Reign

The Isle of Annwn.

I followed Fitzroy through the relentless drizzle, the rain soaking through my coat until it clung to my skin.

Yet the weight of my drenched garments didn’t burden me more than my heavy heart.

Raindrops pattered softly against the foliage, while the wind rustled the canopy of leaves above.

I was thankful for the noises of nature, which masked my self-pitying sniffles.

Fitzroy guided me to a dark, rocky cave, its entrance hollowed out from weathered stone amid the swaying trees. He beckoned me forward, disappearing inside the pitch-black cavern. I followed, taking sanctuary from the rain beneath the gleaming stalactites.

“What are you looking for?” I whispered.

“A secret tunnel to the Isle,” Fitzroy replied, his voice echoing off the jagged walls.

“Really?”

Fitzroy tittered as he shook his head. “Of course not. Whenever I forget your astonishing lack of wit, you utter something that serves as a stark reminder of how truly idiotic you are.”

I didn’t retaliate. My self-loathing appreciated his insult.

“Fyre leoht wesan tou laedan leoht. Schew me what thou’me secan fowr oeniht.” Will-o’-the-wisps be my guiding light. Show me what I am searching for tonight, he intoned.

Fitzroy’s hands illuminated in a violet hue, but even his glowing palms couldn’t unveil the full scale of the vast cave. As drops of water rhythmically plinked against the sediment, I waited for the purpose of his incantation to manifest—but nothing happened.

With a resigned sigh, Fitzroy’s hands dimmed. “I tell him to stay, but he never listens,” he muttered under his breath.

“Who?” I asked.

“Greyclaw.”

I shook my head, not knowing what that meant. “Greyclaw?”

“My wyvern,” Fitzroy replied.

My breath hitched in my throat. “You own a wyvern?”

Fitzroy nodded. “Since the day I was born.” His tone was alarmingly nonchalant for someone mentioning their ownership of a magical creature. “He was a gift.”

“From whom?”

“My aunt.”

“Regina?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” he said, rolling his eyes as he stepped out of the cave, ignoring my shock.

I marched after him. “Don’t you find that unusual?”

Fitzroy shook his head, spraying me with the rainwater that soaked his hair. “Regina and my mother were well acquainted. Both attended the royal court for many years—even before my father legitimized me, Regina often visited my mother and me.”

“Why have you never mentioned this?”

“It’s unimportant,” Fitzroy muttered, indifferent. He climbed onto the trunk of a fallen tree and shielded his eyes from the drizzle with his hand.

A frustrated laugh escaped me. “Are you foolish? A woman banished from the kingdom gifted you a wyvern, and now you plan to ride it over to her Isle to negotiate peace talks. What if she hears prophecies like Emma, and has been planning this since the day you were born?”

Fitzroy leapt down from the trunk, stalking toward me until he loomed overhead.

“Please don’t state the obvious like you were the first person to think it,” he snapped, peering down his nose at me.

“Regina’s powerful beyond your comprehension.

Every move she makes is calculated meticulously using her gifts.

” He finished his humbling speech by raising a condescending eyebrow.

I nodded, agreeing with his words. For someone like me, naive to the vast possibilities of magic, Regina was unfathomably formidable.

“Why aren’t you rebutting?” Fitzroy asked. “Let me hazard a guess—you’re upset about the carpenter?”

“No,” I lied.

“If something troubles you, you can confide in me,” he said, taking my shoulder in his hand.

I wasn’t used to sharing my burdens, but the ache in my chest from heartbreak pushed me to seek his counsel—even if all he could offer was comfort.

Clearing the sadness from my throat, I tried to steady my quivering voice. “If I’m honest, I’m heart—”

“Ah!” Fitzroy interrupted, his concern vanishing as his gaze swept over my head to something in the distance. “There he is!”

He waded through the long grass toward Greyclaw, who lay sleeping among wildflowers and moss. Fitzroy’s blatant disregard for my despair was rude—I should have left him to venture to Annwn alone. Yet the glimmer of affection in his eyes at the sight of Greyclaw distracted me from my anguish.

“He’s the dopiest creature I’ve ever met,” Fitzroy said, stroking Greyclaw’s scaly belly. “Most domesticated wyverns bond with one rider, but Greyclaw will take anyone above the clouds. Despite his stupidity, I’m rather fond of him.”

I recognized the iridescent sheen on Greyclaw’s wings.

He was the beast Bash and I had once ridden together.

