Marai shivered, suddenly as cold as she’d been in the Lirrstrass garden. How had all of this happened in half a day?
“Why didn’t our army stop them?” Aresti asked.
Keshel knit his brows together. “Because Avilyard is consolidating all Nevandian forces here in the Red Lands. There are hardly any soldiers left in upper Nevandia. Gloaw Crana was completely exposed and unarmed.”
Marai glanced over to Ruenen, surrounded by people yelling, talking over each other, waving papers in his face. Lost at sea, his eyes were wide, face paling, as he took in the news of what had occurred while he’d been in Grelta.
But Nieve’s forces would come, Marai reminded herself. She hoped Rayghast wouldn’t mount a massive attack before they arrived.
Keshel’s macabre news wasn’t finished yet. “Not only that, but another one of those creatures appeared on the highlands outside the city last night.” Marai bolted towards the door, but Keshel grasped her arm, halting her. “Leif, Raife, and I handled it. No one was hurt, but it wasn’t easy to kill.”
“What did it look like?” asked Aresti, agog.
Keshel shuddered, spooked by the memory. “Two foul heads, six arms, strange markings upon its body—”
“Have you seen anything about them?” Marai asked.
Keshel closed his eyes, recalling his visions. “They bloom from the ground like weeds, shrouded in shadow and flame. Dark magic from the earth births them from the Underworld itself.”
Aresti’s face contorted with disgust.
“Enough,” Ruenen shouted, raising his hands in the air in frustration. He made his way up the dais, each step labored and dragging, until he stood before the throne. Chatter drifted off as Ruenen faced a room full of anxious Nevandians. “Tacorn will continue to attack more of our towns. It’s time to muster men across Nevandia. All able-bodied men must be ready to fight.”
“But many of them don’t know how to wield a weapon,” a councilman said. “They’re peasants, miners, and farmers, Your Highness.”
“We have no choice,” Ruenen said, voice hoarse with fatigue. “Tacorn and Varana outnumber us. Every man counts. You can teach them the basics while they’re gathering in the camps for battle. Commander Avilyard, send out word.”
Avilyard bowed. He stood at the long table, gazing over maps spread across its surface. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“I believe men ages eleven to seventy-five will have to do,” said Holfast, weary face more lined with wrinkles than the day before.
Men? Marai closed her eyes, imagining scrawny, terrified boys standing up against Rayghast’s trained killers. Ruenen scowled, probably thinking the same thing. He massaged his temples, squeezing his eyes shut.
“We should retaliate,” shouted a golden-clad commander from the crowd. “Sack the city of Elfaygua right over the border!”
Voices rose in agreement.
“I will not hurt innocent lives,” Ruenen said with cold authority. “Retaliating by killing Tacornian citizens makes us no better than Rayghast. We must strike their army.”
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but with our forces spread so thin, we don’t have the men to spare to send after the Tacornian unit,” Avilyard said.
“Something must be done,” said a nobleman. “We cannot allow Tacorn to get away with such an atrocity!”
The room burst into enraged commotion again. Ruenen’s face was drawn as Holfast, Vorae, Fenir, and Avilyard launched into discussion with him.
“Send us,” Marai shouted.
Ruenen’s head snapped to her, along with every pair of eyes. Beside her, Keshel and Aresti went rigid. Marai stalked forward; the crowd parted, letting her pass to the dais. The skeptical, distrustful looks grew with each step she took. Keshel and Aresti didn’t follow.
“You cannot spare any men, but you need to attack. Nevandia cannot appear weak. Your citizens need to know you’ll protect them,” Marai said, speaking solely to Ruenen. “Dispatch the fae, and we’ll track down the unit responsible for Gloaw Crana.”
“There are only seven of you. What can you possibly hope to accomplish against a unit of Rayghast’s most skilled soldiers?” asked Fenir. Next to him, Vorae’s red face scrunched in skepticism.
“Five,” Marai corrected, thinking of Thora and Kadiatu. “Two of us will not fight.”
Marai heard the scoffs and snickers. She ignored them. Her mind was set. No one, not even Ruenen, could change it.
“I say let them go,” said a commander next to Avilyard. “Let the creatures prove their worth. If they want to get themselves killed, who cares?”
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.”
