Page 13 of The Withering Wood

Cerise tensed. As their eyes met, she remembered where she’d seen them before.

On the parapet, before she left for the Undead Wars that’d claim her nightmares, eviscerate her skin, and destroy her knee. Those exact eyes, shining out of a different face. Rallying the war cry, invigorating the young, foolish templars who thought they could make a difference. Lying to them about their worth before turning his back on them, returning to the safety of his stone castle.

Yet the face before her was not as refined as the one in her mind. Yes, over a decade had passed since that moment, the last time in her life a spark of hope lingered in her heart. Even so, she knew this was not the king. This man’s hair was lighter and thicker, body taller and more muscular. His face less stern, laugh lines around his eyes. Though she’d never seen him, she knew who he was.

This was the king’s degenerate of a younger brother, Prince Oberon.

PART TWO

The Prince

Chapter Four

Cerise’s grip tightened on Beloved and she charged at the smirking prince, flame coursing through her veins. His eyes widened and he raised his hands in surrender, the bear pelt sliding down his torso, revealing the deep V cut over his hips.

With a battle cry, Cerise swung Beloved, aiming an axe head at his bearded neck, stopping as the blade landed beneath his rugged jaw. It sheared the long facial hair and nicked his royal throat. Oberon sucked in a breath, angling his head away from the weapon, exposing more of his thick neck. A line of blood ran over the skin of his larynx, down the sharp curve of his shoulder and rigid chest.

These Mirvadelan royals thought they could get away with anything. Recruiting templars and clerics for their holy war, promising them a lifetime of glory, respect, and care for themselves and their families. Instead, they were used as fodder against Azkanix and his armies and burned to cinders where they fell, preventing their corpses from transforming into their undead enemy.

There were too many dead, and time was too short for proper burials for everyone slaughtered, they said.

There were too many wounded, too little resources, to provide financial aid for all the warriors who sacrificed their sanity and bodies to protect the Kingdom of Sylvenath and its citizens.

There was too little for Cerise.

Not enough medical supplies for surgery on her knee when it shattered in the Battle for the Merathoraen Valley. All barracks were too full to allow her to stay. There was no space for her in refugee housing as the war pressed closer to the capital of Tyrnoraen, and there was nowhere she could stay.

There were too many injured, unemployed veterans to find her work.

There were too many victims in the war, and the royal family did nothing to help the wounded they created.

Whatever Oberon’s role, he was complicit in the crimes, in the abuses of his family upon the people. Even if he did not enact them like his brother, he did nothing to stop it. And that made him just as guilty.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have interfered with the necromancer. Let Oberon stay a bear. He deserved that confined existence where he could do no damage to anyone except himself.

Yet…the necromancer was destroying her forest. Her world. And Oberon had helped. But with the Mirvadelans, there was always another game being played. And here she was, being used by one of the royals once again.

Cerise’s knuckles whitened on Beloved, the heat of anger boiling her veins as her thoughts swirled.

Oberon swallowed, throat bobbing. Yet when Cerise looked into his eyes, they crinkled with mirth.

“Enjoying yourself, prince?” Cerise spat, pressing Beloved closer.

He tensed, breathing hard, his grin wavering. “What if I said yes?” Oberon’s voice was low yet strong, with a roughness that purred through Cerise’s body.

“Then I’d say you’re even more disgusting than the rest of your family, which seems impossible.”

“You must not know my family well, then,” he replied. “The truth is, this is a first for me. I’ve never had a blade this close to my neck before⁠—”

“I find that surprising.”

The grin widened. “Let alone by such a fine-looking woman. I’m amazed to discover I like it.”

“Don’t mock me,” Cerise growled. She knew she wasn’t beautiful. Not with the scar that sliced through the right side of her face up to her scalp. And that was just the visible deformation. The rest of her body beneath the pelts and furs was just as ravaged from undead claws.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” A gentle snow fell, small, fluffy snowflakes melting on the prince’s skin, and a shiver wracked his body, the fluids from the shed bear form cooling. Tufts of air gusted from their mouths as they stared at one another, Oberon stiffening as the cold seeped deeper into his skin. If Eirwen was in her place, she’d let the prince wrap himself in the bear pelt, take him home, and warm him by the fire. Give him a bowl of soup. Hear his story.

But Cerise was not Eirwen. They’d survived this long because of it.