Page 8 of Heart of the Raven Prince

“Who?”

“The survivors,” I say, staring intently at the bowl of what appears to be stew, but not nearly as much as the cup of water. My throat is so fucking dry; I’m surprised I’m able to speak at all. The prince falters on his way to his desk, turning and quirking a brow at me.

“How the hell should I know?” He growls, rounding his desk and sitting forcefully, snatching up a pen and beginning to scribble something. I lean back and cross my arms over myself as I sit against the pole, making no move toward the food. “Starve for all I care,” he grumbles, continuing to write.

I study his strange attire, something to distract myself from how crisp that water must taste. I’m used to men in tunics, normally in the patterns of their clan flag, or at a minimum dressed in their family colors. He’s wearing what appears to be a long-sleeved white shirt, with buttons going down the front. The cuffs are rolled up to his forearms. The first several buttons on his top are open, revealing a wall of muscles beneath, and what appears to be inky black tendrils creeping up his chest. He flicks his eyes to me and notes the location of them. Glowering at me, he buttons the shirt back up, covering the wisps of darkness on his flesh.

His boots are not like mine, worn and dirtied from years of use. They’re rigid and slick, ending just above his knee. One foot taps incessantly against the ground. He keeps flicking his scowling eyes to me, before tearing them back to his parchment. He doesn’t seem to like me watching him.

I watch him harder.

“I’m genuinely curious. Do you have a death wish, Oisín?” he asks, tossing his pen down and leaning forward on the desk as he growls at me, “Eat. I am not asking.”

“Not. Until. They. Do.”

I blink and he is crouching before me, gripping my neck and pressing me hard against the pole at my back. The wound in my shoulder throbs painfully. I suck in as much air as I can with his hand tight around my throat, all while stubbornly glaring at him. I will not back down that easily. His eyes widen and an odd expression flashes across them. I could almost convince myself I see a smirk tugging at his lips. A heartbeat later, and the effect is gone. He loosens his grip on my throat, and I pull in a ragged breath, but he does not let go of me as he shouts over his shoulder.

“Someone get in here!”

I watch as three bewildered soldiers rush into the tent. Clearly, no one wants to keep the prince waiting.

“Sire?” The bravest of them calls out. Even still, he looks as though he’s seconds away from fainting.

“Bring provisions to the prisoners from Castle Windspire.”

“Er, do you mean food, or blankets, or—”

“Now,” he commands, his voice husky and low.

“Yes, Sire,” the soldier yelps as the men all but run into each other to scurry from his presence. The prince releases me without another word. He moves back to his desk before he sits and aggressively snatches up his pen. He looks at me for just a moment, only long enough to bark, “Eat.”

A part of me wants to smirk at the victory, however small it is. But I can’t seem to find the muscles. It’s like they’ve been severed, like I will never again be able to simply smile. With that grim thought, I pull the water toward my lips and drink deeply.

She’s slumbering on the floor. Her shoulders rise and fall in an unsteady rhythm. Her brows are furrowed, clearly caught in a nightmare. I can’t help but wonder if I’m at the center of it. She moans—a soft, forlorn noise. Her lips pull into a frown that mirrors my own. I’ve been watching her for a while now, unable to pull my eyes away. The longer I watch her sleep, the deeper my frown grows.

Defiant little thing.

I’ve killed men for much less than she’s done. I snort, shaking my head as I finally peel my eyes away from her, training them down on the letter in front of me. An update for the queen; she might never step foot on the battlefield, but she wants to be informed regardless. I have learned the hard way what happens when she thinks I’m keeping something from her. The cavity deep within my chest twinges—an old ache that I’m not sure I will ever get used to. Grunting, I rub at my chest. It’s a habit I can’t seem to break.

I roll the parchment up and place it in an envelope. Holding a lit candle over the envelope, I drip a pool of wax in the center, sealing it shut. The moment the wax dries, I place a single finger on the envelope and it begins to sizzle and burn. The curling embers spread, and within seconds the letter disappears in a cloud of smoke. With the queen informed, I pull myself up and march across my tent, pausing to turn and look at her again. I glance at the empty cup beside her; the drug will hold her in sleep for hours yet.

I wouldn’t put it past her to wake from the drugged sleep just to spite me.

Turning swiftly, I tug on my long black coat as I march out of the tent and into the night. I do not need to worry that there are no guards stationed outside of my tent. No one would dare go inside uninvited. I’m trusting her to not be stupid enough to flee into the camp. The men might not enter my tent, but if they caught her wandering around alone there would be nothing to stop them from acting like the animals this army has turned them into. I will have to do something to make it known that she is off limits.

Her fierce eyes flash in my mind, and I scowl as I walk into this miserable frozen landscape. Even though it is hours still before sunrise, the camp is alive with activity. The majority of the army will remain behind to secure the island under my many commanders. The rest of the army will return home with me. The pit in my chest aches at the thought of home, and I absentmindedly rub it as I march out of the camp, heading directly toward the thick forest that surrounds us.

Doran is already waiting along the line of trees. With his preternatural stillness and his midnight black armor, he blends easily into the night. Still, I make out his hulking presence on the edge of the woods, my eyes seeing easily through the night. He leans against a tree, cleaning his nails with a dagger. His pointed ears don’t even twitch at my approach, but I know he marks every one of my steps. He wouldn’t be my general if he wasn’t always on guard, even when he appears at ease.

“Doran,” I say, coming to a stop in front of him. Only Doran would continue to clean his nails in my presence. Unlike the men in my army who find any reason to be elsewhere whenever I approach. Doran has never feared me. Then again, he’s one of the few fae who knew me before I was the Raven Prince. Back when I didn’t have wings. That blissful time before the queen had chosen me as her son and heir. Back before my life had been eternally doomed.

“Prince,” Doran says, and I roll my eyes as he gives me a smirk. He knows I hate it when he calls me that, so of course, he insists on it. He might be my only true friend, but that doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole. “Have fun with the human? That one certainly seems like a handful.”

“That’s a fucking understatement,” I snort.

“How much force did you have to use?” he asks, glancing sideways at me. Running a hand through my hair, I think back to the frustrating evening spent with the princess.

“More than I would have guessed. Apparently stabbing her isn’t a deterrent.”