Warmth spread through me as I recalled soaring through the midnight sky, but my memory soured as I remembered Bash’s betrayal-stricken face when he learned the truth.

Shaking my head, I wished desperately to erase that once fond memory.

Fitzroy hoisted himself onto Greyclaw’s thick neck, seizing the reins firmly in his hands. “Come on,” he called.

Clinging to the wyvern’s spikes, I struggled to pull myself up.

Fitzroy grew impatient with my feeble footing and weak arms, grabbing the collar of my coat and hauling me with great effort.

While Fitzroy struggled, Bash would’ve lifted me effortlessly.

I sighed sadly, trying to forget the muscles that bulged from his arms. Bash’s strength was no longer my concern.

Finally managing to swing my leg over, I mounted Greyclaw behind a panting Fitzroy. Unsure whether I should cling to him for safety or anchor myself to the wyvern, I hesitated.

“Fleoge, Greyclaw.” Fly, Greyclaw, Fitzroy commanded.

The wyvern strode swiftly through the trees as I wrapped my arms tightly around Fitzroy’s waist, fearing I might fall off.

We ascended quickly, breaking through the foliage into the sky. Below us, dense clouds obscured the realm until, as the Isle drew closer, the gray mist parted to reveal flickering beacons ahead.

A silhouette darted across the horizon, followed by several more amorphous shadows.

As the figures drew closer, their outlines sharpened into wyverns ridden by goblins.

They circled us; a spiked tail narrowly missed perforating my face.

Panicked, I buried my head against Fitzroy’s back, clinging to him with all my might as Greyclaw swooped between the defenders.

Fitzroy gasped. “By the blood of the gods.”

Peering over his shoulder, I saw a serpentine shape slithering through the sheet of rainfall. Its powerful wings, larger than a ship’s sail, beat rapidly as it approached. This wyvern miniaturized Greyclaw—if it attacked, the three of us would be dead.

Saddled on the giant wyvern’s neck, a cloaked figure let out an ear-ringing howl. The goblins retreated, and Fitzroy followed, descending quickly toward the stone fortress.

Greyclaw folded his wings, angling his talons toward the wall walk. His claws scraped along the weathered parapet, creating sparks as he secured himself a perch.

The forceful downdraft from the giant wyvern nearly knocked me off Greyclaw’s neck. Masonry crumbled under the weight of the beast as it landed beside us. It released a feral screech, showing its lethal fangs as fire burned at the back of its throat.

Fitzroy aided my dismount just as the cloaked figure approached.

“Name yourselves,” the stranger growled, his voice as coarse as sand.

Towering over us, the hooded figure gripped the hilt of his sheathed sword with his hairy hand, waiting warily for our introductions.

Fitzroy stepped forward, puffing his chest with self-assurance. “I’m Fitzroy Belfour, seeking an alliance with my aunt, Regina.” His tone was firm, yet amicable.

The man lowered his hood, revealing a startling face. His long, doglike snout sat beneath pointed ears that crowned his head. Standing upright on two legs, he was a haunting blend of man and wolf—unlike anything I’d ever seen.

“Wolver,” the wolfman introduced himself, his sharp fangs flashing as he extended a clawed hand toward Fitzroy. They shook briefly before he turned his open palm toward me.

“Niamh Smith,” I said, taking his hybrid hand politely. His textured, paw-like grip reminded me of Dog.

“We mistook you for invaders,” Wolver explained. “The Queen recognized your silver wyvern as one she had gifted many moons ago and assumed it was her nephew, though I remained cautious.”

Before I could question Regina’s intentions, Wolver prowled toward the gatehouse.

“Follow me,” he said. “Let’s take shelter from the rain.”

Wolver ducked beneath the rusting portcullis, and I wondered if his floor-length cloak hid a bushy tail.

As we entered the castle, Fitzroy marched confidently beside the wolfman while I trailed nervously behind.

He led us down a narrow, winding staircase that opened into a broad hallway.

Flickering torches cast an orange hue across the stone walls and lit our path.

“Excuse me!” a diminutive figure exclaimed as she almost headbutted my hip.

She scuttled down the hallway, barefoot on the chilling tiles, wearing humble gray rags and balancing mounds of fresh linens in her tiny arms.

“Pay no mind to the goblins and goblinettes—they take their servitude very seriously,” Wolver grumbled.

“Wolver,” a raspy, aged voice vibrated through the hall.

I glanced over my shoulder but saw no one.

