Chapter 2
ACKER
The kitchen is the only place where I can eat lunch without being hounded by petitioners.
They loiter in the halls in a bid to corner me.
They’re constantly angling to push their own agendas, to get my approval to send aid to their own lands.
More soldiers, more wheat, more weapons.
It pains me to lie to them, knowing their people need help.
But dear gods, they’re fucking vultures, willing to take from a neighbor if it means extra money in their coffers.
The cook has a plate ready for me. The turkey is dry, and I suffer down a few bites of even drier sourdough.
It does little to satisfy my stomach, but I give Antony a nod of thanks anyway as I get up to leave.
His culinary skills don’t hold a candle to those of our last cook, but considering our previous cook, Henry, was a treacherous fuck, I remind myself to be grateful my meal is at least not poisoned.
I navigate through the maidservants’ quarters behind the kitchen.
The women are accustomed to me using their halls to leave the palace without being seen.
Most of them are veteran staff and pay me little mind.
But there are a few girls who see my brief appearance as an opportunity to vie for my attention with unbuttoned blouses and hiked skirts.
Many of them would skin a cat for a chance to be my concubine, and I make sure to avoid their lingering gazes as I leave via the back entrance of the servants’ wing.
The sky is overcast, hanging like an indictment over the capitol.
After discovering the secret alcove under the library when Jovie was at court, I did some further digging and found a series of fail-safes around the grounds as well.
The hidden passages behind the walls apparently aren’t the only secrets the palace holds.
The smell of sweet vanilla permeates the air.
The blanket of blooming vines overhanging the north side of the palace walls was planted to disguise the smell of rubbish from the kitchen.
But underneath the foliage, set into an alcove, a gate is concealed.
No one would think to go near the poisonous leaves for fear of the blistering welts the vine is known to cause on exposed skin.
Pulling my hood over my head, I assure all of my skin is covered before I duck underneath the vines.
I place my palm against the iron lock, concentrating hard to slide the mechanism open despite the mangi stones around my neck.
While they’re a hinderance in my ability to use the full extent of my magic, I’m able unlock the gate and emerge into the back alley of merchants.
I’m mindful to keep my face hidden as I step onto the street. I could send a palace aide to do my bidding, but trust is no longer something I hand out so freely. My title alone doesn’t afford me the luxury anymore. Besides, I want to speak with my friend face-to-face.
The city is quiet. Few people venture among the businesses and shuttered restaurants.
The statue of Mother Nature stands barren in the city’s central plaza.
Water which once flowed between the figure’s raised fingers has long gone dry.
The children who often played in the fountain’s basin are absent, and I can’t remember the last time I heard a child’s laughter.
There’s a stillness I’ve only ever experienced right before battle. When the wind itself seems to be afraid of what’s to come. Still as the breath the soldiers hold in their lungs as they await their fight.
It’s not until I reach the blacksmith that the silence of the city is broken, the sound of iron striking iron and the grunts of men working.
Hearths are blazing on either side of the brickyard when I enter, the largest fire burning in the middle, turning the courtyard into an oven.
Sweat instantly coats my neck and back as I look for my friend and fellow comrade through the haze of smoke.
I find Wells barking at one of his men to remove a plate of iron from a fire, his skin blackened with soot.
He returns to striking the weapon on the anvil before him and doesn’t see me until I’m close, eyes darting to me between heaves of the hammer in his hand.
Sparks fly from the molten metal. Strike after strike after strike.
He inspects the blade before shoving it into the fire. “Yeah?” he says.
“Wanted to see if you had any update on the next shipment of armor.”
Using the handkerchief from his back pocket, he rubs his neck, then his forehead. It’s a losing battle as the moisture continues to sluice down his face. “I received word from Dusty in Auden and he said he’ll be able to match my five hundred pieces by the end of the week.”
Auden is four days east of us. “And Trey?”
He shakes his head. “His last batch of iron got intercepted by bandits a few weeks ago. He’s still waiting for materials.”
Fuck. The ever stirrings of a possible growing rebellion is another problem entirely.
