Her head snapped up at the sound of many pairs of boots marching into the front room.

  The words exchanged came muffled through the door towards Wren, who slid off the bed and froze, unsure what was going on.

  “Where is she?”

  Dahlia was in the other room going through her morning routine of opening all the drapes. “That depends,” Wren heard the woman answer. “Where’s the captain?”

  “Our orders are to collect the girl. By any means necessary,” the same gruff voice deflected.

  Wren’s eyes darted between the door and the balcony—the only exits from the bedroom.

  Dahlia fired back bravely, “You wouldn’t dare. She is a Lady now, soon to be your Princess, by order of the king.”

  “She still answers to His Majesty, as we all do.” The sound of movement cut through the pause in speech, thudding steps growing closer to the bedroom door before it was thrown open and a uniformed guard locked eyes with Wren. Without so much as acknowledging her presence, he half-turned back towards Dahlia. “Get her ready and dress her as covertly as possible.”

  Her maid strolled past the guard and shut the door before he had the chance to say anything more.

  “What’s happening? Why are there guards in the other room?” Wren questioned frantically.

  Dahlia calmly guided her into the closet, then answered, “Their orders come from Captain Larcyn, who could only be doing this under orders from the king. If you’re to be dressed covertly, I have to assume they’re transporting you somewhere by going through the town.”

  Her theories hardly quelled Wren’s apprehension. “But why? Where am I going?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, milady.”

  Wren fell silent while Dahlia unearthed a long skirt and paired it with a dark blouse, tying a short corset over top. Her hair was left down, and Wren slipped a pair of leather shoes onto her feet, whilst slight tremors rocked her body.

  She had no idea what was to come of today.

  Dahlia ushered her out into the sitting room, where four guards waited to escort her some place only the gods knew of. They quickly surrounded her and pushed her forward until she was forced to follow them through the corridors of the palace.

  Wren stayed quiet, keeping her head down, hands fisted in her skirt. What have I done to deserve this? Her mind swiftly recounted all of her actions the past three weeks, attempting to discern whether she’d somehow stepped out of line or for any reason why the King of Lithera would want to punish her.

  It wasn’t long before her entourage emerged onto the castle grounds. Wren looked up, hoping to take note of her surroundings in the early morning light. The sky was full of gray clouds, allowing only a sliver of sun to shine through as they passed a cluster of rough-hewn buildings that must have been the barracks, the grounds used for training not too far away. By the look of what was ahead of them, Wren concluded that they approached the palace stables, where another group of eight men stood as though waiting for something.

  Or someone. Because the guards around Wren halted in front of the others and saluted with fists over their hearts.

  A man who appeared about thirty years her senior stepped forward, nodding to the guards. “You’re dismissed.”

  The guards in uniform around her dispersed without another word, the other men dressed in common attire taking up their abandoned positions. Wren’s heart raced as she glanced between the strangers, none of them deigning to meet her eye.

  None except the older man. His dark brown eyes assessed her, and she studied him in return. Graying stubble peppered his jaw, fading into his dirty blond hair and adding texture to his tan, weather-beaten face. He gave off a strong air of solidity and loyalty that Wren refused to shy away from. “I am Captain Gaven Larcyn of Lithera’s Guard,” he addressed her. “I’m sorry for the intrusion in your day, but the King of Lithera requires something of you this morning.”

  “If he wants something from me, then he can come get it himself,” Wren huffed, crossing her arms.

  The captain sighed. “That’s not how this works, milady. We’re heading into town, but I promise no harm will come to you while my men are around.”

  There was no more room for protest when she was nudged forward, coerced once more into following Larcyn’s lead this time. They entered Evaleer through the main gates of Farrador Castle, turning towards the southwestern side of the city. Clearly the guards and their captain were trying to draw the least amount of attention as possible, what with the lack of uniforms and their lazy formation around Wren. Still, a group so large caught the curiosity of many they passed. Wren did her best to avoid looking at anything in particular, hoping that no one would think anything of her—a young Cebrevenese girl unable to shake eight Lithian men.

