Battle of the Kinfolk.
Not long after sunrise, Bash and I returned to camp.
I made for the smithy straightaway, ready to offer my help with any last-minute tasks, while Bash—unable to keep his hands off me—followed close behind.
Though the camp buzzed with the chaotic energy of men preparing for war, the smithy was quiet, occupied solely by Godwin.
“Good morrow,” I said as we stepped inside. “Where’s everyone?”
“At the armory, kitting up for battle,” Godwin answered as he placed the final enchanted sword into a barrel. “There’s not enough chain mail for everyone. If you seek protection, you’d best head down there quickly.”
Wrapping his arms around the barrel, Godwin grunted as he heaved it up. “I’ll see you on the beach,” he said, his voice strained under its weight.
“See you,” I replied, watching him shuffle toward the exit.
After the tent flap closed behind him, Bash stepped closer, his hands cradling my face.
“Promise me one thing,” he murmured.
“Anything,” I said without hesitation.
He exhaled sharply. “Promise me you won’t get hurt.”
“I cannot do that,” I replied, my gaze holding his, unwavering. “I vowed never to lie to you again.”
I didn’t waste breath asking for assurances over matters beyond his control. Instead, I closed the space between us, my lips softly grazing his.
We kissed deeply—his fingertips caressing my cheeks as my hands found the dip of his lower back.
“I like you in a pair of breeches,” he mumbled against my lips, guiding my hand to his stiffening cock. “But if you were wearing a kirtle, I could easily be inside of you right now.”
Just feeling him grind against my palm unraveled every ounce of my resolve. The looming war faded entirely from my thoughts, leaving only one desire—how quickly I could get Bash inside of me.
“Take them off,” I whispered between kisses. “Hurry, we still have time.”
Bash chuckled softly, fumbling with the fastening of my breeches, his eagerness matching my own.
A sharp whistle pierced through the tent, and Bash’s hands froze.
“I thought I’d find you two in here,” Fletcher announced as he slipped through the opening, a smirk appearing beneath the brim of his cap. “Fitzroy’s looking for Smith, and we’re being called to board the ships.”
A rush of fear pierced through me—the stark realization that time had run out sank in, biting deep like unforgiving teeth.
“Thou’ll giefan thou theer meed aeft’th beadu.” I’ll give you your reward after the battle, Bash murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the worry lines etched into my forehead.
“Hwat’ll paet wesan?” What will that be? I asked, momentarily distracted.
“Swa hwaet swa theer lic lustas.” Whatever your body desires, he replied, gently squeezing my waist.
“Thee lufian thou.” I love you. I whispered the words in Yfelle, too shy to voice my deep-rooted affection in a language Fletcher would understand.
Yet I felt it—more than fear, more than anything—love.
Bash chuckled warmly. “You think you do?”
“I know I do,” I declared firmly, leaving no room for doubt.
His smile softened. “Thee lufian thou.” I love you. His gaze held mine, brimming with heartfelt meaning.
Fletcher sighed, clearly growing tired of our conversation when he couldn’t understand it. “Keep safe, Smith. Bash cannot live without you,” he remarked, rubbing his fist against my head.
“He’s not wrong,” Bash agreed, holding my jaw as he kissed me deeply one final time.
As he lingered, I savored the taste of his mouth, the warmth of his touch, and the comforting scent of his skin. His eyes, heavy with undeniable yearning, met mine before he turned to leave with Fletcher.
Following them out of the tent, I was greeted by spitting rain—an ominous prelude to the approaching tempest. Holding the locket close to my heart, I clung to a false sense of safety, reassured by the presence of Bash’s forget-me-nots.
I watched his white hair until he vanished into the crowd of soldiers marching toward the shore.
Seeking refuge from the drizzle, I made my way to Fitzroy’s royal tent.
For a moment, I hesitated outside. In the past, I would’ve slipped past the knight and burst in—relishing the thrill of catching Fitzroy off guard.
But things had changed. Although I still respected him and cared for him, I couldn’t behave in a way that would betray my loyalty to Bash.
I cherished our relationship above all else—secretly, even above winning this war.
A patrolling knight announced my arrival as I stepped inside. Fitzroy smiled, clad in gleaming armor—the very image of a king.
“You were looking for me, my liege?” I asked, bowing my head.
Fitzroy sighed. “You don’t have to call me that.”
“But that’s all you are to me—my leader,” I insisted, my voice firm. Though I harbored no lingering grudges over his past cruelties, I was now drawing clear boundaries between us.
