Page 11 of Heart of the Raven Prince

I lean over, awkwardly scooping the cup off the ground with my tied hands, hoping in vain that there is any liquid left within the tin cup. When I straighten up, I barely keep myself from shouting in surprise. The prince is directly in front of me. He grabs the cup, tossing it easily over his shoulder as he says,

“Too late, Oisín. Let this be a lesson in swift obedience.” Before I know what is happening, he has scooped me off my feet and turned toward the massive warhorse. My head swims at the unsteady sensation as he moves in a blur, and we are seated in the saddle of the great beast. My stomach instantly knots at the queasy motion of having been in his arms one moment only to find myself seated in a saddle the next.

I grip the pommel to steady myself, an unnecessary gesture considering the prince is seated directly behind me, his arm tightening around my waist. With a firm tug, he pulls me flush against him, and I cannot resist the urge to shiver at the surge of magic that crawls over my skin this close to him. He reaches forward, gripping the black reins tightly in his hands and lets out another ear-splitting whistle.

The horse begins to trot forward, this time taking care to not crash through tents and fires as the prince guides it through camp. I’m trying to steady my breathing, trying to get my erratic heartbeat to calm. Being in such close proximity to Caden is stifling, a hot prickling sensation crawling over the places where our bodies touch. Men begin to elbow each other and point at me, jeering and making no effort to hide their laughter. I grimace, pressing the noise out as my father taught me to do when facing off with an opponent.

Caden, however, does not shut it out.

I know this only because a man laughs and jabs his fellow soldier in the ribs as he shouts, “She spent the night in the prince’s tent, no wonder she has to ride. I bet her legs will be useless for a week.”

There is a raucous uproar of laughter that I push out, focusing only on the road ahead. But the prince pulls his steed to an abrupt stop. In a flash he dismounts, stalking toward the men who are too busy guffawing to notice his approach until it’s too late. The one who launched the barbed comment at me barely has a moment to react as he quibbles, “S-sire—”

The prince rears back and punches him across the face.

I gasp at the loud crack when his fist collides with the man’s cheek. His jaw breaks instantly, teeth flying from his mouth. Blood spews from his lips and coats his front as he staggers back one step and crumples to the ground like a doll. The prince turns without a word and marches back to his horse, mounting gracefully. His arm is once again a band around my waist. He lets out that same sharp whistle, and the horse moves forward. The whole time, I couldn’t take my eyes off the man, out cold on the ground from the force of the strike. Glancing down, I see blood dotting the hand clamped firmly around me.

Gods and demons.

This is the fae male that I’ve been provoking because I can’t do something as simple as keep my temper in check. My hands only tremble a little as I try to reach forward to grab the pommel, try to pull myself away from him. I need distance. But the prince's command cracks through the air, reverberating in my back. “Stay where you are.”

The pure animalistic tone of his voice makes my eyes widen. The darkness dripping off the words serves as a stark reminder of exactly who is seated behind me. For once I listen and I stop trying to pull away from him. We ride through the camp without any further interruptions. I suspect word travels fast in this army, because no one so much as looks at us. He holds me tight, flooding my senses with the musky clove scent of him. He’s grave-cold, though, and without proper winter clothes I’m chilled to the bone instantly. I cannot help but tremble against him, my teeth chattering.

I tell myself it is just from the cold.

The first tickle of a feather against my leg has me yelping and whipping my head to the side. He huffs, “Relax, Oisín, I’m merely keeping you warm.”

I notice then that his wings have moved to circle around us, tucking me against him and cutting out the worst of the wind. His scent overwhelms me. It takes everything in me not to shove his wings away from me to get a breath of fresh air. Being this close to him is too much, too intense. But his arm is a vice around me, and I know he will not allow me even an inch of space. Letting out a shaky breath, I close my eyes and try to calm my heart and focus. I need my wits about me for the journey ahead.

If you allow your opponent to distract you, you might as well hand them your sword. Focus, and push the world out.

I do as my father instructed. I still my racing thoughts and focus only on the journey ahead. He is bringing the other survivors with him wherever he is taking us, now all I have to do is find a way to reunite with them. And that starts with learning to keep my mouth shut and obey basic commands.

My stomach sours at the thought. Easier said than done.

We’re just coming to the outskirts of camp when I make out the unmistakable form of the general. He turns as the horse approaches, quirking a brow when he sees me seated in front of Caden with his arm curled around me like a chain. Caden says something to the general in a language I do not understand, one that skitters down my back and over my arms, accompanied by that daunting feel of magic. The general’s face is grim as he responds in that foreign language. He flicks his eyes to me, a rueful look crossing his face as he speaks a few more words.

Caden stiffens behind me, his arm across my waist tightening as he mutters a cold response. The general laughs, clapping a hand on the horse’s hindquarters as he walks away from us. Without another word, Caden lets out a sharp whistle, and the massive steed jolts forward, breaking into a canter. My legs tighten around the beast, holding me upright and keeping me from plastering my back against his chest.

Icy winter wind whips across my face as we begin to rush across the wide-open field, away from the camp and the forest behind us, away from the coast. I frown, wondering where he could be going. I assumed the army invaded from the coast, taking out our meager naval fleet and creeping up the rocky hillsides to my family’s estate. I thought we were leaving, so why are we moving further inland?

His wings seem to have a harder time covering us at the fast pace, and they unfurl from me. I take in a grateful gulp of air, glad to be smelling the icy wind and not his overbearing scent. We ride for some time, the sun steadily rising. I see no other signs of the army laying ruin to my homeland, and I could almost think I am out for a normal ride. If it weren’t for my bound hands and the fae male at my back.

Another forest approaches—an ancient one that I have spent countless nights in—camping and hunting with my father. The trees are gnarled and curled, twisting like smoky tendrils. Their bark is so dark it’s nearly black, and they sit close together, tight enough that there is only one path we can take. Falen and I used to attempt to scare each other with stories that this place was inhabited by spirits of the dead.

How true those stories proved to be.

The silence of the forest creeps in around us, stifling even the noise the massive warhorse makes as it walks steadily down the single path in the woods. I chew on my bottom lip, my tongue flicking absentmindedly against the fresh cut. The flash of Caden licking my dried blood off my skin fills my mind and I stifle a wave of disgust, but I stop messing with my wound. I certainly don’t want to be bleeding in front of him again.

“It appears you’ve learned the art of silence.” His dark, guttural voice rolls over me, and I stiffen instantly. I assume he’s trying to provoke a response out of me, so I remain quiet instead. He leans forward, pressing his face against my cheek, his lips directly next to my ear. If I thought I was still before, I am a statue now. “Silence is going to be your greatest ally where I’m taking you. Don’t forget that, Oisín.”

Where are you taking me?

I want to ask, or rather, demand. But I swallow my words and remain resolutely quiet. The meager gray light of the wintery day is barely able to creep through the thick gnarled branches of the forest canopy. Everything is set in muted shades of gray and smudgy black, like all the color has drained from the world. Even the bright chestnut horse appears dull and rusty in color. At first, I think it is just caused from the shadowy nature of the woods.

Then I feel it.

It’s like the cold stone chapel I stood in the day my grandmother was laid to rest. It is empty, frigid, and hopelessly inevitable. It is the softly beckoning hand of death. I can feel it leaching the color and the life from this land, the sense of it growing stronger the deeper we trek into the woods. My breaths come in small, shallow inhales, the forest suddenly feels thick with the presence of darkness. The shadows are a skeletal hand gripping my throat, stealing the air from my lungs.