  The city surroundings began to change after a long-time spent walking, into what Wren could only describe as the slums of sorts in pristine Evaleer. Fewer people roamed the streets, many crumbling houses and large, dim warehouses lining them. A shadow passed overhead, followed by the call of a hawk.

  Wren clapped a hand over her mouth and nose, the stench of the plague nearly too much to bear.

  Larcyn led them up the couple steps of a house with pale blue paint peeling off the exterior walls and an old brown roof that looked about ready to cave in. A dying garden was left untended off the side of the yellow lawn.

  The captain paused in front of the dark wood door like he needed a moment before barging into the home without knocking, effectively startling the family inside. “I have to ask all of you to clear the room,” Larcyn calmly ordered.

  Wren was pushed inside the small space after two other guards, and she watched as a mother dragged a small boy upstairs into what Wren assumed was the attic. An older girl, probably around Wren’s age, coaxed what had to be her younger sister upstairs with their mother and brother. The eldest girl lingered; her light umber gaze fixing on Wren. The girl’s mouth opened as if she wanted to say something, but she closed it, frowned, and followed her family upstairs.

  “What are we doing here? Why did you order them out of their own home?” Wren pointed an accusatory finger at Larcyn.

  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Because there’s someone here that you are going to help.”

  She gave him a perplexed look.

  And then the sound of coughing reached her ears, and everything became quite plain in her mind.

  “No.” The word escaped of its own volition. Wren shook her head, eyes darting between the men with her. “No, you can’t make me do that.”

  “This will go a lot smoother if you’d simply agree to cooperate,” Larcyn divulged, touching his temples.

  “I’ll agree to cooperate when you agree to let me go.”

  The captain appraised her slowly, sighing through his nose. “Come with me,” he said, nodding to the back room and not waiting for her before walking away.

  None of the other guards budged, spread out in the foyer.

  She wasn’t left with much of a decision.

  Padding after Captain Larcyn, she discovered that the back section of the house had been erected as the kitchen. The captain stood tall beside a cracked door on the left wall.

  Wren carefully stepped closer as Larcyn pushed the door open wider, allowing her a clear view of the aged man laying on the low sitting bed, a threadbare blanket thrown over him. His eyes were closed, a sheen of sweat covered his sallow skin, shaggy brown hair wet with it. He was almost completely still, the gentle rise and fall of his chest or the occasional twitch of a finger being the only sign that he remained on this side of life. Wren guessed Death’s Shadow was only a few weeks along with him.

  She could feel Larcyn’s brown eyes on her, but she couldn’t remove her gaze from the ailing man. This isn’t fair. Guilt swarmed her head. She had the power to do something, to help him, to heal him for good.

  But at what cost?

  The hilt of a dagger was being outstretched, her eyes falling to it. It somehow felt like an offering, like the captain was trying to give her as much of a choice as he could allow. The muscles of her hand flexed and eased as her morals wavered between saving herself and saving a man she didn’t know.

  A man with a wife and three children upstairs who relied on him to make a living. A man with emotions and thoughts and opinions and dreams, even.

  Wren’s fingers wrapped around the knife.

  Larcyn stayed inside the doorframe as she stepped further into the small bedroom. He wasn’t immune to this sickness in the air—not like her.

  Her empty hand fell to the man’s bony shoulder. “I—I’m going to help you,” she told him quietly, a small quiver in her voice.

  He hardly stirred, though he mumbled something she didn’t catch, his hazel eyes opening a sliver before closing again.

  Her heart pounded in her throat. Wren had only ever done this once, and she thought she’d have more time to prepare before she had to face it again.

  A tear was already rolling down her cheek as she held the blade over her palm. Inhaling shakily, she dragged it across her skin, golden blood welling in its wake. The pain was sharp and biting, though it was secondary to what she was about to do. What she was about to prove.

