The letter rested in my palm, cool to the touch. Summer and its method of secret communication. Usually that nation sent tidings by water fauna or red butterflies, the latter a member of Flare’s animal pack in The Phantom Wild. However, Rhys favored this method of delivery, the note capable of self-igniting if it got into the wrong hands.
A perk customized for Summer’s Royal family. A confidential outlet, the mechanics of which I’d managed to wheedle out of the gullible man.
Like a delicate reminder, the scent of persimmons wafted from outside the forge. Mama was baking, a pastime that calmed her nerves. The sweet fragrance infused my lungs, protectiveness reinforcing my spine.
As a child, I’d been used to the Masters taking advantage of my skills. In the past, my youthful inability to fight back made this effortless for them. Because the elite crafters had known about Mama’s condition, the guild threatened our family with exposure.
Then later, once I gained a number of extra years and wielded an even sharper tongue, Rhys took up where the dead-and-buried Masters left off, using Mama as pawn to keep me in check, shackling me to his side of the playing field. But since equality changes across Autumn had reduced the need to keep Mama’s condition a secret, Rhys used other methods to ensnare my cooperation, from faulty tools that wounded Mama—whenever she mustered the courage to enter the workshop—to capitalizing on her illness, reinforcing the terror through scare tactics such as anonymous threats inscribed into tree trunks.
To name a few other precautionary tokens of Rhys’s affection, the cottage had also been ransacked and our savings stolen, in addition to threats against the clan. My friends did fine staying alive on their own, but that didn’t mean I was about to risk causing them harm.
Summer played a long game. So I played one back.
Despite his temperamental ego, it took years to break down Rhys’s cagey defenses. Not by angering the son of a bitch, but by serving him for the long haul. Ingratiating myself into the egomaniac’s favor took no time. Whereas earning his unyielding faith was an investment of effort.
Since the night he bruised my arm, I’d learned his habitual patterns and paranoias, then plied the numbskull with false intelligence. I turned the tables whenever possible, reverse engineering the king’s agendas by whispering bullshit in his ear, layering every fib like icing on a cake. Each so-called factual “mistake” or botched fact obliged Rhys to clarify and reveal information he normally guarded.
Fool Rhys by acting as a double agent. Then use that leverage to destroy him.
For Mama. For the clan. For equality.
One caveat. No king valued or believed a shitty spy. Too much bad intel, and he’d catch on. The missteps needed to be small, occasional, and digestible. Because these seemed like genuine mishaps on my part, he grew to trust my participation and corrected the snafus, enabling me to extract details. To name a few, he’d developed a phobia of mobs after Reaper’s Fest, Summer’s knights were more competitive than loyal to one another, and something about Rhys’s distant past kept him in chains.
The missive lay curled like a dead slug in my hand. The seal cracked as I broke open the letter. Rhys’s scratchy handwriting screamed off the page, the nightmare-black ink of his quill seeping through the parchment like grease.
The knight in shining armor is returning. Find out what the fuck he knows!
I would have rolled my eyes at Rhys’s dramatics, but I was too busy having an out-of-body experience. The paper crumpled in my fingers, then floated to the ground like a plume.
Aire.
Memories steamrolled through my mind. His kind eyes, as blue as a midnight sky. His honorable voice, asking me if I liked his gift. His wounded departure, which also had ensured his safety. My juvenile heart, flaking to cinders.
Mashing my lips together, I snuffed out the anguish. Not from any lingering feelings—I had grown up and gotten over that—but from how I’d left things. How I had treated him.
I’d been matching Rhys, move for countermove. Yet this command was different. Deeper, harsher.
Although Rhys knew the clan was on to him about the seasonal army, I never told the king about Aire’s mission. Our fellowship had gone to extreme lengths to conceal this operation, and I’d have cut out my vocal cords before leaking a word. Meaning, Summer kept tabs on the First Knight by some other means.
Until now, Rhys hadn’t enlisted me to do the honors. Distance had to be the reason. To supplement this, he must have originally tasked someone in physical proximity to Aire.
Another informant, maybe.
Cycling back, the reason Summer hadn’t accused me of withholding the mission was simple. Because this egomaniac didn’t understand the concept of a trusting fellowship, I convinced him the clan didn’t tell me everything. Swallowing that information like a bon-bon, he must have assumed the Royal family kept this odyssey under wraps.
An apron stained in years of wax, resin, and shellac clutched my hips. I snatched the parchment from the floor, fished a quill from my smock pocket, and scribbled a reply fast enough to appear visceral instead of strategic.
If you’re monitoring the knight, your Autumn faction in the north should’ve been able to fill you in about him.
That is, unless they’re playing you for a fool.
He hadn’t once hinted his cult resided in the north. Regardless, I pitched the note into the oven. The blaze tossed my words around, then spat the paper back out. From his parasitic lair, I practically heard him scoff.
My reserves have no geographical boundaries. More importantly, they’re loyal.
Then like a chess pawn, he stepped on a second landmine.
They bow to kings. Not to old Autumn trees.
