Nothing but the reek of that mouthy knight, plus the earnestness of our comrades, permeated this environment. Nothing had changed since I had arrived on the pretense of making the military rounds. This steadfast group had not aligned themselves with Rhys.
Relief dragged down my shoulders, the precious raptor tattoos flexing across my biceps like a cruel reminder of past failings. Rarely did my senses mislead me, except when it counted the most.
My tale was simple. In the land of falling leaves, there lived a knight who believed in only three things: chivalry, bravery, and honesty.
The last one, most of all. Truth was the life’s blood of valor. The Almighty Seasons never lied, and neither should their subjects.
Yet the truth came with a price. This cremated mannequin served as evidence. In the flesh-and-blood world, real villains were not always punished, and the truly good didn’t always live happily ever after.
They didn’t always live at all.
While joining the troop, I skewered my attention to the blaze. An easy death delivered far too late.
Images of Poet beating a mannequin to a bloody pulp surfaced. Years prior, I came upon my friend lost in the throes of rage, shortly after anonymous citizens burned a born soul alive in the maple pasture fronting the castle. As such, the Court Jester had been throwing his weight into the target, exercising such murderous venom one might have thought Poet envisioned Rhys of Summer.
To this day, I knew better. Poet had been punishing himself. Although the incident hadn’t been his fault, my friend had blamed himself for failing to prevent that horror. More than ever, I understood this.
Beyond the orchard, the same burnished sky would be touching The Wandering Fields, tinting the corn and wheat stalks. The same light would be spilling past the windows of a Royal fortress, where a jester and princess lived with their son, their clan, and their queen.
My kin. The family and fellowship who trusted me.
And her. The girl with foliage symbols lacing her skin, who concealed herself beneath a hood, carried an axe like an extension of her arm, and bore an untold fate.
Time to face those truths. Time to go home.
5
Aspen
I stabbed myself in the chest. For the third time that afternoon, pressure slammed into my sternum, and my body caved forward. Pain skewered through to my spine, and a growl scraped from my lungs as I gripped the load-bearing pole that braced the forge’s ceiling.
“Motherfucker,” I ground out.
Bowing my head, I hyperventilated through the pangs, then checked the damage. No blood this time. No gash in my bodice, the charcoal grey corset intact.
Despite the throbbing in my bust, I gasped with excitement. The axe’s blade had retracted on impact, condensing into a series of thin segments.
Not exactly a novelty in my repertoire of weapon design. Yet not a simple mechanism to customize for a curved hatchet when compared to straightforward daggers. That was the notable difference. After months of sketching, crafting, duplicating, and testing a dozen prototypes before modernizing my axe, this beautiful upgrade finally worked.
Having the option to shift the axe’s depth gave it an advantage. No one would expect that, and nobody would grasp how to fight against it.
Pulling the axe from my chest, I clicked the handle. The segments extended, then locked into place until they formed a seamless blade. While amber light crept through the workshopdoor, I tested the result a few more times, the rim shrinking and springing outward each time. Genius as hell. If I could design an assortment of retractable weapons, they’d fetch a good price from Poet and Briar.
Doubtless, the jester would request a knife with his name engraved on the tip, since it was the first place that drew blood. As for the hilt, he’d spare little expense. Diamonds, ebony lining, the works.
A fond chuckle slid across my tongue. Flipping the axe between my fingers, I set my crowning achievement on the workbench, among numerous works-in-progress. Javelins wrought of unbreakable Autumn roots, arrows that could hit moving targets, and blades that camouflaged themselves in any natural environment.
The forge’s central oven roared, flames thrashing inside its wide mouth. Tongs, clamps, hammers, and an assortment of other tools lined the stone walls, from woodworking to smithing instruments. Sawdust carpeted the floor, charred scents floated through the open shutters, and muggy heat saturated the shop.
A home of my own making. The only place where I could be my truest self.
The edge of my mouth curled, then faltered as a noise infested the space, the hissing sound akin to water striking hot coals. I tensed with my back to the oven, its temperature branding my flesh, my boot heels stapling to the floor.
Clenching my eyes shut, I seethed, “He’s got to be shitting me.”
But no. That piss-poor excuse for a king didn’t know the difference between a bad joke and a punch in the nuts.
My gut curdled as I turned to face the oven. Its maw blazed like an inferno, and a scroll of parchment bobbed atop the flames like an invitation to hell. Storming toward the message, I swiped it from the fire, moving swiftly to avoid getting scorched.
