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Tyrell’s words continued to ring in Grayson’s ears as they entered the courtyard. It was autumn in Ryden, and the morning air was crisp. Snow capped the steep mountains to the north, and while the pines remained green, the other trees that dotted the lower hills and castle yard were turning vibrant shades of red, orange, and gold. Some had already browned, and he knew death was coming for the other leaves as well. The sun blazed in a blue sky with hardly any clouds, but the heat didn’t quite make it to earth. Despite the chill in the air, Grayson knew his shiver came from the men standing in the courtyard.
Henri stood near his bodyguards, his saddled horse waiting behind him. Grayson’s father was a handsome man, with rich brown hair and a confident stance. The strong planes of his face were unbroken by scars, and he wore an emerald green tunic that looked very much like a soldier’s uniform. He also wore his golden crown, decorated with emeralds and rubies. For all the excess that Queen Iris eschewed, she had never said anything about that heavily jeweled crown.
Peter’s tunic was similar to their father’s, though the dark green fabric strained over his shoulders. He’d been training while Grayson was gone. He also wore a gold crown, thinner and less decorated than Henri’s. It marked him as the heir to the Rydenic throne. He was already mounted on his horse, and he flicked an impatient hand at the servant who had just handed him the reins. The signet ring on his forefinger caught in the meager sunlight—twisted snakes with ruby eyes. Grayson was very familiar with the bruising weight of it.
Beside Peter, also astride his horse, was Carter. The second oldest Kaelin prince had thick dark hair that brushed his shoulders, and his long, thin face made him look rather like a weasel. He was not as physically strong or as intimidating as the rest of them, but he had a knack for poisons that made him indisputably dangerous. He caught sight of Tyrell and Grayson first, and he murmured something to Peter.
Peter twisted to look at them, and Grayson didn’t miss the play of emotions across his oldest brother’s face. The quiet speculation as his eyes slipped between Tyrell and Grayson—arriving together, which was unusual. The hint of satisfaction as he studied the burn on Grayson’s face. The twitch of his lip that betrayed his annoyance with Grayson.Thatlook promised retribution.
Grayson had not accomplished the mission Peter had set for him in Mortise. He’d wanted Grayson to abduct Princess Imara and bring her to Ryden so Peter could marry her and force an alliance with Zennor.
I was never going to bring her to you,Grayson thought as he stalked down the castle steps. Not even before he’d met the princess, who had unexpectedly befriended him. His allies in Eyrinthia were few, but he knew Imara Buhari was one.
Peter’s eyebrows drew together, as if he could read Grayson’s defiance.
When Henri turned toward him, Grayson forced his face to go blank. Because out of all the nonsense Tyrell had spewed in that stairway, one thing was true: he couldn’t afford to show any rebellion to Henri, or Mia would suffer.
So he became nothing. Nothing except the Black Hand. A beaten dog who returned to his master’s harsh hand again and again, no matter how painful the abuse. One day, Grayson would bite back.
But not today.
Henri’s mouth curved into a slow smile as he regarded Grayson’s newest scarring. “Mount up,” he ordered.
Grayson’s horse was waiting with a stable hand. The boy looked terrified to be so close to the Black Hand’s horse—let alone the Black Hand himself—but he only flinched a little when Grayson took the reins from him.
Mounting the horse proved to be less painful than expected, the practiced motion hardly stretching his cheek at all. But the burn still throbbed, and the chill air sliced against the open wound. Grayson only breathed a little sharper, not letting any other sound escape his clamped lips.
His horse tensed beneath him, as if sensing his pain. Grayson brushed his fingertips over the animal’s neck, and the horse settled.
The hairs on the back of his neck lifted. Feeling eyes on him, Grayson straightened slowly, his head turning carefully until he spotted his mother standing on one of the second floor balconies that overlooked the courtyard. With one hand on the stone railing, Iris peered down at him, a slight smile tipping her lips. Her gray eyes were unreadable at this distance, but a chill raced down Grayson’s spine.
She thought he’d killed Liam. She thought her control over Grayson was complete. She had no idea he’d betrayed her—that Liam still lived, locked in a Mortisian cell. He’d lied about Liam’s death for several reasons. A strong one had been so he could use his mother as an ally.
Now, pinned by her stare, he wasn’t sure he wanted anything from the Poison Queen.
“It’s time for each of you to learn your role in the great war,” Henri said, drawing Grayson’s attention. The king of Ryden was seated on his own horse, his fist wrapped around the reins as he surveyed his sons. “We ride to Northland Barracks.”
Just the name of the military outpost threaded unease through Grayson. It was primarily a place to house an army close to Lenzen, where soldiers could also receive further training. Everyone who served in the king’s military spent time stationed there, including each of Henri’s sons.
The camp was brutal. Rations were strictly limited to teach moderation. Soldiers were sent into the mountains to live for a week with nothing but their sword to teach them resourcefulness and endurance. Impossible games of war were played to remind them that not everyone survived battle. Excuses were found to punish them so they would learn the futility of defying authority.
Grayson had spent varying amounts of time at the camp over the years. When he was fifteen, Henri had decided he’d learned enough, and he was no longer required to go. He hadn’t stepped foot in Northland Barracks since.
Henri and his guards led the way to the gate. Peter followed next, leaving the other brothers to nudge their horses into line. Grayson took up the rear, dread curling low in his stomach. His unease increased with every mile they travelled north. A biting wind funneled down from one of Lenzen’s many canyons, but that wasn’t what chilled him.
Whatever waited for them at Northland Barracks, it wouldn’t be good.
Two hours of riding later, this was confirmed. In fact, it was so much worse than he’d feared.
As they rode into the valley that held Northland Barracks, Grayson’s blood ran cold.
Thousands of uniformed men ran drills and milled about camp. The drills weren’t new; men had been training here long before Grayson’s birth. But the ranks had easily tripled since he’d last been here, and that was just the men.
Then there were the boys.
Sectioned off from the rest of the army was a camp for the youngest soldiers Grayson had ever seen. Some of the boys looked to be as young as eight years old—perhaps even younger. They wore emerald as well, but their uniforms weren’t fitted. Why bother to do that, when it was clear their sole purpose was to fill out the ranks, surprise the enemy, and then die on some battlefield of Henri’s choosing? It was clear from their gaunt cheeks that Henri barely deemed them worthy of the food it took to keep them alive.
Grayson’s gut rolled. There were at least a thousand boys down there—probably more.
