Lie (Dark Seasons: Foolish Kingdoms #5)

1

Aspen

Kingdom of Autumn. On the night of the farewell revels for Autumn’s First Knight.

Once upon a time, there lived a liar. She went by many names and disguised herself beneath a cloak dyed the color of soot, hiding her identity from the world. This deceiver moved like a spy, unseen and unheard.

Yet twisting words was her greatest ability. Her tongue flicked out falsehoods like pellets, small and harmless for people to swallow.

Eventually, those lies got larger and deadlier. She deceived so well, the female hadn’t expected to get caught. Except luck always ran out. And sometimes the punishment wasn’t having your voice silenced.

Sometimes, it was having your skill turned into a weapon. A fatal thing that hurt the people you loved.

Trust me, I knew. In this story, there was only one truth worth telling.

That liar was me.

Standing in the forest, I curled my fingers into fists. Foliage markings strained across my knuckles. Root, vine, and leaf motifs twined from my hands, disappearing into the sleeves of my cloak.

Around me, a canopy of gold branches gleamed through the eventide like candle wicks, contrasting with the deeper, darker parts of this woodland. The scent of rotted bark curled into my nostrils, mixing with a toxic stench that lingered like a virus.

King Rhys. Enemy ruler and the bane of everyone’s existence. The monarch who got off on beating a dead horse and didn’t know when the fuck to quit.

The spiteful cocksucker had dropped a threat at my feet, then slithered into the thicket like a serpent.

Idling in the spot where he’d clenched my arm in a vise grip, I stared in a daze at the snare of gnarled branches.

It wasn’t the first time he’d gone for the jugular, his words strangling me tighter than a noose.

Betray the clan. Collect their secrets. Spy on them.

Then deliver the goods on a platter like a good girl. Or if not, suffer a death sentence.

Not my own. But the person who mattered most.

My shaky fingers landed on the axe rigged at my hip. Love squeezed my heart as I brushed the oaken handle, its wood crafted from a dangerous source.

I imagined a little girl shoveling shit on behalf of the Masters, controlled by others, told what to do. A runty child with blood on her hands before the ripe age of twelve. Someone who freed herself from the elite guild of crafters, only to end up enslaved by a tyrant king.

More images cycled through my head. The clan, the person waiting at home for my return, and a loyal knight expecting me to show up for his farewell revels, only to realize I wasn’t coming.

Lively tunes drifted from the castle. Lute strings and pounding drums resonated across the maple pasture, past the wheat fields, and into the beech forest. The clan would be dancing and feasting by now, oblivious that I’d made it as far as the courtyard gate before changing my mind, turning around, and evacuating the premises.

In the music’s wake, dead leaves cracked beneath someone’s boot.

I stiffened. What had it been? A minute since Rhys unshackled my wrist and skulked away?

So the residual stink of my enforcer might mean he was still here.

He could be mounting his horse, about to exit the scene with his cult, no longer in chopping distance.

One shot. It would only take one clean shot.

I thought of my friends, my family, and…

“Ah. The knight in shining armor.”

The recollection of Rhys’s acidic sneer contaminated the woods. Without having to utter a word, I’d given myself away, handing him a crucial weakness. The one I kept secret from everybody, tucking it close to my heart like the contents of a locket.

Yet apparently, not close enough. Never mind that I had already learned how easily vulnerabilities fell prey to villains.

Based on the signs fifteen feet away, I could fling my weapon and catch him mid-retreat. Fast. Instant. But not a guarantee.

My vision went up in flames. White hot fury seared a path up my flesh, reinforcing my grip on the hatchet. With a predatory growl, I tore the weapon from its harness and launched into motion. Bolting from my spot, I smashed through the creepers, the axe windmilling into killing position.

I had beheaded people before. However this time, I’d have zero regrets.

A tall, masculine silhouette materialized beyond the hedges, his back a clear target, his neck in range like a gift from the Almighty Seasons. Fuck his cult. Fuck my execution. Separating this asshole’s skull from his neck would be worth the sacrifice.

Clenching my teeth, I swung the axe, its curved edge pitching downward—then slamming into a barrier. Two steel objects crossed in front of me, blocking the rim of my blade.

Pommels. Double-edged. Tapered points.

Broadswords.

The wielder had spun them my direction before I was on him, the movements smooth and swift. Either he heard me coming or… or nothing. No other explanation made sense, his reflexes as quick as lightning.

The murk clouded his features, only the flash of his swords visible. One of Rhys’s peons. Maybe this scumbag had stayed behind to make sure the entourage wouldn’t be followed.

The male spoke, his voice muffled by the violent rush of blood to my ears. Seething, I ripped into the shithead. Executing a sequence of deft flips, I veered the axe and struck from the opposite angle.

His weapons stalled my next attack. We flung ourselves into battle.

Rage powered my limbs as I sheared toward him again, swiping my hatchet to spill his intestines.

My opponent vaulted out of the blade’s path like a tornado.

Spinning away, he grunted and lanced one sword backward over his shoulder, catching the fatal swipe of my axe.

More shouts carved from his mouth. More stuff I couldn’t hear.

Our weapons crashed together, him playing on the offensive, me doing nothing of the fucking sort.

Every collision thrust a hot, sharp streak up my limbs, and not just because he had about fifty pounds on me.

Since the pain rarely went away, I mashed my lips together, weathering the spasms, fighting through them.

But Seasons strike me, he was too proficient to be some pissant minion, each thrust cutting, sleek, militant.

No, this was a warrior beyond my level. He moved as if he’d invented the wind itself, battling with the grace of a hawk. His weapons sliced the air, his toned arms inflating like boulders through a fitted jacket, the supple material stretching to accommodate every pivot.

Critical details triggered my awareness. The speed. The strength. Plus, he held back, trying to stop me rather than skewer my carcass.

I shook off the notion. Despite the darkness, my vision burned a hole in the motherfucker’s cursed face. Snarling, I charged, my hatchet diving for his throat.

“Fucking Seasons!” the male growled, whipping up his swords and thwarting me again. “Aspen!”

I froze. Our weapons collided overhead, the length of his broadswords kissing my handle. Clarity blasted through me like ice water, rinsing away my fury with the velocity of a tidal wave. His baritone sheared through the night, clearing the debris that had clouded my senses.

I knew that voice like I knew my own breath. For years, I had been memorizing every murmur, grumble, and whisper he uttered. Like a hoarder, I collected each sound, replaying them before and after dreams.

As my vision refocused, the man stepped closer. The gesture drew his features into stark relief, a shaft of moonlight casting across his chiseled jaw. Shock, annoyance, and concern blitzed through his pupils.

Layers of ashy hair down to the nape. Irises the color of a twilit sky. The spidery scar that webbed beneath his left earlobe, earned from a chained weapon during battle. And the glimpse of raptor tattoos beneath his cuffed sleeve.

A gasp pushed from my lips. “Aire.”