Chapter 1 Wren #2
As the guards step forward, movement at the edge of the yard catches my eye.
A woman has come to stand beside the captain, dressed in fine dark leathers, the shoulders shaped like scales.
She holds herself well, but she doesn’t look like a soldier.
She’s too clean, too straight-backed, too regal.
A part of her brown hair is braided across her forehead like a crown.
I return her stare for a breath, then shift my focus back to the fight ahead.
My brow is damp with sweat. I roll my shoulders again as the guards approach.
The first fight had been easy—Dain Hollowbrook is skilled, if predictable and straightforward.
But these four… they’ve already seen how I move, how fast I took him down.
They won’t make the same mistakes, and I’m clearly outnumbered.
Only a fool wouldn’t be nervous.
No one else is applying for the job, I remind myself. You don’t have to win. You only have to impress them.
Unfortunately, I also really, really like winning.
I flex my fingers around the hilt of the borrowed sword, letting its weight settle into my palm. I can impress them as well as win.
The captain stands with his hands clasped behind his back. “Begin.”
They move at once.
I dance back, barely dodging the first strike. The blade slices through the space where my ribs were a second ago. Another lunges—his blade crashes into mine, ringing sharp in my ears. I twist away before a third tries to flank me, their weapon grazing the leather at my side.
Too many. Too close. I won’t last long if I fight them head-on.
So I stop fighting fair.
I kick up a swirl of dirt with my heel, sending a cloud into the nearest guard’s eyes. He curses and stumbles back. I use the moment to retreat, weaving between the watching onlookers. There’s a tall rack of weapons near the edge of the yard—I reach up and tip it over with a swift pull.
Spears and staves clatter across the stone, right into the path of my pursuers.
Three of them jump back to avoid the mess.
The fourth—my blinded one—trips and lands hard on his side.
I don’t waste the advantage. I twist, drive the hilt of my sword into his gut.
He wheezes, doubles over. I kick his weapon away.
Hopefully, for a test, that counts as me defeating him.
A whistle of warning slices the air. I drop low just in time—feel a blade pass so close it brushes air across my scalp. I roll, fast, and come up behind a row of stacked barrels. My back hits the wood. I pause, breath shallow.
Footsteps. Measured. Deliberate. They’re fanning out, hunting me.
Across the yard, the dark-haired woman watches, arms folded.
I adjust my grip on the sword and exhale.
I scale the barrels in two quick bursts and launch myself onto a wooden training post. The guards turn too late.
I kick off, slam my boot into one’s shoulder, send him sprawling.
The last lunges for me—I catch his wrist, wrench it down, force the blade from his hand, then sweep his legs out from under him.
Silence.
The dark-haired woman claps, just once.
I stand there, breathing hard, the sword still in my hand. The captain studies me, unreadable, then gives a small nod. “Adequate.”
But the woman’s still watching, and the look in her eye says she thinks I’m more than that.
She steps forward. Her voice is clear and calm, like the sky before a storm. “One final test.”
The captain tilts his head slightly, but doesn’t argue with her.
“Dain will play the part of the prince,” she says. “Wren is to get him safely to the stables on the far side of the grounds. The rest of your men will try to stop her.”
Dain straightens, rubbing his shoulder, and flashes me a wolfish grin. “Be gentle with me.”
I roll my neck. “I make no such promises.”
Dain grabs a sash from a nearby bucket and ties it over his eyes. “So that I can’t assist you,” he explains.
The captain sighs, but signals to his men. I take a moment to scan the space—the open yard, the covered walkways, the narrow gaps between stone buildings. Options, if I’m fast enough to utilise them.
I nearly always am.
“Go,” the dark-haired woman commands.
I grab Dain’s arm and haul him with me. We bolt across the yard, guards already closing in. I veer left, hard, dragging him into the shadow of an archway just as two guards thunder past, oblivious.
I pull him into a narrow alley. Our feet barely touch the ground. There’s a shout from behind. I grab a nearby bucket and fling it without looking, scanning everywhere at once.
“Boost me,” I tell Dain.
He has every right to refuse—he isn’t supposed to assist me, after all—but he doesn’t. Instead, he kneels, cupping his hands. I run, step into them, and vault the wall, land in a crouch, then spin, catch his wrist, and yank him up after me.
The stables are in sight, but four guards stand between them and us.
No way through.
Unless—
I drop down from the wall and yank Dain towards a stack of hay bales. “Lie down.”
“What?”
“Trust me.”
He hesitates, then obeys. I grab a pitchfork and throw loose hay over him just as the guards storm through the yard. I duck low, pressing into the shadows.
“Lost them,” one mutters.
“They’ll turn up,” says another. “Let’s split.”
They move on. Only two guards are left now, watching the stable doors.