  What she was about to give up.

  Wren’s hands trembled as she clutched her glittering, bloody hand in a fist and slowly brought it to the sick man’s mouth. Her cursed blood dribbled down her palm, and she pulled her hand away when it gleamed on his lips and teeth. Her head swam, a rush of nausea making her sway on the spot.

  Her eyes closed and her surroundings dissolved, her consciousness freefalling into her memories.

  The scene played out behind her eyelids as though she were really living in the past, the screech of a hawk peeling through the village and resounding in her ears.

  She ran through the square whilst dodging vendors and carts, her small size helping her sneak between bodies. Her hand darted out to snatch three hot buns from an unsuspecting baker before slipping away unnoticed. Giggling to herself, she started towards the river to meet her sister and best friend.

  She picked her way through the trees on the outskirts of Marawood until the flow of rushing water came into view. And there, on the riverbank, sat Gemma, her little sister, and Cormac.

  Wren tossed them each a steaming roll. Gemma pulled hers apart eagerly, but Cormac only stared at the bread in his hands. He turned to look at her, blue eyes piercing. “You stole this, huh?”

  She shrugged. “So, what if I did?” The worst she’d get was a scolding from her parents. Besides, no one would be able to catch her anyway—she’d practiced too hard for that. Wren dug into her own bun and smiled at him. “It’s fine, Cor. I’m not going to get caught.”

  “Because you won’t do it again.”

  “Because I’m too fast.”

  Wren watched an expression of annoyance cross Cor’s round face. He was only a couple years older than her, but for some reason he’d always thought he could boss her around. “You don’t need to steal, Wren. Your mama and papa can pay for stuff,” he tried.

  She cocked her head at him. “But then it’s less fun.”

  Gemma laughed a bit, her little sister who found joy in everything. Wren leaned around Cor to smile at her. They could almost be twins if it weren’t for the three-year gap between them.

  Wren’s grin grew mischievous, and Cormac groaned. “Please don’t—”

  “All this sitting around is boring.” She leapt to her feet and jumped into the water, holding up her skirt so it didn’t get wet. The water only went up to her knees and the current was weaker in this area. Wren splashed water at Cormac, soaking him. She sent a small spray towards Gemma, who clapped her little hands in amusement.

  “The river’s too cold today. You’ll get sick,” Cormac warned her.

  She caught his gaze, eyes teasing as she countered, “It’s not that cold.”

  “Wren, Gemma! Dinner!”

  Wren raced out of the river and grabbed her sister’s hand. “Papa’s calling, Gem. Say bye to Cor.” Gemma lifted her other hand and gave Cormac a very enthusiastic wave.

  Cor sighed heavily. “You should be more careful, Wren.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And you should mind your own business.”

  “I bet that one day, someone’s gonna catch you.”

  “Good thing I’m fast, then.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Stop worrying so much.”

  Cormac looked at her intensely. “I only worry so much because I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he admitted.

  Wren shook her head. “I don’t need you to worry for me, Cormac.”

  She watched his face fall, his mouth opening to say, “But if I don’t, who will?”

  They were interrupted by another call from her papa.

  Wren smiled kindly at him. “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow?” she said in farewell.

  “Yeah,” he agreed.

  Then she waved good-bye and turned her back on him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Witch attacks have reportedly gone down in the past few weeks, making way for improved morale across the kingdom. The people believe this is due to the Crown Prince’s engagement, Your Majesty.”

  Alaric leaned back in his seat around the Privy Council table, observing the diplomatic conversation as it played out.

  “Let them believe it,” the King of Lithera declared. “If they agree with the marriage, they agree with my decision, and therefore agree with me.”

  “We should look into the reason for the drop in the witch raids, though,” Lord Rosenar proposed, dropping a finger to the dark wood table. “They could be convalescing somewhere, bidding their time.”