“It’ll take a further two weeks to get materials to the front lines,” I say.
Someone yells for assistance and Wells looks over his shoulder to make sure it’s being handled before his eyes snap back to me. “Anything else?”
I narrow my eyes at his clipped words. “Everything all right?”
He huffs and shakes his head, as if he can’t believe I’d ask him such an asinine question, then leaves me standing in the middle of the yard.
I’m so caught off guard by his reaction, I’m frozen in place as I watch him return to the hearth to shovel coal into the fire’s mouth.
I debate the merits of letting it go, trying to convince myself it’s just the stress of the war getting to him, but there’s something about the way he looked at me that I can’t shake.
My anger rises with my body temperature as I stalk toward him. “If you have something you need to get off your chest—say it.”
He doesn’t even spare me a glance. “I don’t have the patience to appease you today, Acker. Go home.”
“Appease me?”
“You heard me,” he says, slamming the door on the kiln and latching it.
“Every few weeks you come down here and demand more weapons and more armor and more bits, and when they’re not ready yesterday, you act like it’s unacceptable.
” He strips his gloves off and storms toward the door leading to his living quarters.
I follow close behind him.
The first alarming thing I notice upon entry is the dirty floor. Wells leaves boot tracks in the soot as I follow him into the dining area. Black daggers and swords in various stages of creation lie on the dining room table.
Wells throws an eyebrow up at whatever he sees on my face. “Oh, you didn’t know?” He removes his apron and throws it over the mess. “Your father had a wagon full of hearthstone delivered weeks ago with orders to make as many weapons as I could with it.”
The fuck …
Hearthstone weapons belong wholly to their makers.
Whoever forges the weapon can recall the weapon to them anytime, anywhere, and they’re lethal when used against an Heir, capable of killing someone’s magic, making it impossible for them to heal—on land or otherwise.
And it’s impossibly rare. Too rare to mine this much without great effort.
Yet, my father hasn’t mentioned increasing mining efforts …
But what’s the most concerning is the sheer number of weapons Wells is making.
Upon becoming a blacksmith, he made a blood oath to never recall any hearthstone weapon he’s asked to forge.
And while it’s typical for the king to occasionally demand a weapon here and there, this number is unprecedented.
I turn my gaze back toward Wells. “Why didn’t you mention this the last time I was here?”
He shrugs halfheartedly. “I thought you knew,” he says, continuing to the kitchen.
Following him, I ask, “Where’s Olivia?”
“I sent her to stay with my parents.”
That explains the attitude. Wells and Olivia haven’t spent more than a day apart since they were sixteen. And it also explains the condition of their home. Olivia would be spitting mad if she saw the state that it’s in.
Wells digs through the cabinets, knocking the contents onto the counters.
There’s a pinch between his shoulders, tension pulling his shirt taut.
Once he finds a can of his liking, he removes a knife from the drawer and stabs it into the container, sawing it open.
He folds back the top and tips the can straight to his mouth.
It’s now that I notice how thin he’s gotten. “When was the last time you had a real meal?” When he doesn’t answer me, I pull a spoon from the drawer and shove it into the can of peas before he can raise it to his mouth again. “What’s going on, Wells?”
He lifts the utensil, if a little begrudgingly. “She’s pregnant,” he says with his mouth full.
It takes me a moment for the words to register.
Olivia is pregnant. Wow.
“That’s … incredible, Wells.” I clear my throat in an effort to insert more enthusiasm into my voice. “Congratulations.”
He nods, but it’s without an ounce of excitement.
We’re at war and there’s no escaping it.
As a royal blacksmith, he’s well off enough to still afford food and necessities, but he’s haggard.
He’s spent the last three years restocking the military’s cache that we’ve run through in a fraction of the time it took to make it.
It’s not just a less than ideal time to bring a baby into this world.
It’s the worst possible time.
“She and the baby will be safe on the northern shores,” I say.
“For how long?” He drops his spoon into the now empty can, but he knows as well as I do that I can’t answer that. “Olivia is under the impression Jovie originally offered you a truce,” he says, meeting my gaze.