Hmm, tricky. I can definitely take two, but taking two whilst defending the sightless Dain is harder.
He’s sightless, I realise. He isn’t helpless.
I crouch, pull Dain to his feet, and shove him toward the doors. “Count to ten,” I tell him, “and then run straight ahead until you hit wood. We’re about thirty feet away. It’s a straight line. Can you do it?”
“I’m not sure I’m supposed to—”
“Can you do it?”
Dain nods. “Yes. Of course.”
“Good. Start counting.”
I bolt across the ground, veering left. The guards desert their post and hurtle after me.
One, two, three, four, five.
Getting them away from the entrance is easy. Getting them far enough away that they don’t notice Dain, while staying close enough myself, is the challenge.
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
Dain sprints from his spot, and I try not to smile. He’s already inside the stables. The guards swing at me, but I duck under their arms, skidding on the dirt, and scramble towards the structure. I almost crash into Dain.
He removes his blindfold, breathless, and laughs at me. I laugh right back.
The dark-haired woman enters from the far end. Her eyes meet mine. She studies me and smiles. “Well done, Thornvale,” she says.
She steps closer, leathers shifting smoothly over a dark green dress. She holds herself like nobility, but there’s a blade beneath the silk. She’s pale—like the moon favours her. Her age is hard to place. Forty-five? Fifty-five? I’ve never been good at guessing. The fey don’t wrinkle.
She looks me over with sharp, green-brown eyes, then turns to the captain.
“I think she’s ready to meet the prince. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would never go against you, ma’am,” he replies.
The woman pivots on her heel and strides toward the castle without waiting to see if I follow. I do, falling into step beside her, though I have to lengthen my stride to keep pace.
“You’ve proven yourself capable,” she says, glancing at me as we pass through the grand archway that leads into the castle’s inner halls. “But guarding Prince Cassiel is not just a matter of skill with a sword. You’ll need patience. Awareness.”
I nod, listening. The halls smell of polished wood and burning candle wax, with the faintest trace of something floral in the air. Servants flit past us, keeping to the walls, eyes averted, bowing to the woman who leads me.
Who is she?
She continues, her voice low but clear. “You are not to coddle him. You are to guard him. But should he require aid, you will give it. That being said—” her lips press together briefly, “—be wary of how you offer help. He may not want it.”
I glance at her. “He doesn’t like being assisted?”
She exhales a quiet breath. “He does not like being pitied. He has had enough of that.”
Fair distinction. I nod. I have no intention of pitying him, nor have I ever been particularly good at softening my words for a noble’s ego. But if I’m to guard him, I need to understand him.
“What else should I know?” I ask.
Her gaze flicks to me again, thoughtful. “You’re not afraid of difficult men, I gather.”
I let my lips curl slightly. “I’ve worked with nobility before.” Or, at least, Serawen Thornvale has. I’m more likely to kill them.
She huffs a sound that might be amusement. “Hopefully that’s enough.”
We pass beneath an ornately carved archway and into a quieter corridor.
The castle beyond the training grounds had been grand, but this wing is something else entirely—tapestries line the walls, their intricate designs shifting in the low candlelight.
The rugs beneath our feet muffle our steps, and it’s decorated with green and gold and the sigil of house Aurelthane—a golden sunburst behind a crowned white stag on a green banner.
“Come,” the woman says, pausing before a heavy wooden door. She lays a hand against it briefly, then pushes it open. “It’s time you met him.”
The chamber isn’t lit at all. Faint sunlight squirms through the curtains, casting long shadows over polished wood and heavy drapes.
A writing desk stands between two further doors, an array of books stacked upon it, their spines worn from use but dusty with neglect.
Nothing on the desk looks like it’s been used in a long, long time.
Prince Cassiel Aurelthane, second son of Queen Alessandra, lies on the bed.
He’s barely dressed—dark linen trousers, a loose shirt, nothing more.
His feet are bare, and his skin is almost too light, like he’s spent far too long indoors.
His shoulders are lean but sharply defined.
His hair, a pale gold, falls above his shoulders, a little dishevelled, like he’s run his fingers through it one too many times.
“Prince Cassiel?” the woman says. “Your new guard is here. Her name is—”
“Does it really matter what her name is, Mother?”
I flinch. Mother?
“You—Your Majesty—” I drop into a bow. “I’m sorry, I had no idea—”
Have I just made a major blunder? Do all humans recognise their queen on sight? Maybe they all have shrines to her in their homes, and I’m just supposed to know. I don’t think that’s the case, but—
The Queen just smiles. “Don’t be too surprised, Thornvale. I like to meet everyone that works closely with my children.”
Cassiel lets out a faint snort of annoyance.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” says the Queen. “Good luck.”