For a long moment, he held my gaze while the only sound was the rain pattering against the canvas.
Eventually, Fitzroy nodded and said, “Slaugh appeared in my tent early this morning.” He handed me a scroll. “It’s a letter from Elizebeth detailing Regina’s every move since we left the Isle.”
I unrolled it, revealing a lengthy letter penned in such swirly calligraphy most of it was nearly illegible.
Fitzroy returned to his desk with a thud, the clatter of his plate armor creating a goose bump-inducing screech as he settled into his chair. He beckoned me over, gesturing toward the war map unfurled before him.
“Elizebeth reports that Regina intends to send her goblins inland by boat while reserving her fleet of wyverns for the fae.” His finger traced a route from a location marked “The Isle of Annwn” to another labeled “Lyonesse.” “This strategy plays to our advantage—not only because the fairies and elves fight with us, but also because, as we speak, I’ve deployed all thirty of our remaining ships.
They sail at full capacity toward Annwn to intercept the invaders before they reach Cambas.
” He pointed at the carved wooden boats placed in the channel between the two islands.
“It’s better to stop them before they set foot on our shores.
And even if some do make it across, over five hundred men await them on land. ”
He hesitated, his brow furrowing. “The troubling news is that Regina’s forged an alliance with the Emperor of the Selkies, who thirsts for my blood after I killed his daughter.
Provided the seal folk refrain from bewitching my men with their hypnotic songs as before, I trust we can defeat them.
But Elizebeth warns that Regina’s rallying the giants—fearing they, too, will fight beneath her banner. ”
“Will they fight like the ogres?” I asked, recalling how they munched through the men as though devouring a pottle of strawberries.
Fitzroy’s sharp gaze locked onto mine. “They’re smarter than those brutes.”
Before I could inquire if that worked in our favor, the tent flap flung open, revealing the relentless downpour as a knight strode in. He bowed his head respectfully, his armor glistening with raindrops.
“Your Grace, a wyvern has been spotted flying inland.”
“I’ll head for the shores at once,” Fitzroy declared, hoisting himself and his heavy armor to standing.
As I moved toward the exit, Fitzroy picked up an iron piece that lay over the back of a chair. “Here, put this on,” he ordered, presenting me with a gleaming hauberk.
I hesitated, eyeing the cumbersome chain mail. “I don’t think I—”
“I’m not asking,” Fitzroy interrupted sternly. “I’m telling you.”
“But what if I—”
“That’s an order.” The finality in his voice silenced any further protest.
With a frustrated huff, I awkwardly lifted the chain mail over my head, its cold metal links leeching warmth from my skin as they dragged past my face. The iron vest’s weight made every step feel twice as tiresome, but I no longer wished to fight with Fitzroy, so I held my tongue.
He picked up a belt and handed it to me, and I secured it around my waist. Then, he presented a sword, its hilt engraved with his initials. Taking the weapon with deliberate care, I slid the blade into the scabbard hanging on my hip.
“Come,” he commanded, holding open the tent flap and ushering me into the rain.
I trailed behind Fitzroy and his knights through the wet weather toward the shoreline.
Several hundred men—equipped in varying degrees of armor—had gathered on the beach.
As the soldiers parted to let Fitzroy pass, I followed in his wake until a hand seized my arm.
It was Finn, standing beside Godwin and a small contingent from the smithy.
Thankfully, Finn was outfitted in an assortment of metal plating and armed with a sword.
“Where have you been?” Finn demanded, his tone tinged with disappointment—as though he’d expected me to be eager for battle. “I was beginning to suspect you’d deserted.”
“I was with Fitzroy,” I replied, my gaze following the man in question as he stalked confidently down the sands, radiating power and assurance.
Finn sighed. “Of course you were.”
I held my tongue, knowing that this wasn’t the moment to kindle a quarrel with my brother. Instead, I turned my focus to the sea, watching as our ships steadily inched toward the horizon. Silently, I begged the gods to watch over Bash.
Then, suddenly, a wyvern descended from the skies, its great wings churning the air as it landed before us all. The beast’s talons raked deep trenches in the waterlogged sand before coming to an abrupt halt. As it lowered its belly toward the ground, I caught a glimmer atop its back.
Perched astride the creature was Mabina, clad in gleaming armor wrought from darkened bronze.
Beneath her plated girdle, a crimson skirt flared—its flowing elegance a striking contrast to the rigidity of her armor.
Her mousy hair, intricately braided down her back, hung heavy with rainwater, sticking to the sodden cloak that concealed her wings.