiring a hit man himself to kill Ravana when he heard the alarm being raised, and guards began flooding towards Ravana’s chambers screaming, “A threat to our queen!” and he’d stood at the end of a hall in the shadows, stunned, thinking perhaps there was something to wishful thinking after all.

That was when he’d heard pounding footsteps on the tiles and a lithe figure in black rounded the corner. She—it was obvious she was female—skidded to a halt when she spotted him. Though she was hooded and masked from the nose down, wielding her dagger with a death grip, she was obviously terrified to encounter him in the flesh.

He’d merely shrugged. “Next time?” he advised her. “Don’t miss.”

Then he’d gestured towards the secret south tunnel entrance by some drapes and turned the other way, whistling. After that day the crevice that’d been opening between Morfran and Ravana split even wider, and she never quite trusted him when he said he had nothing to do with the attempt on her life.

That’s why Bronwen looked so familiar when you first met, he thought dizzily. You met her once before, and you let her escape. You let her live.