Page 33 of Heart of the Raven Prince

“She’s not a Vessel,” the fae whispers, flicking his eye to the needle and thread charm in my ear.

“The queen owns us all,” Doran says, his gaze pointedly on mine.

“I…I was just—”

“If the next word out of your mouth isn’t ‘leaving’, then I highly recommend you rethink it.”

The fae’s cheeks burn bright red, before he shoots a seething glare my way. There is a clear promise of violence in his gaze as if to say this isn’t over. But he does not argue with Doran. Without another word he pulls the knife from my throat and stalks away behind the blacksmiths shop.

“So, you want a weapon? The only way to do that is by enlisting. Did you intend to join the prince’s army?” Doran asks, his voice loud enough to carry. I wince internally at the question. I wonder if Bryan is watching this exchange. I can’t imagine how this looks—the general of Caden’s army asking if I want to be enlisted. I doubt it will go over well with someone who already doesn’t trust in my ability to rule.

“No,” I say firmly. He grunts, flicking his eyes up and down before glancing at something over my shoulders. He does a double take, his eyes widening as a strange look crosses his face for a heartbeat. His features snap so quickly back to a gruff mask that I’m not sure it happened at all, but then his attention is back on me.

“Sword or bow, human?” he asks, ignoring my firm no.

“Neither.”

“That wasn’t an option.”

“Well, it’s still my answer.”

He narrows his gaze at me, flicking it once over my shoulder, almost as if there is something behind me he can’t stop looking at. Leaning down so that he’s eye level with me, he holds me in the blackhole of his gaze and says, “You’re making yourself an easy target. They think you’re pitiful. Weak. Are you going to prove them right?”

I blink rapidly, completely caught off guard by that. I don’t know what kind of stupid mind game this is, but I can tell he’s not letting me walk away. Taking a deep breath, I force out one, quiet word between firmly clenched teeth, “Bow.”

He straightens and turns, storming back into the blacksmiths. I ignore him, turning instead to find Siobhán and Bryan across the street, watching me. They’ve moved so they aren’t standing out in the open, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. I send a silent prayer to the gods that they're outside of earshot of this conversation.

Doran returns a moment later, a quiver slung over his shoulder, a bow in his hand. It looks small compared to his massive frame, but even still it’s going to be larger than the hunting bow I am used to. Stopping before me, he holds it out, a leather bracer held in his other hand. Tentatively, I take them both from him.

The strip of leather is easy enough to attach on my wrist, securing it in place like second nature. The bow itself is impossibly light, feeling nearly nonexistent in my grip. I give the string a cursory tug, testing the tension. It’s entirely unlike anything I’ve shot with before. I want to study it further, but Doran is already moving, rounding the back of the armory. Giving Bryan and Siobhán one last fleeting look, I hurry after him.

Behind the blacksmiths is a fighting ring and an archery range, with wood and straw dummies set up and targets interspersed throughout. The fae from earlier are there, including the guard licking his wounds that shoots me a hateful glare. Doran doesn’t even glance their way as he stops in front of the dummies, slinging the quiver off his shoulder and holding it out to me.

“What’s the target?” I ask, taking the quiver from him and draping it over my shoulder, relishing in the familiar weight at my back.

“Something impressive.”

I refrain from asking if a shot through his eye would be considered good enough. Glancing around the yard, desperate to get this over, I nod at a random wooden soldier. Doran’s face remains stoic, but I think I note a hint of disappointment. The target I chose isn’t impressive by a long shot, but I know it doesn’t truly matter. This is all just sport for them. Pulling an arrow from the quiver, I nock it and take aim. The bow is an extension of my arm; like a weapon I was born to wield. No matter how they might demean me they cannot take away the fact that I am a warrior. I hold that truth tight in my mind and then I fire.

I miss spectacularly.

The weight of the bow is nothing compared to how incredibly light the arrows are, and I misjudge the strength I would need massively. The coming storm certainly isn’t helping, the wind carrying the arrow well off track. I must be drawing a crowd, based on the bellows of laughter that burst out when my arrow sails right over the head of the target and directly into the wooden wall surrounding the yard. My cheeks burn as I quickly nock another arrow, aim, and fire.

I miss again.

This time the arrow lands with a thunk in the ground. Mocking jeers echo around me, my cheeks continuing to heat. I block out the noise, focusing like my father taught me. Centering myself, I flex my fingers around the bow, and really feel it this time. I let the weight of it settle in my hands, plucking the bowstring several more times. I pull an arrow out and hold it flat in the palm of my hand, again familiarizing myself with the weight of it. The whole time the men laugh, and the whole time Doran watches me.

“Giving up already?” he asks, his voice so low I am certain I’m the only one who hears.

“I’m only just getting started,” I say, a promise I make to no one but myself.

I inhale deeply and turn back to the shooting range. My mind finally quiets, sinking into a well-trained stillness. But my body moves. I fire off five shots in rapid succession. I hit the wooden soldier before me, the one behind it, the one at the farthest end of the ring, then I aim up high and shoot clean through a banner tied to a pole before spinning around and launching my final arrow. It narrowly misses the face of the guard who is laughing at me, hitting a great cast iron drum behind him with a resounding clank.

I hear it clearly, because all of the men have stopped laughing, including the one who was a hair’s breadth away from being shot in the mouth.

“Oops, looks like I missed,” I say. The men continue to stare at me, their mouths hanging open. I refuse to turn to see how the general responds. I simply pull the quiver off my shoulder, tossing it and the bow unceremoniously to the ground. None of them get so much as a second glance as I walk away. They are not worth it. I leave the target range behind, and I hurry to find Siobhán.

Relief blooms in me when I see Bryan is no longer beside Siobhán. I don't have the energy to deal with him right now. Her eyes are wide with worry and she's nervously wringing her hands until she spots me walking toward her. Darting into the road, she meets me halfway, gripping my hands firmly as she gasps, “Gods and demons, you’re bleeding!”