Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 123190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“Who will get it first?” the guard singsongs. “Who will survive?”
Crissa jumps to her feet and stares at the knife. Her gaze darts to meet Jasalyn’s and then back to the floor.
“Maybe you want me to throw one of the other prisoners in there with you,” he says. “See if they want my gift.”
“No.” Crissa moves so fast Jas barely sees her, but then Crissa’s standing a foot away from the bars, glaring at the guard with the knife clutched in her hand. “I should use this to gut you,” she says.
His chuckle is a raspy wheeze. “I’d like to see you try.”
Her grip tightens on the handle of the knife, her knuckles going white. Jas tries to make out the guard, but the light behind him is blinding, casting his face in shadow.
“Ever cut into another human, little girl?” the guard asks her. “Ever watch the pain contort their face?”
“You are disgusting.” Crissa charges at him, blade out, poised to slide it between the bars and meet his chest, but she freezes a second before it makes contact.
“Look what a fun little gift my king has given me to play with,” he says.
Crissa turns toward Jas, her movements so jerky and harsh Jas knows Crissa’s no longer in control of her own body. Step after step, she lurches toward Jas, that blade pointed out.
Jas curls into the corner, but there’s no point. She’s been here long enough to know there’s no use fighting.
“Relax,” the guard says, and he makes Crissa drop to her knees. Tears stream down her face. “All I want is for you to draw her a pretty picture.”
There’s so much terror in her eyes. So much fear.
“It’s not your fault,” Jas whispers. Then Jas can’t say anything at all because she’s frozen. Forced to watch as the guard guides the blade to pierce the flesh of her wrist.
“That’s right,” he says. “Make a pretty circle.”
When I imagined living as a princess in the Wild Fae castle, I never thought that would include the king pounding on my door at dawn and dragging me out of bed before I’d wiped the sleep from my eyes.
Yet here we are.
As exhausted as I am, I’m not sorry to have been pulled from the dream that delivered Jas’s memory. The horror of those moments hangs over me like a heavy blanket on this unseasonably hot morning.
The training yard at Castle Craige is positioned at the back of the castle, on a smooth stretch of rock that juts out from the mountain. It’s sparse, the dusty earth clear but for a few piles of spears and training rods and a collection of neatly organized bows. We’re alone here, and I wonder if Misha’s sentinels train elsewhere or if he intentionally chose this hour to spare me from curious eyes.
Misha pulls his sword from his scabbard and tosses it to me. I catch it on instinct and then shoot him a glare.
He chuckles, and between the smile and the tight black shirt straining against his chest and biceps, his hair tied back, my mouth goes a little dry.
I’m staring again.
I make myself shift my attention to the sword, and the sight of the blade sends my mind back to Jas’s memory. My stomach turns.
“You will never command a weapon you fear,” Misha says, watching me.
“I’m not afraid of it,” I say, and I push the dream to a locked corner of my mind so I can focus.
I haven’t held a blade since I left home. Haven’t wanted to, given the reason I ran in the first place. No doubt I should have. At twelve, I could spar with the best in my village, but right now my hands feel awkward even gripping the hilt. The fact that I’m in Jasalyn’s form doesn’t help. Her thin frame isn’t built for swordplay, and her hands are small and delicate.
“Has your sister taught you nothing?” Misha asks as I fumble with my grip.
I narrow my eyes. “The queen is too kind to drag me out of bed before the sun.”
“And what about all the other hours of the day?” he asks. “You act like you’ve never held a sword before.”
“I train.” I lift my chin. No wonder the princess has a chip on her shoulder. They all underestimate her. “I can defend myself.”
“The weight of that sword could knock you over if a heavy breeze blew in. You should’ve been spending the last three years putting some muscle on that frame.”
“I’m not in training beyond what is required of me.” From everything I gathered during my short conversation with Jasalyn, she wasn’t interested in anything but being left alone.
“Well, interested or not, you will train while you’re here.”
“Why?” I’m careful to keep my tone annoyed and aloof. Jasalyn isn’t a whiny child. She’s a wounded bird.