Aftermath.
No one had said it, but I knew that any sense of hope had died on the black sands alongside our hundreds of fallen comrades.
I watched the smoke curl from the blazing bonfire as Bash gently cleaned my wounds from the goblin attack. His touch was careful, washing away the dirt and dried blood from my back—and I appreciated how, even exhausted from the battle, he still took the time to care for me.
I flinched as he dragged the cloth through a particularly deep cut.
“Sorry, I need to get all the sand out—these are nasty,” Bash said, lifting the shreds of my tunic and squeezing warm water over the laceration.
I clutched the rags tightly against my chest, making sure my breasts stayed concealed.
Seeking distraction from the throbbing pain, I observed the survivors huddled around the fire. Some soldiers still wore the remains of their armor, while the poorer men clung to their tattered, threadbare cloaks.
Red caught my attention—crouched low to the muddy ground, stabbing at clumps of dirt in front of him with a knife as though each mound were a goblin’s head.
Most of the men downed pints of ale faster than Regina’s dragon sank ships. The drink served its purpose, numbing them to the horrors on the beach.
Among the soldiers singing sea shanties, I noticed Godwin—his battered face wrapped in a bloodstained rag, a slash splitting his upper lip in two. If he wasn’t careful, there wouldn’t be an inch of his skin not scarred by war.
Despite his injuries, he clapped his hands and stomped his feet to the off-key rhythm of a drunken song.
Not all found solace in music and drink. For some, every sip made them weepier than a pus-filled sore, as they struggled to find light in the darkness.
From beneath the brim of his cap, Fletcher peered upward—his sad eyes meeting the flickering flames.
“I cannot believe Arthur’s dead and I’m still alive,” he said somberly.
“I know,” Bash murmured with a heavy sigh. “Only this morning he was—”
“There’s one man to blame for all of this,” Red called out, cutting Bash off. “The blood of every fallen soldier stains his hands.”
He rose to his feet, clearly tired of bludgeoning the ground.
“Who?” I asked, unable to restrain myself from getting involved.
“Fitzroy,” Red spat the name.
He crossed the camp, crouching down to meet my face.
“The only place he can lead an army is straight to its demise.”
From nearby, a sharp tut rang out.
“Don’t speak about our commander like that,” a man snapped, dried blood flecking his cheeks. “He fought beside us, shoulder to bleeding shoulder—no less than equals.”
“That’s more than can be said for the last commander,” Godwin piped up—his marked and bloodied face looked menacing in the flamelight.
He shook his bandaged hand at Red in absolute disapproval, sparking murmurs of agreement around the fire.
The men’s loyalty to Fitzroy blazed as fiercely as the flames. For them, the son of the King could do no wrong.
Red raised his hands, palms outstretched in a gesture of innocence.
“Doesn’t change the fact that many men died today,” he muttered—his earlier fervor softening at the sight of loyal comrades.
“How can mere mortals beat magical creatures?” I asked, hoping Red would see that Fitzroy’s leadership wasn’t to blame for our plight.
Fitzroy was far from perfect, and I struggled to understand why the men admired the very traits that made him intolerable.
Yet after today, it was clear he was fighting an uphill battle—one as steep and slippery as climbing a mudslide.
“The gods favor us,” Red proclaimed, rising to his feet, chest opened heavenward as though he’d been summoned by the divine.
“Do they?” I shot back, tilting my head up to find him towering over me—his face redder than his fiery hair.
“When that ogre ripped off poor Tom’s head, do you think that happened because the gods favored him?” I asked, my tone quieter, unsettled by the crazed look in his eye.
Red folded his arms across his wide chest—jaw clenched tighter than a vise.
“These beasts get their strength from demonic deities, not gods,” he said.
“If that’s true, we should recruit a demon or two,” Fletcher said despondently—his face lost beneath his cap. “We cannot beat magic. We all know that.”
From the way the vein on his thick neck bulged, I could tell Red didn’t like that comment.
“That sounds like something a wizard would say,” Red growled—the deep and guttural noise reverberating in his throat.
With a sudden, aggressive motion, Red swatted Fletcher’s cap from his head, sending it tumbling into the claylike dirt.
Fletcher slowly rose to his feet, then inched toward Red until they were close enough to kiss.
“That sounds like something a fool would say,” Fletcher retorted. “I don’t know what you saw from the safety of the beach, but out on the ships, there were things in that water I couldn’t imagine in my worst nightmares.”
Red’s hands shot out, seizing Fletcher by the lapels and yanking him in—their noses pressed against one another’s.
“I’ve seen a lot of blood today,” Red hissed through clenched teeth. “Another pint won’t bother me.”