“I can take it from here,” the voice called again—this time from directly below me.

Looking down, I beheld another goblin clad in a red doublet and breeches, with a matching cap perched atop his small head. His wrinkled face stared upward as he blinked rapidly, his eyes clouded as though shrouded in fog.

“Billy the Blind, adviser to the Queen,” he said, tapping the daisy-shaped pin fastened to his doublet’s breast. “Her Highness regrets that she’s unable to receive visitors on this eve, but invites you both to join her Unseelie Court on the morrow.”

“We’d be honored,” Fitzroy replied, tilting his head slightly.

I mimicked the gesture, uncertain if it was customary.

“Bronwyn?” Billy called.

A goblinette appeared beside him, her black pigtails framing sallow skin. She wore what resembled an old pillowcase, cinched at the waist with a shoelace.

“Master Billy,” she squeaked, giving him a curtsy.

“Show Prince Fitzroy, and…” Billy hesitated.

“Niamh Smith,” I interjected quickly.

“…Lady Niamh to their chambers. Run them hot baths, arrange dry clothes, and be at their beck and call.”

“Of course, Master Billy.” Bronwyn gave him a curt nod. “Follow me.”

We trailed Bronwyn through a labyrinth of passageways, eventually arriving in the keep where the private chambers were located.

“This will be your chamber, Lady Niamh,” Bronwyn announced, her voice strained as she heaved open the heavy wooden door.

I stepped inside and froze, awestruck by the grandeur.

The high ceilings adorned with geometric carvings contrasted sharply with the exposed wooden beams. Ornate tapestries depicting magical creatures in mid-hunt decorated the stone walls.

Drawn to the crackling warmth of the fireplace, my attention was captivated by an arched stained-glass window that glimmered dreamily in the moonlight.

“I’m staying here?” I asked, marveling at the opulence.

“If this chamber is to your liking,” Bronwyn replied.

Running my fingers over the intricately carved floral designs on the mantelpiece, I was stunned by the craftsmanship.

“It’s very much to my liking,” I said, squealing in glee. “I’ve never seen a bedchamber this grand!”

Underfoot, the flooring changed from hard boards to something soft and cushiony.

Beneath my boots was a thick fur rug, and upon that sat a four-poster bedstead, draped in velveteen curtains and topped with a canopy.

Flanking the bedstead were gilded tables adorned with candlesticks flickering atop them.

At the foot was a chaise lounge upholstered in sumptuous fabric.

“I should take you to the King’s palace,” Fitzroy said, amused by my delight. “You’d surely faint.”

I caught my reflection in an oval-shaped mirror mounted above a marble vanity. Clad in Fitzroy’s large coat and Finn’s old, fraying breeches, I looked more like a vagabond than someone fit to dwell in this chamber.

“Am I right to assume you’ll be attending the Queen’s Unseelie Court on the morrow?” Bronwyn asked, breaking my reverie.

I nodded enthusiastically. “I’m never leaving,” I declared—and in that moment, I meant it.

Fitzroy laughed. “You’ve yet to taste the food. You might not like it.”

At the mere mention of food, my belly gargled audibly. “It has to taste better than pottage.”

“Are you hungry, Lady Niamh?” Bronwyn asked. “Shall I have food brought to you? Would you like a bath tonight or would you prefer it on the morrow? Or is there something else you require?”

Yawning, my exhaustion finally catching up with me, I shook my head. “All I desire tonight is sleep.”

Bronwyn bowed. “I’ll arrange for clothing to be brought to you. Will you require assistance when dressing, Lady Niamh?”

“No, thank you. And I’m not a lady—just Niamh.”

“Very well, just Niamh. If you need anything, ring the bell,” Bronwyn said, pointing to a chain that hung beside the door. “Prince Fitzroy, allow me to show you to your chamber—just down the hall.”

Fitzroy nodded, glancing back at me as he made his exit. “If you need me, you know where I’ll be,” he said.

I nodded, ushering him out of my chamber, knowing the only thing I wanted was a night of undisturbed sleep.

Once alone, I collapsed onto the luxurious pile of decorative pillows and silken sheets.

The soft bedding cradled me like I was on a cloud.

I kicked off my boots and shrugged off my coat before crawling beneath the woolen blankets.

Cocooned in the bedclothes, fleeting thoughts of Bash flickered through my mind, but I was too tired to dwell on them.

Nestling into a comfortable position, I surrendered to slumber, too exhausted even to dream.