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)
“Annika!” Tyree’s palm lands on my cheek, forcing my eyes to meet his. “Calm down. They are not taking us to the fire,” he assures me, nodding ahead to a nearby wagon I hadn’t noticed in my panic.
Sure enough, we’re towed up the wooden ramp by four soldiers. I wince against the rough grain as soldiers climb in and surround us, their blades aimed at our faces.
The two soldiers closest to me ogle my chest as they utter something in their language.
“They won’t lay a hand on you,” Tyree whispers in my ear, startling me. I’m surprised he even noticed.
“How do you know that?” Because the way the soldier on the left stares at me, I would argue otherwise.
“Because I won’t allow it. I am your betrothed, remember?” Tyree ropes an arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him. He meets their leers with a murderous glare.
For once, I don’t fight him or his ridiculous claim, huddling closer as the wagon rolls forward along the bumpy ground, the wheels creaking.
The sun sets and yet the journey continues, plodding along. Eventually, I have nothing better to do but drift off.
I wake with a start to gruff voices in that strange, abrasive tongue. My head is nestled in the crook of Tyree’s arm. The air has chilled considerably since yesterday.
“Good morning, Princess,” he murmurs, his voice husky from sleep.
“Don’t call me that.” I blink away the bleariness and note the pale pink sky above. Somehow, we slept through the night.
“Isn’t that what you are?”
“Yes, but you’re not using it to respect my status. It’s nothing more than a pet name, and I despise pet names.” I pull away, but he tightens his grip, keeping me in place.
“As you wish, Your Highness. But you are free to refer to me as your prince in case you were wondering.”
“I was not.”
“Or Ty. That is what my friends call me.”
“You do not have any friends.”
My head lifts with his heavy inhale, and when I steal a glance at his face, I find him grinning. “What are you so happy about?”
“Just thrilled to share another sunrise with your delightful company.”
Before I can throw back a suitable barb, the wagon halts and the soldiers pile out.
Tyree’s mirth from a moment ago evaporates with a groan. “Get ready—”
Our sleepy, aching bodies jerk forward as they drag us out by the netting. Again, Tyree manages to pull me on top of him before we hit the ground with a thud. His head smacks against the stone.
The sound draws my wince. That would have been my head had he not moved to protect me. “Are you okay?”
He answers with a moan, slipping his fingers to the back of his skull. They return with drops of blood.
The leader barks, and the netting is unfastened and thrown off. With the sharp ends of a dozen swords pointed at us, he orders us to our feet with an “up” gesture.
I must not move fast enough, my body stiff from this never-ending ordeal, because a nearby soldier jabs my thigh with his sword pommel. I cry out from the pain.
“Do not touch her!” Tyree shoves himself between us.
With a sneer, the leader draws his sword back for a swing, his intention clear. But he’s stopped by a deep holler from somewhere unseen. They all, leader included, snap to attention.
The pause gives me a moment to gather my bearings. We’ve left the rainforest and entered a city of tall stone buildings and streets lined with onlookers who watch quietly—peasants, by their drab wool clothing and sunken faces.
A loud creak sounds as the grand golden gate swings open. It’s as tall as Cirilea’s castle. The road beyond it disappears into a dewy, thick fog.
A group of soldiers emerges, these dressed in gleaming armor and moving in formation. I’ve seen my share of royal guards to recognize this as one. Their faces are unyielding as they tug two grimy men along, led by chains bound to their wrists and ankles. Prisoners, by the looks of it, and by the various gashes marring their arms and legs, not treated well.
Is this to be us?
A soldier with a black plume sticking from his helm strolls up, directing the others to bring the prisoners forward with a wave. He must be the captain. He reminds me of Boaz, his expression equally hard.
The two mortals shake as they’re shoved toward us. With a one-word command, the keepers of their chains draw hooked blades.
I slink closer to Tyree.
But the weapons aren’t meant for us. With quick swipes, the throats of both prisoners are carved wide open. Crimson gushes out in a steady flow as they gurgle their last breaths and a metallic tang fills the air.
Cries of dismay erupt from the spectators around us as the two men collapse, their blood seeping into the seams of the stonework where they land. They were likely known to these people.