Fletcher remained unfazed, letting out a low chuckle that only deepened the crimson hue of Red’s cheeks.
Around the bonfire, the drunken singing and sobbing faded away, replaced by a tense silence as all eyes turned toward the brewing altercation.
With a deep inhale, Fletcher tipped his head back—then, on the exhale, slammed it forward. His skull collided with Red’s in a sickening, bone-shattering crack.
Red staggered backward, clutching his beetroot-red face and howling in pain.
Fletcher merely rubbed his brow, then bent to retrieve his cap.
Just as his fingers grazed the felt, Red’s boot stamped on it.
My heart thumped, dreading what might happen next.
But unexpectedly, Red crouched and picked up the cap, offering it like a symbol of a truce.
Fletcher snatched it back.
Just as I believed the arguing was over, Red’s hand reached out again, brushing aside Fletcher’s white fringe.
I was stunned by the sight. Beneath the strands, he hid a scar.
Red drew a deep breath. “You’ve got the mark,” he said on the exhale.
Usually, it was concealed beneath the brim of his cap, but now it was exposed.
Fletcher had the same leathery cross branded into his forehead as the outcast beggars at the Walled City.
A few men gasped—and so did I, shocked that I’d never questioned whether he was a wizard like his cousin.
“He got it for stealing, not for casting spells,” Bash said, stepping to Fletcher’s side. “We’re family, so you can trust me when I say he’s no wizard.”
Unease gripped me as Bash inserted himself into the confrontation. Red pointed a finger, darting it between the two of them.
“How do we know you’re not the same?” he demanded—his sweaty face and wild eyes making him look rabid.
Fletcher jabbed his finger back.
“I’m starting to think that you’re the wizard,” he said. “I believe you’re trying to sow suspicion among us soldiers, so our next battle’s bloodier than the last.”
Bash nodded firmly.
“Hear, hear,” he uttered—his gaze, usually gentle, now firm and piercing.
Red tucked his hands into his pocket, as if retreating from the argument. But as he turned away, I caught the glint of something shiny—possibly a blade—in his clenched fist.
“One last thing,” Red murmured, spinning back to Fletcher.
I forced myself to stand—cuts stinging—as I threw my body between them.
“No more fighting!” I yelled, my voice trembling with desperation. “Haven’t we fought enough today?”
Red hesitated, and I silently prayed he’d yield.
“You’re right, Smith,” he said, slipping the silver knife back into his pocket. “We can settle this another night.”
After casting one final glare at the white-haired men, Red retreated to the far side of the bonfire.
Fletcher sank back onto his seat, rocking back and forth—still seething.
I let out a weary sigh. Our army needed to employ magic to contend with Regina’s forces, and I was even willing to use my own abilities. But I knew no spells. And after tonight’s violent outburst, I was uncertain how to convince the men who did.
“Smith,” a knight called out across the encampment, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. “Finn Smith?”
I raised my hand. “Here.”
“His Highness would like to see you in his tent,” the knight said, gesturing for me to follow.
Bash scoffed. “The bastard cannot get enough of your company,” he muttered.
As I shrugged on my long coat, part of me wondered what I’d done wrong to warrant Fitzroy’s summons—while another part was relieved to escape the squabbles.
“Your Highness,” the knight announced as he held open the tent flap. “Finn Smith is here at your request.”
Inside, Fitzroy paced the length of his tent.
He’d shed his armor, cleaned the blood from his face, and now donned plush fur and his finest jewels.
I bowed my head in dutiful respect—assuming his ego would be bruised after the defeat.
“Wine?” Fitzroy asked, offering me a goblet filled to the brim.
Wine was an expensive luxury reserved for the wealthy, and I’d never tasted it before, so I eagerly accepted, taking a big gulp.
Swilling the liquid around my mouth, I noted its fruity flavor edged with a vinegary tang.
The wine was strong, so I sipped it slowly, waiting for Fitzroy to explain why he had summoned me.
“I wanted to thank you for the repairs on my armor,” Fitzroy said, taking my hand in a firm grip. “Your talent saved my life. You’re a great blacksmith.”
He squeezed my hand—sincere gratitude brimming in his sparkling eyes.
Though I welcomed his recognition, I’d learned that in the brutal landscape of war, it meant nothing.
“My being a good blacksmith may have saved you today, but it doesn’t guarantee tomorrow,” I said, withdrawing my hand.
Fitzroy sucked his teeth, his appreciation evaporating quicker than a pot of water upon the hearth.
“Can you not make a snide comment for once?” he asked, his tone familiar now—snarky and sharp.
“You need to use magic,” I pleaded.