They’re mounted in a semicircle: some men, some women, all wearing gold armor that shines in the sun. There’s a symbol emblazoned on their chests with the intertwining lettersVIA. It takes me a woeful amount of racking my brain to realize they stand forVerdish Imperial Army.The soldier at the door is a big man with red hair. He knocks again, with the sharp cadence of someone who expects to be answered.
Fear closes my throat as I plan my next move.Can I pretend not to be here?My eyes dart to the hearth fire. No. There’s smoke in the chimney.
Another knock. Better move quick. My hands fly to my ears, and I murmur the concealment charm at top speed. I knot my kerchief for good measure. With a deep, steadying breath, I open the door a crack.
Up close, I get a better look at the big redheaded soldier. “Good morning. I’m sorry if we startled you. My name is Edmund Roburn, and I’m captain of the Royal Guard,” he says. “We’re here on official business of King Rodrick and the Thorne family.”
Run.If Mother were here, that’s what she would command.
Out of all the monsters I’ve been taught to fear, there is none worse than King Rodrick Thorne. Everything I know about him tornadoes through me in an instant. He’s a distant descendant of Verdin, and perhaps the most fanatical Verdish ruler yet. Like the Vanquisher himself, King Rodrick’s lust for territorial expansion is insatiable. Equally endless is his hatred toward Elves. I’m nauseated, recalling horrors Mother described: mass executions, torture, whole Elven families ripped out of hiding to be forced into servitude or massacred.
If King Rodrick knows I exist, I’m a dead girl walking.
All this I process in an instant, gaping at Roburn and the unit behind him. The primal instinct to flee roars through me like wildfyre, but I’d never outpace them. Not with them on horseback.
I could fight.Maybe.I consider it—six of them, one of me. My weapons would be useless against that armor. It’d have to be my Talent, then. But I’ve never attempted using it on multiple beings.Could I even draw up that much power? Even if I somehow managed it, could I live with that much blood on my hands?They feel filthy already.
An uncomfortable amount of time has passed.
Say something. Anything.
“What do you want?” I finally croak. I clear my throat, then try again more firmly. “We have no business with the king.”
“We’re here by order of his son Prince Finneas.”
My heart plummets into my shoes.
“Prince…Finneas?” I repeat dizzily.
Finneas as in…Finn?
“That’s correct. He’s ordered us to escort you to the palace.”
The world pitches. Shatters. Re-forms. Fragments of the last weeks click together, sparking like flint against steel: the way Finn described his swordmasters, plural, his childhood behind walls….
Palacewalls, I correct myself.
Finn is a prince. And not just any prince.
Finn is King Rodrick’s son.
It takes every last infinitesimal shred of my willpower to keep my Talent from exploding out of my palms. The monster in my chest claws for escape, howling like a banshee for answers, for vengeance. I sway, sweat trickling down my temples and spine, as I struggle to shove down the magic that’s shrieking for release.
Roburn holds out a letter. “He asked me to deliver this.”
I try to still my shaking hands as I accept. It’s been sealed with wax, and the imprint is deep and precise…a thorned rose against crisscrossing blades. I trace my fingers over it, disbelieving.
Everyone’s watching as I tear it open.
Lyria,
I must begin this letter by entreating you to forgive me twice. First, forgive me for not delivering this message in person. I wanted nothing more than to accompany our guards and invite you to Crown City face-to-face, but myposition dictates that I fulfill responsibilities outside my control. Since I’m not able to be there, I hope you’ll put your trust in Captain Roburn. I would trust him with my life.
Second, forgive me for leaving without confessing my feelings or revealing my true identity. If I’d been more courageous, I would have admitted just how thoroughly you dazzled me. Now I can only pray you’ll give me another chance.
I left the Ironwoods resigned to the probability that our paths would not cross again in this life. However, it seems providence has other plans. Upon my return to Crown City, I was met with news of a terrible plague threatening our kingdom. Up until his recent death, our royal apothecary was working diligently to develop a cure, but his efforts were fruitless. With most of our Healers dispatched to support the campaign in Sontaag, there are few continuing his work. Fewer still can be trusted to maintain the discretion we require. If word were to get out about a plague sweeping toward the capital, it would trigger mass panic. The Crown requires an apothecary with the ingenuity to outfox this disease and the character to maintain the utmost secrecy.
You are our perfect candidate.