“She’s spoken to her?” I ask, struggling to hide my outrage. He doesn’t reply, knowing that even from him I won’t stand for treason. “If Olivia is conspiring with our enemy—”
“Your enemy,” he clarifies, cutting me off. Eyes of molten ore, he levels his glare at me—daring me to finish my sentence.
I lock my teeth together in a bid to hold back my temper.
Hurt and confusion muddy his features, eyes becoming glassy as he holds my stare. “None of this had to happen,” he says, shaking his head. “So many lives have been sacrificed, for what?”
My reply is laced with disbelief. “She wanted my father’s head in return.”
In an instant, he’s enraged, slamming the can onto the counter. “You spared the man who put this collar around my neck!”
I’m too stunned to react.
I never told Wells and Olivia the ultimatum my Match gave me.
Anytime I broached the subject, I couldn’t get the words to leave my mouth, the truth of what actually transpired that night almost four years ago.
After a while, I figured it was best to let the story lie with the dead members of the council.
But, if I’m honest with myself, I always suspected that they wouldn’t understand, having voiced their displeasure of my father’s reign time and time again.
He spins about and slaps the cabinet beside him, taking his frustrations out on something—anything—to stop himself from doing something he can’t take back. Like put his hands on me.
After a few moments of silence, he speaks with his back to me.
“You know as well as I do that Maile could have used our vulnerability against us by now.” When he turns around, he’s a little calmer.
“They know we moved all of our armies to fight at the Roison border. There’s nothing stopping them from invading our land, razing our cities, hell—seizing the capital …
but they haven’t.” His eyes are imploring. “You must have considered the reason.”
I’ve considered it ad nauseam. Nothing about this entire war makes sense. Evelyn has had every opportunity to harry us from the west, but hasn’t. Jovie had the makings of a rebellion within the walls of this very city, but never called upon it.
It leaves a singular, bitter notion that somehow makes me the sickest: that Jovie never had any intention of destroying my father’s crown or Kenta. That she only went through with the plan to try and kill my father to appease her lover—Wren’s son. Kai.
But I don’t think right now is the right time to tell Wells of my suspicions, or that I’ve ordered the siege on Maile’s northern border.
I fought with the decision for months, and while Maile hasn’t attacked us directly, they’ve hindered any ships trying to reach us from Strou.
We’re short on men, weapons, food, and even fucking candle wax, for godssake, and it’s their fault we’ve stagnated for so long.
Of all the lives I’ve taken, none have haunted me like the ones I possibly sacrificed by saving my father.
My people are dropping like flies. The longer this war wages, the harder it is to reconcile when a decision is right and when it’s just easier, but like hell am I going to take the blame for the actions of one girl.
The memory of the moment I watched my Match hold a dagger to my father’s throat—the very same dagger I carried around in her fucking honor—plagues me.
Wells’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “It’s the same collar he’ll one day put around my child’s neck, Acker.”
“What are you saying?” I ask, meeting his gaze. “That you’re against me?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll never be against you, Ace,” he says, placing a hand against his chest. “I’m asking—if you can end this war, by any means … please … do it.”
Wells saved my life at thirteen by throwing himself in front of an arrow meant for me. A favor I returned by pushing him out of the way of the second arrow that followed, and it solidified our bond for a lifetime and beyond. It’s something immeasurable.
It’s why hearing his desperation hurts as much as it does.
He dips his head in the traditional Kenta gesture of allegiance. “A lot of blood has already been spilled, but…” He looks up and meets my gaze once again, a renewed vigor behind his eyes. “She’s your Match. She’ll listen.”
My heart sinks. “She’s not Olivia, Wells. Not all who are Bonded are a love Match.”
He gives me the worst look of all—disappointment. “You can lie to yourself all you want, Ace, but you know as well as I do, she could have done worse. She chose war over killing your father because you asked her not to. If that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.”
I’m too exhausted to argue with him about my Match’s love for me or the lack thereof.
I turn to leave. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you more iron,” I say, walking away.
Unlike him, I have a wife to return to.