Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
The Elvarran drags me by my bicep as we trek through the forest. The rips in my dress have grown larger and more plentiful, my skirts degrading into rags.
The uneven, rocky terrain makes me stumble around like a newborn doe.
I thank the gods for every second I am alive, but I don’t know how long my scheme will hold after I meet Wrath’s Blade.
There is only one light source in the sprawling darkness—a faint outline of a camp in the distance.
They are armed, well-stocked with supplies, and have enough horses to coordinate an entire cavalry if needed.
As we approach, the Elvarrans slowly take notice of me, and their conversations gradually fade as the weight of unspoken tension settles in.
I am the enemy.
If the Elvarrans are this close to Cathros’s castle, it could only mean one thing—they are preparing for a siege. My mind begins to work through each angle of their approaching attack, trying to figure out their plans.
Each step toward the center of the camp is a procession to my potential end. I try not to let my terror show, but I still tremble in his hold. The Elvarran yanks on my arm, stopping my advancements. I forcibly drag my gaze from the floor upward, my pulse pounding wildly in my veins.
A tall and broad-shouldered man stands before me with gray eyes and dark onyx hair.
A single scar mars his olive skin, running up the side of his neck to his jaw.
Each detail of his face is almost too perfect: the sharp contours of his cheekbones, the elegant line of his throat, the arch of his brows.
The sight of him makes my pulse stutter, something in me recoiling before I can name why.
Looking at King Wrath is like staring at the sun for too long, distorting my vision until I inevitably go blind.
Wrath studies me with a slow, churning gaze that rakes across my skin like hot coals.
I feel a strange prickling sensation down the back of my neck.
Hundreds of invisible thorns touch my skin, invading nearly every part of my senses.
Rage simmers in his eyes like endless pits of fire while the rest of his presence remains unnervingly calm.
Every inch of him exudes power, commanding the space around him with effortless dominance.
If you meet Wrath’s Blade, you will not return home.
“Gilead, what have you brought me?” Wrath speaks, his voice deep and stern.
“Found her while scouting the castle,” Gilead replies, pushing me forward and releasing his hold on me. “Said she wanted to talk to you.”
I stumble a few steps but manage to remain upright. Straightening my spine, I stand with a level of poise that I spent my entire life crafting. My hands shake with fear, but I clasp them together into stillness and keep my head high.
“All right. Speak,” Wrath orders.
“A trade offer—” Before I can say anything else, a cacophony of laughter echoes through the camp.
“And if I don’t like your offer?”
“Then I’ll meet Wrath's Blade.” I hold firm, unyielding among the crowd.
Several Elvarrans invade my space, inching closer with a feral prowl.
Some jump at me, trying to get me to flinch, while others pull at the lace of my dress, ripping off small pieces of it to take for themselves.
I try not to let fear show on my face as I hold Wrath’s gaze, clenching my jaw tightly.
“I don’t have all day, human,” he continues, unfazed by the antics surrounding us.
“A kingdom conquered—”
He cuts me off. “And how would you accomplish that?”
“I’m to wed King Olav Friedrich. Upon entering Avelisar, you can disguise your forces as my guard to enter the castle,” I say confidently. “And expunge them.”
It’s us or them. If I must trade Avelisar for Cathros, so be it. It is despicable to trade an entire human’s kingdom life for my own freedom, but it is precisely the kind of bait Wrath can’t resist. He’s conquered one human kingdom before, and I believe he’ll want to make it two.
Wrath’s brows draw together. “Who are you?”
“Princess Raelys Valantis of Cathros.”
The camp goes deadly silent.
Wrath takes a few slow steps toward me. The Elvarrans around me scatter like flies on a carcass.
A black leather-gloved hand shoots out. He pulls the necklace from the inside of my dress, and the chain yanks my head forward.
Bewilderment crosses Wrath’s gaze as he traces his thumb over the crest embedded in the metal—a sword with two wings on either side.
It's all I have left of my mother, and I pray he won’t take it from me.
He releases the pendant and steps away. “A few questions, Raelys.”
My name is a hymn on his lips, one that’s his to claim. It sends a chill down my spine. His inquiry feels suspicious, a misdirection to gain something from me. Perhaps he doesn’t believe my identity and wants to test me.
I play along, stunned that I made it this far. “All right.”
“Why did King Olav Friedrich and his court travel to Cathros?”
“To ease tensions.” I keep my answer vague. Wrath did not say I have to give detailed answers. He will likely use what I say against the humans, which will lead to more conflict between the North and South.
“The motive?”
“Olav skipped sending winter rations to the villages on our shared borders last snowfall,” I explain. “He used the guise of coming here to make amends, but I believe it is to hide the fact that he has no winter rations once more.”
“Why are you in a marriage arrangement with a king who has a wife?” he asks.
“He has no heir,” I tell him truthfully. “I think they are weaker than they appear on the surface.”
For this to work, I need him to believe Avelisar is an easy target. I want him to give up on his conquest of Cathros and set his sights on a different kingdom. It’s the only path that lets me slip past Olav and safeguard my home in one maneuver.
“Your people will view you as a traitor,” Wrath counters.
“I see it as joining the winning side.” I boost his ego, wondering if flattery will sway him.
He remains irritatingly placid. “You’re aware of the tales surrounding my name, and yet you’re brainless enough to seek me out…”
The Warlord always said that the enemy of my enemy is my ally.
“I’d rather make a deal with you than go near Olav’s wrinkly dick.” My words are blunt, but they strike something within him.
