Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Memories of that fateful day seven years ago threatened to overtake her.
Clanging and grunts sounded on all sides of her.
The scent of blood filled the air. Orla stayed focused on the group that was fighting her and Rhyan.
These were some of Edam’s fittest warriors, and clearly, they wanted to take down the famed Emmentalian warriors who had won so many battles and killed so many of their people.
One of the warriors lunged, his spear heading straight for Orla’s chest, she pivoted and missed the blow while striking out, cutting the male along his thigh. More warriors came as Rhyan and Orla cut them down in turn.
The smell of blood and muddy earth kept her grounded. She felt focused. In control. This was what she was good at. What she had trained for, for so many years.
As Orla fought, flashes of lightning blazed in the sky despite the clear, hot day.
It crackled loudly, lighting up the sky in an unnatural glow.
The strikes were mesmerizing, causing Orla to break focus.
She looked up for several seconds. When she looked back across the battlefield, she saw a helmeted warrior focused on her as if a battle wasn’t waging around them.
The warrior’s eyes locked on hers in the distance.
It wasn’t long, just a moment of distraction, but that was all it took. One of the Edamish warriors had gotten between her and Rhyan. He was coming for Orla from behind while she fought another at her front.
“No!”
She heard him before she saw him, Rhyan’s yell alerting her to the situation at her back. As Orla turned, she realized that the Edamish warrior behind her was no regular warrior at all; it was Prince Gwayne.
His golden hair shone in the sunlight on the hot day.
His face was pale, freckled, caked with dirt, and battle worn.
His flaxen-colored wings drooped from exhaustion, but there was a curl to his lips.
One that hinted at feelings of triumph. And in a moment that lasted an eternity, Orla saw why.
The tip of his blade was pointed directly at Rhyan’s throat.
She lunged for Prince Gwayne, attempting to cut him down.
Orla moved as quickly as possible.
She knew she could get to Rhyan in time. She—
She couldn’t.
She was too slow, and by the time she was a step away from Prince Gwayne, he had already slit Rhyan’s throat.
“Gods no,” she breathed.
Orla’s thoughts were frantic. This couldn’t happen; this wasn’t how this was supposed to happen.
Orla froze as she watched Rhyan’s body crumple to the ground.
She slashed at Prince Gwayne, slicing his sword arm.
Not a killing blow, but one that would slow him down as she ran to Rhyan.
He was clutching his throat, blood pouring out of the wound so fast Orla couldn’t comprehend it.
No, no, no.
“Please, Rhyan. Please, you can’t die. Please. Please.” The words were ripped out of her throat like a cry.
She was heaving and sobbing. The battle around her had ceased to matter.
At that moment, all that mattered was Rhyan.
The one person she had ever thought of as a best friend.
The one person she had ever let herself love.
And as the light went out of his dark, soulful eyes, something inside her crumpled.
It happened in a blink; Orla’s magic ripped through her unbidden.
Her entire being felt flooded with power.
When she looked up, large thorns had been conjured.
They were sailing through the battlefield, tearing through anything in their path.
The bodies of nearly every person in that field were torn open in an instant from her magic.
As if in mourning with her, the sky opened up and rain began to fall heavy over the battlefield.
In mere seconds, so many were dead, others dying. Both Emmentalian and Edamish warriors alike, slain by her magic. She didn’t care. For the moment, she couldn’t care. The one person in that battle that mattered laid dead in her arms.
In front of her, Prince Gwayne of Edam lay a short distance away. A large thorn protruded straight through his head.
Prince Gwayne, heir to the Kingdom of Edam, leader of the war, dead by her hand.
It was everything she had fought for. Everything she had wanted, but she had never wanted it like this.
* * *
Chest heaving, palms slick with sweat, the taste of bile coating her mouth, Orla knew these sensations well.
They had dogged her for the last seven years, but she had to pull herself together.
Forcing herself to take deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, Orla made her legs move, one in front of the other.
As she approached the throne room’s gilded doors her breathing had steadied even though her skin was still coated in sweat.
Near the door was a male she didn’t recognize.
He was tall, nearly a foot taller than Orla, and clearly Elven, with pointed ears and impressively large antlers sticking out of his wavy reddish brown hair.
He had high cheekbones and eyes the pale blue color of the morning sky.
