“Tell me who harmed your son.”
The woman did not move. Frosted ground crunched. New terror lit in the woman’s eyes—light brown, set into a face whose angles were softened by age and child-rearing. Terror not for herself, but for the child. The door slammed, and this time Gwen let it.
The elderly woman and her family had retreated as well.
But across the square, a trio of fae males loitered, their laughter echoing off the closed doors and deserted ground.
A thread of control snapped.
“Did you touch that child?”
She did not need to cross the square to command their attention. The three elemental males turned. She did not recognize them; unsurprising, as she’d spent almost no time in the city of Baylaur itself. But she saw the fire dancing at the fingertips of one, felt the unseasonably warm blast of air from another.
There was no telling how powerful they were. Unlike the terrestrial kingdom, where strength corresponded to status, in Baylaur bloodlines reigned. A strong elemental born to an undistinguished family would spend their life on the outside, regardless of the depth of their power.
Gwen crossed the square. All signs of elemental magic winked out, the trio assuming a casual air. They were dirty, sporting wounds of their own. Males who had been confined by their female elemental counterparts for the last several weeks since their escape from Baylaur. Amorite winked in each of their ears. They were free—and hunting a new sort of prey.
“Did you touch the child?”
The tallest of the three, whose fingers had flickered with flames, sneered. “The sniveling human?”
Another snap.
“The child.”
One of the other two shrugged. She could not be certain which had wielded wind, nor what the power of the third was. But it did not matter.
“He stole from the rations they’d assembled for us,” the third said, lifting a lazy hand in the direction of the abandonedcommand stall. “In Baylaur, the punishment for stealing is loss of a hand. I was merciful.”
I was merciful.
Gwen did not try to rationalize. That the child did not understand, that human customs were different than fae. More details that did not matter.
“We are not in Baylaur.” She resisted the urge to shift, drawing her sword instead.
The two who had not admitted guilt stepped back. They did not know her personally, but they knew of her. Guinevere the Graceful, for her grace and calm in combat. The terrestrial heir who had slaughtered dozens of other females to win her title. The dark lioness.
They understood punishment and retribution.
“Take his hand,” the fire-wielder suggested.
“His hand will regrow.” Gwen’s control snapped entirely. “But his head won’t.”
Ice shot from the male’s fingertip to impale her like blades. But she evaded them with feline grace as she swung her sword, cutting through bone and sinew in one single, brutal swipe.
The two remaining males stared at her, awaiting justice. The desire to dispense it hummed through her, the control she’d so famously cultivated laying in tattered shreds of rope and restraint at the bottom of her consciousness.
Someone coughed behind her.
Sylva stood in the center of the square beside the deserted stall. Three human warriors, all heavily armed, flanked her. They’d deserted their post to retrieve the village elder. Gwen had somehow missed them on her way into the village.
But that was another thing that did not matter. Her punishment would have been the same.
Gwen held her sword steady. “He—”
“I know what he did.”
“He had to be punished or more violence will follow.” But she lowered her sword. The two remaining elementals retreated, careful not to show her their backs as they scurried for the perceived safety of their camp. As if she could not find and execute them there.
