Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
“I cannot wait to learn of them.” He snaps his fingers and his guards step forward, carrying golden armor that gleams from polish, the flame crest on the breast plate familiar. “I believe this is yours.”
I falter. “This is … unexpected.” They cleaned and repaired it, and hauled it back to Islor.
“The commander of Islor’s army should be recognized on the battlefield, no?”
Something tells me this alliance has been his plan since the moment I arrived in Ostros. A new level of respect blooms for this mortal and his scheming.
“They will bring it to your tent.” He nods to my nemesis, who steps forward. In his grip is a sword.
My sword.
“Jimon has been keeping it safe for you.”
The brute dips his head with the first sign of respect he’s ever shown me.
I accept it, wrapping my hand around the hilt again. It would be poetic if I were to draw it now and kill the man before me.
Maybe that’s why he looks at me the way he does—with a mixture of resignation and unease.
He knows he would deserve it.
Poetic, but supremely witless.
King Cheral smiles as if he can read my thoughts. “Wrangle these leaders of Ybaris and Mordain, and meet me within the hour in my tents.” It’s an order and yet, coupled with the handover of my belongings, it doesn’t feel like it.
My smirk says as much. “Of course, Your Highness.”
With one last roaming view of the land before us, King Cheral strolls away, his guard trailing him.
I lean into Kazimir. “Maybe do not kill Jimon too soon. He was just following orders, after all.”
Kazimir’s deep bellow carries.
A guard ducks into Cheral’s tent as we’re toiling over various strategies. “King Zander and Queen Romeria have arrived, Your Highness.”
I don’t wait, moving smoothly past him, the weight of my sword at my hip comforting.
Outside, the camp bustles. It’s impossible to gauge the true size given the forest, but the delineation between troops—Kier and Islorian from Ybarisan and Mordain—is stark, like two halves with a solid line of space in between.
Zander chats with a tall, regal-looking male in armor with the infamous two-crescent moon symbol. I have never laid eyes on him before tonight, but he seems to command respect. I’ve heard several people call him by the name Radomir.
“There she is.” Kazimir, who has not left my side since we reunited, points through the bustle to where Romeria and Satoria hover beneath a tree, exchanging words. Romeria’s stance screams inquisition and Satoria stands defiant, her shoulders pulled back. I can’t imagine what the two of them have to talk about.
Suddenly, as if feeling our gazes on them, Romeria turns. Her eyes narrow.
“Well, that can’t be good,” I murmur.
“Why? Does that Kier have something unflattering to share about you?”
“That is not any Kier. That is Cheral’s fourth wife. As far as what she has to share …” I lower my voice. “Let us just say I have had regular nightly visits that I did not ask for and did not relent to.” But I don’t know what picture Satoria might paint and how Romeria might interpret it.
I sense another set of eyes boring into me and turn to find Tuella nearby, her black eyes alight with a secret. “Good evening, conjurer. Are you keeping busy, surrounded by so much of the shadow?”
“It is enlightening. Enjoy the night, usurper king.” She glides away.
Disquiet slips down my spine, her words from the other night like a bad omen.
Kazimir slaps my injured shoulder, earning my wince. “Lovely friends you’ve made, all around.”
“He’s clearly won over a few.” Romeria closes in, her pretty blue eyes regarding me. “How’s your shoulder?”
“I will live.”
“Show me to your tent and I’ll see what I can do.” She spares Kazimir a look. “Alone. Let Zander know where we are when he comes searching.”
He shoots an “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” frown at me—he knows my history with the princess all too well.
I ignore him and lead the way, lifting the tent flap for her. “After you, Your Highness.”
She ducks in, surveying the sparse space—the cot, the table, my gleaming armor. “I expected something way bigger to fit your giant head in.”
I chuckle, not wasting any time, hoisting my tunic over my head and tossing it to the nearby table. I settle on my cot. “How bad is it?”
She sidles up behind me. “It looks mostly healed.” Cool fingers trace the raw flesh. “It’s going to leave a bad scar, though.”
“If Tuella is right, I won’t be here to live with it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Apparently, she has seen my death in the stars.”
A long silence ensues. “Maybe she read them wrong.”
I chuckle. “Maybe. But something tells me your one power, as she calls it, can only get me so far.” I meet Romeria’s gaze. “Where is Gracen?”
“Safe.”
“I know. But where?”