Page 115 of The Reaping Rose

He chuckles. “I think the time for subtleties is over. I remember a male who refused to give up so much as an inch in the training ring or one body in battle. Yet he gives up his crown? This isn’t you, Wilder.”

He’s right.

I know he’s right.

There was a time I was afraid of nothing. A time I fought and bled and killed without blinking. Now, I’m hiding from my responsibilities. Losing Selia changed me. Or maybe it was meeting Elorie. I’ve never known weakness—never had any until now.

I’ll never be that male again, not when stepping out of the prison changed all that, but maybe I need to unleash a part of him. To find a way to meld the past version of myself with the present.

My people need me.

My friends need me.

My mate needs me.

Movement comes from an archway, and Rior and I both turn to Aurora rushing through. Panic has her eyes widening, so I drop the shell of magic that contains us in the training ring.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as Rior steps to my side.

“An urgent message from Darvel just came through. Something is coming in from the sea. The mercreatures sent a warning.”

Mercreatures avoid the shore—they avoid worrying about what battles we face on the land, keeping to their own beneath the water. If they’re communicating with Darvel, something must be terribly wrong at sea.

I grab my daggers, quickly sheathing them and my sword.

“Where are you going?” Aurora’s eyebrows pinch.

“To check on the battlefront.”

“You could send someone to do that for you.” Her eyes narrow as she huffs out an unamused breath. “Always a warrior instead of a king.”

“Call me what you wish, Aurora.” I throw out my palm, opening a Gate for me and Rior as the breeze tosses Aurora’s dark hair around her shoulders. “I will fight for my people under either name.”

Chapter 39

Wilder

The shores of Andare reek of burning flesh. The metallic tinge of fresh blood hangs in the air. A thin film of waning magic tickles the back of my neck. The aftermath of bursts burning hot and fading just as quickly.

Battles near the Well—near the creatures that spill from it—reek of dying magic.

It drinks from us. Never satiated. Never done.

“Your Majesty,” Darvel greets me formally in front of the army as I stride to where he’s positioned before a tent. “When I sent word, I didn’t expect you to make an appearance yourself.”

Darvel’s smile climbs the corner of his mouth, his gaze moving between me and Rior.

“And let you spill all the blood without us?” I maintain an air of confidence. “Wouldn’t want to miss out.”

I know Darvel and Rior see through the show. We’ve stood side by side in many battles. Fought the onslaught of impending defeat, blood raining, screams piercing the realm. We’ve bloodied our blades and shown no mercy until our enemies had no choice but to retreat. They know how I operate and that my presence means I know we’re facing the worst, but this is what my battlefront needs from me.

Here, at the center of a beach covered in bodies, drenched in blood-soaked sand, they need their future king more than ever.

The beach is gray and overcast. But the clouds are not storm magic. It’s the promise of what the Well is brewing. I was here checking on the battlefront just a few days ago, but much has deteriorated since that trip.

“Aurora said your message was urgent.” I glance down at the map stretched on a table in the sand.

Dark splotches mark where the Well has spread, showing the points of contention at the border to Everquell and the Western beach of Andare. There are spots as far north as Zealeh, although it’s still mostly unaffected.