Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Zander’s body sinks with relief as Abarrane emerges from behind a boulder, her bow slung over her shoulder, her sword gripped in her palm. The warrior limps through the long grass toward us with a confidence that defies the gashes marring her sinewy body and the caked blood that has turned her wheat-colored hair dark. A tourniquet holds a ghastly wound on her thigh closed. Will it be another scar to add to her collection, the most prominent being the long, thin one that trails her hairline from her forehead to her earlobe?
I never thought I’d be happy to see the brackish Islorian.
“That is for doubting me.” She taps the shallow cut on Elisaf’s bare skin with the flat of her sword blade, smearing the bright red line of blood.
Elisaf winces. “Lesson learned.”
Zander assesses her injuries with a quick head-to-toe glance. “How many of you are there?”
Her expression turns grim. “Nineteen, including myself.”
I have no idea how many were in the Legion originally, but the muscle in Zander’s jaw ticks, telling me there were significantly more. “Where are they?”
“We’ve set up camp a mile south, ready to pick off any enemy who ventures in.” Sharp eyes swing to me, and I can’t help but shrink at the way they harden. Abarrane has always terrified me, from the first moment I faced her in the king’s war room, when she threatened torture to exact answers I didn’t have. But she also didn’t flinch at defending me as we ran from a charging army in the square. But that was because Zander ordered her. Where Boaz was for the crown, Abarrane and the elite guard she commands are for the man whose head it should adorn. Her unwavering loyalty to him is admirable.
But she’d also skin me alive if Zander asked it of her, and a very dark part would enjoy doing it.
Whatever reservations Abarrane may have for me, when her attention shifts to the river’s edge, raw fury collects in her features. “What is one of Queen Neilina’s witches doing in Islor?” she spits, her hand gripping the pommel of her sword. It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone use that name for a caster, and it’s obviously not meant as a compliment.
“This is Caster Gesine,” Zander introduces. “As for what she is doing in Islor, we will learn the truth of that soon.”
As we close in on the Legion’s camp, I see why Abarrane prefers this area. The canopy of looming trees grants shelter while the river provides ample water for horses and warriors alike. Sheer rock walls drop along the west and south sides, limiting ambush opportunities and allowing a clear view of the valley below, so they can kill their enemy with arrows one by one.
A curt whistle sounds, and Abarrane responds with one of her own.
Movement from the corner of my eye draws my attention to my left where a legionary stands not twenty feet away. The nocked arrow he had aimed at us is leveled toward the ground.
Aimed at me, I realize, as I take in that cold, predatory stare, reminding me of Sofie’s henchmen, the two men who slaughtered Korsakov’s entire security team on the night that started all of this. Does this legionary agree with Atticus that Islor would be better off without me?
How many of them feel the same?
In all my time in Cirilea, I’ve only met a few of these fierce warriors, trained by Abarrane herself. While the encounters were brief, everything inside told me that if one of them ever had reason to kill me, I was as good as dead.
The poison coursing through my veins is plenty reason to make it happen. What would they do if they knew what else thrummed in this body, waiting for release? Would the order of an exiled king be enough to stay their blades?
Zander’s earlier warning—to assume everyone is an enemy—has me shifting closer to his side as we head into camp.
“Zorya,” Elisaf says in soft greeting, handing off our horses’ reins to a warrior with lengthy auburn hair tied off in braids and a bloody rag secured diagonally across one eye. “How bad is it?”
“Merth blade.” Her voice is emotionless.
Elisaf grimaces, his pat of comfort landing on the female warrior’s shoulder. “I am sorry.”
“He paid for it with his life, though I wish I could have had more time taking it from him.” Zorya’s good eye shifts from Elisaf to Zander. She bows her head. “Your Highness.” She peers at me but offers no greeting. The narrowed gaze she gives Gesine before she leads the horses away is downright menacing.
“That is unfortunate. She was one of our best fighters,” Zander says somberly.
“Zorya is still one of our best fighters.” Abarrane glares at him as if daring to suggest otherwise is a personal affront. She leads us past a bearded warrior who wipes blood and gore from his sword. Her limp grows more pronounced, the cloth bandage glistening with fresh blood despite her attempts to stifle it. That injury is far more serious than she’s letting on.