She passes me the canteen of water. “Well, you’ll see many things on our way back to Khalessor.”
I drink, clinging onto the cool metal for as long as possible before returning it to Taryn. “You were in the gardens that night I spoke to the king.”
“I was.”
“You said you wanted to kill me when we first met, and now you’re being kind to me,” I continue, hoping she understands what I’m implying.
“I trust King Wrath with my life,” Taryn says confidently. “He told me to guard you. Therefore, I will.”
“Why?”
“I owe everything to him.” Taryn’s demeanor softens. “When humans raided my village near Corovya, I was only sixteen. They lit our houses with fire to draw us out, performed rituals to sever us from our magic, then slaughtered us.” Her eyes burn with an intense fury. “My mother hid my sister and me in the food storage underneath our home while blood leaked through the floorboards and onto us for hours until the carnage ended.”
“Taryn…”
“King Wrath found us three days later on the brink of starvation. I was too weak to walk. He carried us to the camp and insisted the healer save us when others said we were too far gone.” She releases a deeply held breath. “I have devoted my life to serving him.”
“I’m—”
She cuts me off. “Do not apologize. Simply observe and form your own opinions.”
I consider her words. There are many things I don’t know about the Elvarrans, as my father forbade me to learn anything about them. Ulrik raised me to believe they are my enemy, but it is clear I have much to discover about their way of life. I will never trust them fully, but perhaps I can delve deeper into uncovering why they fight this war.
“Why are you the only female in the royal guard?” I pivot the conversation.
“I killed the king of Nythara.” Taryn attempts to hide her smirk, but I can see her beaming with pride.
I enjoy how spirited and passionate Taryn is when she speaks—a rare trait and clear indication of a true warrior. I admire her strength, how she was able to persist past the grief to blaze her own trail.
“Do tell.”
Taryn’s smile widens. “I scaled the keep and broke throughthe window leading into the castle’s solar. The king was attempting to flee into the underground tunnels when I arrived.” She makes a noise of annoyance. “What a coward! You couldn’t even fight honorably when so many others gave their lives to protect you?”
“I agree,” I reply as we continue to ride. “How did you scale the castle wall?”
“I’m more of a scout than a soldier,” Taryn explains. “The king usually sends me ahead to sneak into places and get a lay of the land.”
That must be how they were able to infiltrate Cathros’s castle.
The landscape around us shifts as we descend the hill. The trees are black and lifeless, their branches wilting, and the bushes are withered clumps of thorns, leaving a hollow and unsettling feeling as we pass. A pungent, metallic odor causes me to scrunch up my nose in displeasure; the scent is unfamiliar and unnatural.
As we travel deeper, I spot the remnants of an incinerated village. Pieces of ash still lay on the ground, stirring slightly from the breeze. I wonder if this forest burned recently, taking the town with it. Was it a human or Elvarran village? The destruction is devastating either way. People lost their lives, the wildlife of the forest destroyed, and still, war rages on.
Now more than ever, I realize the world is dangerous and vast beyond my wildest imagination. My father may have tried to protect me behind those walls, fearful of what may happen to me, but choosing to live in fear is a choice. Protection is a farce, stability an illusion, safety a false prayer we tell ourselves to sleep at night.
The veil has lifted, and no longer shall I remain in the dark.
My body sags from exhaustion as we ride into camp, begging for rest. I dismount my horse, pulling the reins overand patting the mare’s neck a few times in my thanks. An Elvarran takes the reins from me and ties the horse to a post, allowing me to walk to Wrath’s tent. As I enter, I see Wrath pluck a cork from a bottle of wine and pour himself a glass.
I move to the small cot, plopping down ungracefully to yank off my boots. With an exhausted sigh, I drop them beside me and roll my sore ankles out. I thoroughly enjoy riding, but the length of this journey is wearing me down.
“Raelys.”
“Yes?” I glance up at him.
“Would you like some wine?” he asks, adjusting his sleeves lower.
I study him. For someone who spent all day riding, his appearance is immaculate—hair brushed back, a renegade lock over his temple. His black coat is smooth and wrinkle-free. Somehow, his boots are polished while mine are dusty and muddy. His offer surprises me. It could be a trick, but I’m too exhausted to care. A little wine would ease the soreness and help me fall asleep quickly.