A flicker of bemusement ripples across his stoic features. He chuckles softly under his breath. It catches me off guard. The laugh is harsh and has a slight bite to it, like striking steel against stone. Some nearby Elvarrans snicker at my words, making offhand, vulgar comments in the distance.
“Crass, Princess,” Wrath replies. “Your father wants to wed you for a failing alliance?”
“He’s punishing me for not marrying the inbred Prince of Oderris.” I continue with my candid rant, dropping the royal formalities for a more authentic tone.
I can see the wheels turning in his mind with a malevolent fascination as I feed him information.
Every exchange is a game. He is an unassailable fortress of conviction.
Wrath saunters around my side, and I remain facing forward.
Even after he steps away, his presence lingers on my skin like heat that won’t fade.
“The army stationed in Liora. How strong is it?” He turns the conversation away from me, a calculated move.
I must be cautious; the wrong answer can lead to many lives lost. Valentin frequently uses the town of Liora as a staging point for attacks due to its closeness to the northern border.
I try to think of a good diversion, but something tickles the back of my throat.
My windpipe suddenly closes up. It burns like wildfire, forcing me to speak.
“They use it to draw out your kind—” I choke out against my will, a hand flying to my chest. “You’re using magic on me!” I whirl to face him, a flurry of shock and anger filling me.
“Please answer quickly, Princess,” Wrath says calmly.
“And what if I don’t?” I scowl back.
“When you agreed to answer my questions, you agreed to answer them truthfully.” Wrath continues to pace around me, like a predator stalking its prey. “The magic can tell when you’re skating around the truth.”
Yielding is inevitable. I am experiencing firsthand what it is like to face the blade, and I may not escape with my life. Wrath demands compliance, leaving little room for resistance. His magic is a power that rank cannot bestow.
“Who else is Cathros in an alliance with?” Wrath continues his line of questioning.
“Oderris.”
“Avelisar, Cathros, and Oderris…” he muses.
After Nythara fell, the remaining human kingdoms dwindled in strength. Avelisar is barely scraping by. I don’t know how much longer the Southern Alliance will hold. Cathros is practically holding up the entire south on its own, our ‘allies’ infrequently helping us in return.
“When was the last correspondence with Erynthe?” he asks.
“I don’t know—” The itch starts again, suffocating my breath and crawling beneath my skin. “Erynthe recently sent rations to Liora,” he forces me to say.
“Why?”
“I have heard whisperings of a plan to seal the island off to outsiders, but they are rumors,” I reply hesitantly, hoping the magic would let that one slide.
“Do you believe these rumors?”
“No.” I shake my head. “What kingdom would be stupid enough to attempt to stand alone when you’re thrashing about?”
I am walking right into Wrath’s trap, giving him information about my kingdom in exchange for nothing. He can kill me after interrogating me and lay siege to the castle, ending us all in one fell swoop. I can’t let that happen. Not to Lydia, or Eleanor, or Valentin.
“Thrashing?” His brow arches.
“I believe this is more than a few questions, King Wrath,” I say firmly.
Wrath glances to his right, locking eyes with an Elvarran who looks similar to the king.
The man has the same high cheekbones and grey eyes as Wrath, but is slightly more muscular and broader in build.
He scratches at his beard absently as he stands leaning into one hip, his expression unamused.
Long, pointed ears sprout from his black hair.
The left ear is missing a large chunk close to his head.
“This is a terrible idea, brother,” the Elvarran deadpans. “Kill her and be done with it.”
“Always a stickler, Barnham…” Wrath’s voice trails off as he turns back to me. “But never a visionary,” he says under his breath so quietly that only I could hear.
“If you don’t return me to the castle soon, every soldier in the royal army will be in these woods searching for me,” I threaten.
Wrath makes a sound comparable to a low growl. “How many?”
“Five thousand.”
“You will allow us to gain entry into Avelisar’s castle and slay their king.” Wrath refocuses on my original point. “Is that what you want? Do we have a deal?” He pulls off his right leather glove and extends his hand out to me.
Holding firmly, I keep my hands at my side. That was too easy… and yet, I have no other choice. If I refuse, they will likely kill me. Without Wrath, I am stuck with Olav.
“You must swear that no harm will come to me,” I demand.
Wrath rolls his eyes. “You’re insufferable, Princess.”
“Your soldiers tried to kill me!” I remind him of our mutual distrust.
“Fine,” he relents.
“Deal.” I reach forward and take his hand in mine.
The moment Wrath’s fingertips close around mine, something ignites between us.
His magic seeps like fire under my skin, whispering shrouded promises directly into my veins.
It violently claws up the length of my arm.
My muscles tense from the searing pain. I try to pull away, but his grip only tightens.
The oath between us hums to life—an intense pull, a wicked temptation of fate.
It feels as if he’s staring straight into the darkest parts of my soul, seeing everything I’ve tried to hide.
I’m drowning in his power—in him—unable to tell where his magic begins and I end.
And still, my first instinct is to leap toward it, immerse myself in that power, and claim it like it belongs to me.
Wrath releases his hold, returning his arm to his side. A tendril of silver slithers under my sleeve. Pulling up the fabric, I watch the magic take root on the inside of my forearm—thin, wispy lines snake across my skin like streaks of starlight.
“Gods…” I curse under my breath, pulling my sleeve down to cover it.
“You cannot cross me. If you do, the magic will have consequences,” Wrath explains. “Gilead, Stanik, take this stray back to where you found her.”