  The king stroked his chin. “Where was the last group seen?”

  Lord Norwood referred to the paper reports in front of him. “Up north near Nesas,” he informed, pointing to the area on the map of Lithera laid out in the middle of the circular table.

  Ever since the Ravyn witches were driven out of their stronghold in the Northern Expanse, they’d run wild throughout the kingdom, attacking and assailing towns and villages wherever they wanted. The king had been furiously trying to pin them down for years, to no avail.

  Alaric decided to cut in for once. “What if they’re gathering for something?”

  His father tilted his head in his direction. “Like what, son?”

  He ground his teeth, hating when his father addressed him like that. “The witches have only ever attacked from a distance with small targets,” he contemplated, resting his forearms in front of him. “If those attacks have dropped off…it could mean they have a bigger target now.”

  Silence befell the council chamber, Alaric’s words stretching into space.

  After a moment, the king snapped his fingers at Lord Callaway. “I want a report filed to Captain Larcyn. I need his analysis on this theory and potential targets for the Ravyns in the coming weeks.”

  Lord Callaway pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and began scribbling the king’s orders.

  “Were there any other concerns to bring up today?” His father directed his question to the other three lords, who respectfully shook their heads. “Then this meeting is concluded.”

  With that, the lords stood and headed for the exit, though Alaric hung back, hoping to catch a moment to speak with his father.

  The king took his time rising from his seat, ignoring Alaric standing patiently beside him until he pushed in his chair. “Do you have something to say or are you hovering for some other reason?” he demanded.

  Alaric swallowed, drawing in a long breath. “I think we should push back the wedding.”

  His father raised a brow, a frown deepening his features. “Did your bride put you up to this?”

  “What? No,” Alaric replied immediately, slightly taken aback. “I’ve simply considered our peoples’ reaction and they seem satisfied with the certainty of a marriage in my future. I don’t see a need to rush into it from a political or public point of view.” He straightened before saying his final piece. “I’d rather a long engagement and a successful marriage than a hasty wedding and a complicated one.”

  “This isn’t about what you would prefer,” his father snapped, eyes narrowed. “You are the Crown Prince of this kingdom, and it is better to be in a secure, advantageous marriage sooner rather than later. This particular marriage will benefit the whole continent—and if I were to move the wedding at all, it would be to an earlier date. Shall I do that instead?”

  Alaric’s nostrils flared. “No.”

  “Then I’ll forget you said anything. How is your betrothed, by the way? Adjusting appropriately?” he probed almost disinterestedly.

  “I told you I would not be your spy.” Least of all on her.

  “And I told you that you would do what is expected of you or face the consequences. So how is she?”

  His nails dug into the flesh of his palms. “She’s fine,” he gritted out.

  “Nothing…out of the ordinary…has happened between you two?” His father acted as though he didn’t particularly care about Alaric’s answer. And maybe that was a good thing because Alaric wasn’t even sure how to define what was ordinary between him and Kerensa.

  Subsequently, he replied, “Everything has been perfectly normal where she’s concerned.”

  The king’s dark hazel eyes focused in on him. Alaric held his stare, unflinching. “And what does perfectly normal mean, Alaric?”

  He threw his hands up, sick of these prying questions. “What do you want me to say?” he exclaimed forcefully. “That she’s distant? That she hates me? Or likes me? That she sneaks around the castle at night? Or maybe that she’s actually a witch and has us all under her spell?” His chest rose and fell rapidly. “When will you be satisfied?”

  His father only asked calmly, “None of those things are true, are they?”

  “No! Gods, she’s just a woman, Father! A woman who was forced to cross an ocean to marry me on a continent far from her home and her family.” Alaric walked towards the doors to the council room, one hand gripping the frame as he voiced over his shoulder, “Don’t ever ask me about our relationship or anything that concerns my betrothed again.” That said, he slammed the door on his way out, not caring how his father would choose to punish him.