Anger rushed through Marai. She could turn this entire room to ashes if she wanted. Shove it down, she told herself. For Ruenen’s sake, for the safety of her people, Marai cooled the fury.
Ruenen’s attention snapped to the commander. His eyes narrowed with lethal authority. “You will address Lady Marai with respect, Commander, or you will be removed from your position.”
Marai had never heard words uttered from Ruenen’s mouth with such strict intensity before. His face darkened with severity. His eyes, usually warm and bright, were as cold and harsh as the Northern Sea. His hands fisted at his sides.
The pitch of his voice lowered further. “If anyone so much as whispers an insult at Lady Marai, Lord Keshel, and their people, you will spend the next several days in a cell. Is that understood?”
Marai’s skin prickled. Every single facet of this man: the bard, the flirt, the charming prince, and this new imposing ruler . . . sent pleasurable shivers across her body.
Ruenen returned his focus to her, face softening slightly. “If you believe yourselves capable of handling this, then I trust you.”
Marai nodded. The commander had been right—it was time for the fae to show what they could do.
Aresti and Keshel followed at Marai’s heels as she hastened from the chamber and into the courtyard.
“Are you insane?” Aresti asked. “We can’t take down an entire unit of soldiers by ourselves.”
“We can,” stated Marai, not slowing her steps as they wound their way down towards the cottages. “I’ve done it before.”
“But there will be more soldiers than that time, Marai,” Keshel said. She’d told him in the Badlands about the Tacorn woods, when she’d first discovered her power.
“That’s why you’re coming along.”
Keshel’s expression grew grim. She knew what he was thinking. Ruen will be our Ruin.
Marai burst through the cabin door, startling Thora and Raife. An elderly woman sat in a chair, her foot resting in Thora’s lap. The woman’s face grew paler as Keshel and Aresti filed into the room behind Marai.
“Can you let me treat Mrs. Whitten’s gout first before you all launch into whatever horrific thing happened?” Thora asked with steely eyes.
Mrs. Whitten’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Magic appeared in Thora’s hands as she hovered them over the old woman’s swollen foot. After a moment, the swelling and redness disappeared, and Mrs. Whitten’s face relaxed. She let out a contented moan. When Thora’s magic retreated, the old woman cracked a weak smile.
“This is the first time in five years I haven’t felt that pain,” she said in wonder, rotating her ankle.
Thora smiled. “And you should never feel that pain again. If anything does occur, come back and I’ll fix it.”
The old woman’s rotten-toothed smile widened as she set her foot down, put on her shoe, and stood up. Mrs. Whitten handed Thora a coin, then exited the cottage with a jaunty gait.
Thora’s face immediately hardened. “Come to tell us more horrible news?”
Leif and Kadiatu appeared in the back door, arms full of harvested vegetables, hands caked in dark dirt.
“We already dispatched a monster while you were gone,” Leif said, puffing up with pride. “Wasn’t all that difficult when we used magic.”
“Well, now we need to decimate an entire unit of soldiers,” said Marai.
Leif’s arms and face slackened. A carrot dropped onto the floor.
“You’re talking about over thirty trained soldiers, Marai. That’s suicide,” Raife said, stepping closer to Thora. Their arms grazed slightly, the contact natural and comfortable between them.
“No, it’s not,” Marai said. “This is our chance to show this continent that the fae should be respected. Because five of us can defeat an entire unit of trained Tacornian soldiers. We send a message to Rayghast that Nevandia should be feared.”
Raife ran a hand through his unbound curly hair. “You want us to use magic? In front of humans?”
“Humans who will be dead,” Aresti chimed in. A slow smirk appeared on her face. “We won’t leave anyone alive.”
Leif stood taller. “Rayghast killed our families. Here’s our chance for justice.”
Kadiatu cringed; her body physically shying away from those words. She plopped her vegetables onto the table. “Don’t have such joy in taking life. I was too young to remember fleeing the camps, but I’m sure you all do. Don’t be so quick to experience that horror again.”
“It will be different this time,” Leif said, coming to Marai’s side in a rare show of unity. “It won’t be our blood that runs red.” He glanced down at the bloodstone ring on Marai’s finger. “Let’s get going.”
Leif grabbed his sword propped up in the corner and handed his twin the bow and quiver.
Someone rapped at the door. Keshel opened it, revealing Avilyard, Elmar, and Nyle. The commander’s helmet was off, hair tousled and sweaty. He held a bundle of black cloth in his arms.
“Pardon the intrusion,” Avilyard said, staying politely outside. “Are you certain you don’t require any of my men? Sir Elmar and Sir Nyle could join you. To take on a whole unit alone—”
“Thank you, Commander, but no,” said Marai. “Your men need to rest and prepare for the upcoming battle.”
Avilyard gave her a weak nod. There was little more he could do to prepare his young, inexperienced army. The commander held out the black bundle. “Prince Ruenen sent me with these. He said you might want them.”
Marai sifted through the clothes: a shirt and trousers in smooth black leather and soft linen, a velvet cloak, all her size. Marai smirked.
“We shall be needing proper battle attire, Commander Avilyard,” said Raife, warily watching Marai rub her blackened fingers across her new cloak. “For the next time.”
Avilyard nodded again. “I’ll see to it that you are properly outfitted. Good luck.”
With a quick glance at Kadiatu hovering by the garden door, he turned and walked back up the street. Marai heard his armor clanking from a distance. Soldiers could never sneak up on their enemy.
But phantoms in Butcher blacks could . . .
Chapter 20
Rayghast
His army gathered outside Dul Tanen. Rayghast watched the mass of black-armored soldiers train from his position on the sloping, craggy hill. Their swords clashed, arrows aimed true, and their precision within their ranks was unmatched by any other army on Astye.
Satisfaction rippled under Rayghast’s skin at his army’s display of power, the greatest on all of Astye.
“The men continue to drill rigorously, Your Grace,” Shaff said. “And the Varanese forces are close. Many of their commanders are arriving as we speak.”
“So we’re ready, then?” asked Dobbs. “For the main offensive?”
Several council members had accompanied Rayghast on his visit to the encampment. Cronhold, too doddery to make the trek, stayed behind. Lord Silex was also present. He wore fine velvets and silks, and a flamboyant feathered hat. Rayghast found the lord arrogant and irksome, but he did pay an inordinate amount of money towards the military, and had brought more of his own retainers to join in the cause.
“Yes, my lord. A large Nevandian encampment has sprouted across the moor,” said Shaff, pointing out towards the main road.
Rayghast couldn’t see the Nevandians from so far away, but he felt them out there. Magic thrummed, snaking around his arteries and veins.
