Page 26 of Ravenrose

“Just the fae wench, then,” the man to my right says, deferring to the older soldier, the one who still holds his blade on me. He’s the oldest of the three, his graying temples distinguishing him from the other two.

He’s fixing his eyes on something above my head.

My brow furrows in confusion before I curse silently to myself, remembering the wretched crown atop my head. The one Alita insisted I wear.

According to my governess, all three royal siblings were to wear their crowns today to serve as a symbol of our kingdom, which would provide reassurance to our people during the chaos of battle.

“This one’s highborn,” the man announces to the other two while his eyes drop to scan the rest of me. “Put her with the others.”

The two younger soldiers close in on me from either side, quickly securing my arms and roughly forcing my hands together. Cold iron snaps shut around my wrists, and with it, my connection to my magic falters.

They did their homework.

I hadn’t even considered reaching for my powers, nearly as afraid of them as I am of these men.

With my hands now secured in front of me, the men push me roughly toward the stairs, and we begin the long descent. Halfway there, a slight shove at my shoulder causes me to lose my footing on the stairs. I let out a yelp, sliding down several steps before a curve in the wall abruptly halts my fall.

My head spins from the impact, while I hear the men snickering above me. I shake my head to try to clear it, tasting blood on my lip. The skirt of my dress—another casualty—has torn several inches.

The men haul me back up on my feet without allowing me any time to properly recover, pushing me forward, and my feet once again slide dangerously on the stone steps. Anger flares, and I grit my teeth, fighting to keep my balance despite their best efforts.

The two handling me are brutish and muscled; their heavy armour would certainly slow them down if I could get away. I might be small, but I am quick. If I could slip out of their grasp, then I just might⁠—

Any hope I’ve invested in the improvised plan goes up in flames the second they shove me out into the hall.

Soldiers.

Soldiers—everywhere.

The previously empty hallway is now crawling with Kovari soldiers.

I feel eyes on me as I’m pushed through the crowded halls. Besides the volunteer guard, I must be one of the few fae to remain behind at Rosecliff. The mysterious disappearance of the villagers and the rest of the court is certainly a source of both confusion and frustration I can see on the faces of the men we pass.

I attract more than a few curious looks as I’m pushed all the way into the great hall. Once there, I’m shoved rather unceremoniously to the ground.

My knees scream when they hit the floor hard, but I’m at least able to catch myself with my bound hands before my face smacks into the marble.

“Don’t get any ideas now,” one of the Kovari soldiers warns, leaving me with the others before stepping away to speak to someone else.

I look around, finding myself beside what must be the surviving members of Rosecliff’s castle guard—who also wait chained on their knees, accompanied by a handful of human servants. Either they didn’t make it to the gates before Rosecliff sealed them, or they were too stubborn to leave. The lot of them stare back at me, alarm and horror etched into every one of their faces at the sight of their princess amongst them.

Kovari soldiers are everywhere; several are to guard the small group of prisoners while the rest are busy breaking everything. The men toss vases and pottery alike, tearing through cabinets, smashing all that they come across, having already torn just about every tapestry from the walls.

Anger and rage give way to dark hatred as I watch them rip apart the only home I’ve ever known.

Without warning, silence falls upon the room, and the soldiers’ attention all snap to the arched entryway leading into the hall. I push myself up a little higher, craning my neck to try to see what they’re all looking at.

The men stiffen, standing at attention as a tall, battle-worn soldier stalks into the room, flanked by several men. Deep black armour sets them apart from the rest, and they lack the Kovari crest: a sword with white wings.

I lean forward, narrowing my eyes, as I quickly study their armour, noting it lacks any crest at all.

It’s clear the tall one in the middle is in charge—if the utter silence in the hall is any indication. As he strides toward us, my eyes drop to the streaks of blood marring that sleek leather armour of his. A blood-red cowl conceals the lower half of his face, leaving only a pair of piercing eyes visible. Black war paint adorns the rest of his face and scalp; the hair on either side of his head is shaved off. This paint, or perhaps ink, continues down both arms. The dark ink, stained with blood, only adds to his menacing appearance.

His eyes scan the room, running over each one of the captured Sitari soldiers, and the servants, until his gaze comes to a rest.

Right on me.

I don’t even realize I’m staring until the Kovari soldier closest to me kicks me hard in the ribs. I wheeze, my lungs constricting, thankfully suffocating my cry as I curl in on myself, sharp pain radiating through me while I struggle to inhale.