Chapter 3
We stop at the first town we find after our run-in with the corpse wolves. The locals watch us warily from behind shuttered windows. There aren’t any healers here, so one guard mercifully helps pop my dislocated shoulder back into place. The pain and bruising will go away with time.
We don’t stay long. After a fretful sleep and a bowl of lukewarm porridge, we purchase another horse and ride off before the townspeople grow brave enough to ask questions.
Like why I’m covered in mud and nursing a sore shoulder.
Or why a twenty-four-year-old woman is being escorted through the kingdom by armored guards.
The news of the corpse wolves will have to stay quiet until I can tell Father myself.
It takes three hot, miserable weeks to reach the capital city of Caerwen using the main roads. Not long enough. Not when the destination is home.
The grand, copper-plated gate shimmers like a mirage in the late-summer heat. As we draw nearer, it looms impossibly tall over the dusty road. It’s an entrance worthy of the kingdom’s wealthiest citizens, protecting them and their riches from the outside world.
As we pass through Caerwen’s famous market, vendors call for our attention. They buzz about stalls bursting with produce, handmade earthenware, and sumptuous textiles. Enormous, steaming pots of rice smell of spices and herbs.
“Fresh figs from the southern orchards!” one cries. “Silk smooth as a lover’s touch!” yells another.
Their stalls form a labyrinth of treasures, from pyramids of sun-ripened fruit to glittering jewelry that catches the light. Bolts of fabric shimmer alongside threads made from the finest fibers. I’d almost forgotten how many colors there are in the world after years in the muddy borderlands.
Even so, Caerwen’s true nature lingers around the edges of the market, like the gray haze around a white cloud.
As we pass darkened alleys, men rut against women with vacant eyes, and drunkards piss against the stone walls.
Guards watch for pickpockets and beggars alike, to keep the “rats” away from the market.
From seemingly nowhere, my father’s King’s Guard materializes. They move with practiced efficiency, falling into formation around us without a word. Their presence parts the crowd like sharp shears through silk.
Of course my father already knows I’m in the city. He knows everything. So much has changed in my three-year absence and yet so much remains the same.
Their copper-plated armor glints in the sunlight, like the shells of iridescent beetles. I’d once asked my father why our family’s color was copper. He’d stilled and said, “Because copper is the color of a fox. Thus, it is the color of the family that sits on the Fox Throne.”
Of course, that wasn’t good enough for me. “But why make your men wear copper-plated bronze, when everyone knows iron and steel are stronger?”
He’d narrowed his eyes and said, “Because a Fox Soldier does not need stronger armor. Their training is strength enough.”
And that was that. The Fox King isn’t the sort of father that suffers the ignorant questions of a child.
All around me, the market chaos fades as people notice the King’s Guard and recognize me. Whispers ripple through the crowd.
“The heir,” they murmur, their eyes wide. Some bow, while others shrink back, unsure what to do in the presence of the most notorious royal in the kingdom.
I keep my gaze forward, fighting the urge to deflate under their scrutiny. The weight of my return settles over me, as tangible as the humid air that clings to my skin. With each step toward the palace, I feel my borderland life slipping away.
When we arrive at the stables, I dismount with as much grace as I can muster. My thighs burn from days in the saddle and my rear feels bruised, but I won’t grimace. I won’t give any of my father’s thugs the satisfaction of knowing my discomfort.
Grooms rush forward to take the reins of our horses in calloused hands.
Chickens with rust-colored feathers scatter in panicked bursts, narrowly avoiding the path of hooves and mud-caked boots.
The air is thick with the pungent mixture of horse sweat, fresh hay, and manure.
It’s a welcome mess compared to the blood-soaked tents of the borderlands.
I hear the heavy footsteps of someone walking toward me. My heart sinks as I straighten my posture to face my father, but it isn’t who I expect. I do a double-take.
A tall, blond man around my age grins down at me. His copper-plated armor makes him look like some prince from the fairytale books I used to love as a child. A knight in shining armor in the midst of the grimy stable yard.
“Hunter?” I ask, the name catching in my throat.
All chaos seems to fade into the background for a moment.
I’m suddenly acutely aware of how disgusting I am.
