Page 78 of The Fox Heir

Clang! Clang!

Hunter nearly draws blood as he swipes his fox sword toward Tristan’s thigh.

Tristan’s jaw tenses, his face transforming with fury. “Oh, I don’t think so, Golden Boy.” He attacks with a force and speed that frightens me.

“Tristan! Hunter!”

They ignore me.

“For the love of the old gods, stop!”

Someone grabs me from behind, and I stumble back into them. Nalina’s strong arm wraps around my chest, tight as a vice. I recognize the cool touch of an unexpected blade against my neck.

“I will slice her pretty little throat.” Nalina doesn’t yell. She doesn’t have to.

The two men freeze, both swords raised. Two pairs of eyes dart toward me, and I’m shocked to recognize the expressions on both men. Concern. Panic. Worry. I’d expect as much from Hunter, sure. He’s always been protective of me. But Tristan?

Nalina presses the steel tighter into my neck. “Really?” she asks, but her words are directed toward Tristan. “This is how you behave in front of your queen?”

Near the dais, the queen stands still, watching. She doesn’t appear concerned, but then again, I’m not practiced in deciphering the expressions of corpses.

“I beg your forgiveness,” Hunter says first. He walks to the crate of armor and sets his sword inside. “I should have known better than to raise a blade in front of a queen.”

“Yes,” she says evenly. “You should have.”

After a beat, Tristan sheathes his sword and his shadows extinguish in mid-air. He clenches his fists as he says, “Apologies, my queen.”

I stare at the two men. Since when does Tristan lose his composure? And since when has Hunter turned vengeful?

Nalina removes her blade from my neck and releases me roughly. When I give her a reproachful look, she gives me a resentful one in return.

She narrows her eyes at Tristan. “I expected to see the fear in his eyes,” she nods toward Hunter. She walks toward Tristan, then stops mere inches from his face. Her whisper is so filled with spite, it may as well be a shout. “But not in yours.”

She turns and leaves the throne room, slamming the doors behind her.

Chapter 25

After we’ve gone our separate ways to calm down, I go in search of Hunter. We need to talk. But he isn’t in his room, nor is he in the great hall.

Eventually, I find Hunter outside in the training yard, hitting things. The storm has quieted, leaving only the soft shiver of falling flakes over the crates, targets, and straw dummies. It’s surreal to see him here, in the space Tristan and I have used for practice over the last couple of months.

Someone has strung three frozen sandbags from a wooden beam in the middle of the yard. They sway heavily on their ropes like hanged men. Hunter attacks them with a practice sword, as if they’re Fox Soldiers like the ones we met on the battlefield in Ellyll. A knot forms in my stomach.

I don’t announce myself. I stand beneath the long shadow of a ruined arch and watch him work. Snow gathers in his tousled blond hair and melts at his temples, then trickles down the hard plane of his cheek. His breath steams in ragged bursts as he twists and strikes with the energy of a man who’s been betrayed. It breaks my heart to see him this way.

After his brush with death, he’s not ready for this much physical activity. His skin still has the pallor of the drowned and he coughs between swings. He strikes, pivots, strikes again. The sandbags jolt on their ropes, creaking, and spitting a dusting of snow with each impact.

Hunter’s grip fails and his sword clatters to the ground, but that doesn’t slow him down. He attacks the sandbags with his fists instead. The first blow lands with a dull thump. He grunts and hits it again, and again. As I watch, his knuckles grow red and raw with the impacts.

I know I should intervene before he hurts himself, but truth be told, I’m afraid. Afraid of hurting him even more by saying the wrong thing. Afraid of chasing him away. But everything is already such a disaster that I doubt it’s possible to make things worse.

One of the ropes frays with each hit, threads popping. Hunter kicks it once, hard, and the rope tears free. The bag crashes to the ground and splits, spilling frozen grit across the snow. Hunter stands over it, chest heaving.

“You should rest,” I say quietly.

Hunter startles and turns. When he sees me, his face grows tense. “Go inside, Sienna. You’ll freeze standing around out here.”

I shrug and step out of the shadows to approach him. “I’ve been cold for months. But a few days ago, you nearly drowned.” The second sandbag turns in a lazy arc, brushing my shoulder as I pass.