His long straight nose had a bump on it, probably from breaking it at some point.
Stubble scattered across the male’s sharp jaw.
He looked bored, features haughty in a way that most Elves carried themselves.
The whole lot of them thought they were better than every other creature in the realm, and this male looked to be no different.
But his looks were not what stood out to her; he was a black dot in a sea of blues and silvers.
The man wore black leather armor with the red Griffin sigil of the Kingdom of Edam emblazoned on the chest.
Orla huffed a sigh. An Edamish warrior then. He had the look of a warrior, broad shouldered and well muscled.
Her heart lurched at the realization; if he was guarding the door, did that mean the meeting had started? It would not do for her to be late to any meeting with the king. Damn Yanez for distracting her.
“Have the herald announce me,” she said in a clipped tone to the male once she was closer to him and the door.
It had been a while since she had been at court, but she knew not to stroll into a room with the king without being properly announced, even if it was a meeting she had been ordered to attend.
“Well, hello to you too,” the male said, looking down his nose at her. “Tell me,” he said, “is it customary to make demands of a person without so much as a hello or asking the person’s name?” He smirked at her with a cocky sort of facial expression as he looked her over.
His gaze landed on her rounded ears.
“I heard the Hero of Fontina was full of herself, but I didn’t know she would also be rude.”
Her blood went cold at the name. Thrice this morning she had had to endure the nickname, but this was the only time it was said with contempt, not veneration. She didn’t know which was worse.
“If you already know who I am, then introductions are unnecessary.” She tried to master her expression. It wouldn’t due to give away how the name affected her. “Now kindly, ser, can you tell me if the meeting has started? I prefer not to be late to meetings with my king.”
“Interesting. I thought the Hero of Fontina could do whatever she liked. Isn’t that your whole thing, murdering whomever you please and calling it victory?
” He said it with such poison. If Orla hadn’t already been sweating, this would have done it.
Her heart raced and her mouth went dry. Tears threatened to prick at her eyes, but she could not cry here.
Not in front of this jackass who thought he knew her.
“I knew the Edamish were callous, but I am surprised your heir would be guarded by such a bastard.”
It wasn’t polite, definitely not in keeping with the expectations of court politics, but she didn’t care. If she couldn’t cry, and she couldn’t be seen as weak, she would do the thing she learned in the army: to get big and not back down.
She continued. “I wouldn’t call it murder when your king and his feckless cunt of a son waged war on my kingdom.
I was doing what had to be done. But it’s unsurprising that such an incompetent ruler would employ such a vile person as one of their guards,” Orla spat, nerves transforming to anger as she spoke.
He was right of course, she was a murderer, but never before had someone said it to her face.
Surely, some at court thought it of her.
It was their sons and daughters that she had killed alongside the Edamish warriors.
Her cheeks heated at the same time as the cocky smirk on the male’s face changed to a sneer.
“Vile. You’d think being okay with such senseless death would be vile, but I guess when you go around calling yourself a hero, you get to be the moral judge of everyone else.”
Who the fuck did he think he was? She had never been talked to this way. Even being half nymph, most others had treated her with cool indifference instead of outright hostility.
“Bastard indeed. Tell me, ser, what’s your name so I can make sure my king knows the kind of males employed by King Vernon.” Color bloomed in his cheeks. Orla could see that his sneer was an outright scowl now.
The two stared at each other, contempt and malice etched in both of their faces. Both breathed heavily, waiting for the other to speak. His eyes shone with fury as he leaned in closer. Orla assumed he was trying to use his substantial height to try to intimidate her.
Orla knew she wouldn’t be a favored person among the people of Edam; she had killed their heir after all and stopped their attempts at conquest. But she had never expected this level of outright vitriol. If she wasn’t so angry, her nerves would have taken her, but she refused to back down.
Footsteps sounded behind Orla, and she turned to see Lord Kennedum walking up the hall with a retinue of advisors behind him. She turned back to face the arrogant male in front of her as he mastered his expression back into the one of indifference he wore when she first arrived.
“Good, good,” Lord Kennedum said brusquely. “Lady Orla, I am glad to see you’ve met Lord Owain Acer, heir presumptive to the Kingdom of Edam.”
Lord…
Heir to… well, fuck.