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Vicer had people stationed in Gromalia. Once he’d received my message, those people had warned the hybrid camp of the impending attack. The leaders immediately removed the young, sick, and elderly. Anyone who could fight lay in wait for the Gromalian king’s men to arrive.
There were heavy losses on both sides. But eventually, the Gromalians were forced to flee. Without Kaliera’s warning, it would have been a slaughter. Now, the Gromalian hybrids were moving down to the fae lands and would join the hybrids in the camp there.
What was Kaliera up to?
She did nothing out of the goodness of her heart. It was debatable as to whether she even had a heart. I’d once seen her strike a servant because the tea she’d brought her was too cold.
Not to mention the way Kaliera had thrown that hybrid into Regner’s dungeon—only for Regner to burn her with the dawn. Wila. That was her name. Prisca still carried that death with her.
So why would the queen warn us about the hybrid camp?
I leaned back in my seat and forced myself to concentrate on the voices around me. I was sitting in yet another tavern, this time in a boarding house on the outskirts of a small village. The location and size of the village meant there were no innkeepers prone to snooping—they were currently too busy dealing with travelers stumbling in after a long day on the road.
A group of drunk men laughed uproariously a few tables away. They’d been getting progressively louder for the past couple of hours as I nursed my wine.
But it wasn’t them I was interested in.
No. I was interested in the two men sitting behind me, both of them wearing cloaks, their voices carefully hushed.
Those men wore fine boots and carried even finer weapons. Their cloaks were plain, unembellished, but I knew quality, and the wool was both warm and spelled to keep the rain from soaking through.
Both men were bearded, although one of them was much older—his hair and his beard streaked with gray. When the other man lifted his cup to his mouth, both old scars and fresh cuts decorated his knuckles.
Mercenaries.
Gray cursed at something Scars had said, and Scars nodded sagely. “That’s what I said.”
I lowered my gaze, feeling one of them glance at me and away.
“From Mistrun, you said?”
“Yes. They said the village was completely slaughtered. No survivors.”
I lifted my wine to my mouth in an attempt to hide any sign of a reaction. They were talking about Prisca’s village. Before she’d left to search for her hourglass, she’d sent me a message letting me know exactly what had happened to the people who’d lived there. I wasn’t sure what she’d needed from me—whether she wanted my pity or if she was merely informing me so I knew Regner would likely search for my own weaknesses. I had no weaknesses.
I hadn’t replied. And Prisca hadn’t sent any further messages.
I dared a quick glance at the men as Gray leaned across the table. “Who did it?”
“Scrolls were delivered to every village, town, and city in Eprotha. According to King Sabium, the hybrid heir and her friends were responsible for the massacre.”
I ground my teeth at that, waiting for Gray to curse our names, to immediately vow retribution, to plan to hunt us. Instead, he…snorted.
“And he truly expects everyone to believe she killed her own people?”
“Not her people. They’re humans. She’s corrupt.”
Gray leaned back in his seat. “I’ve seen too godsdamned much in the last few years to believe Sabium. And if you’re honest, you have too.”
A long silence followed his words. Finally, Scars sighed. “Doesn’t matter what I believe. Sabium has begun recruitment. He’s taking them from the villages first.”
I closed my eyes. Of course he was. Prisca once told me about how all of the men in the villages were trained—allegedly in case the fae were ever to attack Eprotha. Regner had never been subtle, and this message was easy to understand. If you wanted to protect those you loved, you needed to go to war against the repugnant corrupt and the evil fae. Otherwise, your village could be next.
Prisca may be cunning, and she may have a unique understanding of people as individuals, but Regner had mastered the art of manipulating entire populations over centuries. He understood how to create fear. And he most certainly understood how people reacted when their loved ones were threatened.
Attacking Prisca’s village hadn’t just been a punishment or a taunt. In all Regner’s years of ruling, he had never conscripted his people before. This would allow him to break that peace. To convince mothers to kiss their children and send them to die for him. To convince husbands to leave their wives and babies and swing their swords on the front lines against fae and hybrids.
Regner’s armies were large. But he knew he would need greater numbers, particularly if we managed to convince the Gromalians to join us. And poor, uneducated villagers wouldn’t want to leave their families behind and march toward the border—especially the northern villagers who were unlikely to see the realities of war.