My cloak, once a deep forest green, is splattered with days-worth of mud.
The pungent mix of horse and sweat make me smell no better than the pigs in the sty just outside the stables.
Hunter surprises me by lifting me up into an enormous hug, spinning me quite literally off my feet.
“You’re crushing me!” I laugh.
He sets me down, but keeps his hands on my waist. “Sienna. Sienna. Sienna.” He won’t stop grinning. It’s a handsome grin, I’ll give him that.
“I hardly recognized you,” I lie. Gone is the gawky boy who used to hide away with me in the library. This man is two feet taller and at least twice as broad. His windswept hair glints like gold in the sunlight, but I’d recognize those warm, brown eyes anywhere.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” he says, joking. His voice is deeper than I remember, more man than boy now.
My eyes drift down to the armor. The last time I saw him, he refused to join his father in the King’s Guard, now he’s dressed head to toe in copper.
I raise an eyebrow. “So …?”
“It’s different.”
“That’s an understatement.” I bite my lip, not sure if too much time has passed for me to ask all the questions flooding my brain right now.
He grimaces. “You’re wondering what the hell happened to me.”
I nod. “You could say that.”
Hunter shrugs, causing his armor to clang slightly.
“It’s just,” I start. “Your father …”
“He won,” he says, with only a touch of bitterness. “In the end, he always gets his way.”
I really could have guessed as much, from the look of him, but it hurts to hear all the same.
“Fathers tend to have that effect on people,” I say.
He nods.
I remember when we used to hide in the royal library to escape our fathers.
Given that I’m the one who ran away, I have no right to feel a pang of nostalgia for our youth, but I do.
We’d spend days hiding in the darkest aisles with only the glow of our own light to read by.
I’d lose myself in the histories of Llwyn, reading about my ancestors who ruled with immense strength and power.
Power that has since diluted in our bloodline, much to my father’s disappointment.
Hunter always preferred stories with dashing knights saving lovely damsels, but he never thought he could be one. His father, Commander Malen, was one of my father’s most trusted advisors. Still is, I assume. He was always the fastest, the strongest, the smartest man in any room.
He never let Hunter live it down that he, well, wasn’t.
A blush creeps up Hunter’s neck, staining his cheeks pink. “It’s ... after you left, I ...” Hunter’s voice falters, and for a moment, I see a flicker of the boy I knew—uncertain, abashed.
Suddenly, I’m confronted with all the damage I left behind.
All the hurt I must’ve caused him is just below the shiny surface.
The air feels thick, charged with unspoken accusations and apologies.
We stand there, two strangers wearing the faces of old friends, not entirely sure how we ended up here.
“It’s ok. I’m here now.” I put my hand on his tall shoulder. “You can tell me all about it when the time is right.”
His smile returns. I forgot how much I missed that good-natured grin. As different as Hunter may be from the boy I remember before I left, that, at least, is the same.
Hunter nods toward the palace door. “Are you ready?” he asks, his brows furrowed.
“Am I being summoned already?”
He gives me a knowing look.
Behind us, a horse whinnies and kicks a stall door. I flinch. The sound makes me think of the corpse wolves, of Nell’s final shrieks echoing through the darkened woods, and of the horrible news I have to deliver to my father.
I sigh, resigned. “I’m glad he sent you to drag me to his chambers instead of one of his thugs.”
Hunter’s grin wavers slightly and I realize my mistake. When we were young, we used that term for the King’s Guard, the knights appointed to protect the royal family and do my father’s bidding. Only now he’s one of them.
“Sorry,” I say, flushing. “Old habit.”
He lets me off the hook. “I get it. And …” He stops me with a gentle hand on my arm. “I’m glad you’re back. Truly.”
I just nod because I’m not sure that I am.
We walk forward, memory guiding me down the familiar path.
Hunter pivots toward the servants’ halls, understanding that I don’t want to be seen by the entire court yet.
I’m sure the nobles would have fits if the heir traipsed through the great hall smelling of horse and looking like crumpled laundry.
I’m thankful for this small mercy. It gives me a few more minutes to gather courage to face them all, the people I ran out on three years ago without a word of explanation. I grimace, thinking of all their nosey questions and judgmental glances. But first, I must face my father, the Fox King.