“The Princess,” the petite Elvarran hisses as she crouches on the wall. She tilts her head to one side, her brunette hair brushing the tops of her shoulders. “Aren’t we lucky?”
Her dark eyes narrow on me like prey as her stance shifts. It’s as if she is ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Two twin daggers glint in each of her hands. She wears fitted leather armor, with intricately layered shoulders and bracers that cover her forearms, signaling that she is a fierce and striking warrior.
“Should we call the king?” the Elvarran beside her sneers, knocking another arrow into his bow. The archer is tall and lean, with short, pale blonde hair a similar shade to mine. His sapphire eyes glint with menacing disgust as he aims his bow at the target—unmistakably me.
Adrenaline runs like wildfire through my veins. This could be my end. I take a hesitant step back, but it only makes the archer pull the string back further as a warning. I freeze. My grip tightens around the hilt of the sword I don’t know how to wield.
“We should kill her,” the third Elvarran interjects.
He is the only one who is unarmed, his posture relaxed as he crouches on the wall. He is a broad-shouldered and muscular. Short braids weave through his midnight-black hair, allowing me to see his face clearly. A thick beard frames his strong jaw, accentuated by a long, jagged scar that cuts across his cheek. His deep umber skin contrasts with his striking amber eyes like swirling honey.
I have to act quickly and find a way to spare myself. If I can convince them to throw me into a dungeon, I’d have achance to escape later. Perhaps if there is a distraction, I can dash for the castle. One thing is certain. I will not meet my end at the hands of the Elvarrans. They are clever, but I can outsmart them.
“Call your king!” I make a split-second decision.
“What?” The female Elvarran raises a brow. “Do you have a death wish?”
“Wrath’s Blade, the destroyer of peace, I wish to speak to him,” I tell them, forcing my voice to sound confident.
If they see fear, they will kill me.
There’s a slight pause before the three of them start laughing incredulously. I falter, confusion washing over me as they exchange glances. They laugh for several breaths, wiping tears from the corners of their eyes as if I’ve told them the funniest joke they’ve ever heard.
Bloody gods.
“If you say so.” The muscled Elvarran hops down from the wall. His boots thump against the stone as he lands gracefully.
He smacks the sword out of my grip with ease, and it clatters to the floor. Hands close roughly around my hips as he hoists me into the air. I shriek as he tosses me to the archer. A fist closes around the back of my dress, and I scramble to steady myself while in mid-air. The archer flips me over the wall. I fall to the ground, hitting the cool dirt with a heavy thud, the air whooshing from my lungs.
Before I can orient myself, I fall helplessly down the steep hill. Sharp rocks and tangled roots scrape my skin and catch on my dress. My diadem rips from my hair as I roll to a stop at the bottom. The wine in my belly threatens to spill, but I force the nausea away as I press my palms into the dirt and push myself up. Once standing, I see the three Elvarrans snickering at me as they move effortlessly through the gauntlet of rocks and trees.
“Sorry,Princess.” The archer mocks, shoving my shoulder from behind to get me to walk. “Hand must’ve slipped.”
As I walk away from the castle, something stirs in my gut. There is a world outside the walls, stretching into the unknown. I keep my expression stoic, masking both curiosity and a thin veil of fear as I press onward, eyes sweeping the shadows around me. I cannot run. This damned dress will slow me down. Even if I try, an arrow will pierce my back within seconds. In my quest to think of a way out of marrying Olav, I’ve tangled myself into an even tighter knot.
Wrath’s Blade is the most ruthless, cunning, and wicked king in Dratheria. I will need to provide or exchange something of great value for him to keep me alive.
And then it comes to me.
CHAPTER THREE
The Elvarran dragsme by my bicep as we trek through the forest. The rips in my dress have grown larger and more plentiful, my skirts degrading into rags. The uneven, rocky terrain makes me stumble around like a newborn doe. I thank the gods for every second I am alive, but I don’t know how long my scheme will hold after I meet Wrath’s Blade.
There is only one light source in the sprawling darkness—a faint outline of a camp in the distance. They are armed, well-stocked with supplies, and have enough horses to coordinate an entire cavalry if needed. As we approach, the Elvarrans slowly take notice of me, and their conversations gradually fade as the weight of unspoken tension settles in.
I am the enemy.
If the Elvarrans are this close to Cathros’s castle, it could only mean one thing—they are preparing for a siege. My mind begins to work through each angle of their approaching attack, trying to figure out their plans.
Each step toward the center of the camp is a procession to my potential end. I try not to let my terror show, but I still tremble in his hold. The Elvarran yanks on my arm, stoppingmy advancements. I forcibly drag my gaze from the floor upward, my pulse pounding wildly in my veins.
A tall and broad-shouldered man stands before me with gray eyes and dark onyx hair. A single scar mars his olive skin, running up the side of his neck to his jaw. Each detail of his face is almost too perfect: the sharp contours of his cheekbones, the elegant line of his throat, the arch of his brows. The sight of him makes my pulse stutter, something in me recoiling before I can name why. Looking at King Wrath is like staring at the sun for too long, distorting my vision until I inevitably go blind.
Wrath studies me with a slow, churning gaze that rakes across my skin like hot coals. I feel a strange prickling sensation down the back of my neck. Hundreds of invisible thorns touch my skin, invading nearly every part of my senses. Rage simmers in his eyes like endless pits of fire while the rest of his presence remains unnervingly calm. Every inch of him exudes power, commanding the space around him with effortless dominance.
If you meet Wrath’s Blade, you will not return home.
“Gilead, what have you brought me?” Wrath speaks, his voice deep and stern.
