Gild (The Plated Prisoner 1)

Outside of the ballroom, I’m hauled across the entry hall, my escorts turning me in the direction of the grand staircase at the other end of the room. But before we reach it, the main doors suddenly fly open, and a soldier wearing Fulke’s armor comes sprinting in. Midas’s guards standing watch at the door shout for him to stop, but he ignores them when he spots Fulke and starts racing toward his king.

His heavy purple cloak is covered in snow and ice, his boots muddy with frozen slosh. He slips on the floor as he runs, yet he doesn’t lose his feet. “My king!”

Fulke stops with a frown. “What is the meaning of this?”

Stopping in front of us, the bedraggled soldier pants so hard he has to kneel over a bit to catch his breath before he can speak. His chest plate is crusted with frost, his face red and chapped from the wind.

“Where are you reporting from, soldier?” one of Fulke’s guards asks, stepping forward in front of the king in a defensive stance.

“Fourth Kingdom’s border, sir,” the soldier answers.

The guard frowns. “Where’s Gromes?”

He shakes his head. “The messenger was killed in action. The general attempted to send two others, but I was the only one who managed to get on the back of one of the timberwings and escape before we were shot from the sky. I flew all day and night.”

Raucous laughter from the ballroom bleeds out as a few of the party-goers come stumbling into the hall, hands groping, unaware of their surroundings.

Midas comes striding toward us a second later with six of his own guards—of course it’s six—including Digby. He takes

one look at Fulke’s messenger, and a grim look crosses his face.

“Come. Speak in private this way, away from the ears and eyes of revelers,” Midas says, nodding his head in the direction of the letter room off to the left. I’m hoping to slip away, but the guards don’t let me go. Instead, I’m hauled down a short hallway, away from the staircase, and our group files into the room.

The space holds a few scattered tables and chairs, while parchment, candles, ink bottles, wax, and quills are piled up for anyone to use to write their letters and send them off.

The door is closed behind us, shutting me in with two kings and ten guards between the two of them.

The messenger doesn’t look any more composed than he was when he first burst in through the doors. If anything, he’s breathing even harder now, his eyes shifting nervously around the room as he positions himself behind one of the golden tables.

“Well?” King Fulke demands. “I want to know why my messenger is dead and why you’ve been sent here from the border.”

The messenger’s hands shake slightly. Whether it’s from nervousness or exhaustion, I don’t know. “My king, if I could speak to you in private…”

But Fulke’s dark eyes narrow on his request. “Are you a traitor, soldier? Did you defect?”

The messenger’s eyes go wide. “What? No, sire!”

“Then explain yourself!” Fulke demands, crashing his fist onto the table, making both me and the messenger flinch.

Somber resolve settles in the man’s face, though he grips the hilt of his sword. “As soon as your army breached Fourth’s border, King Ravinger’s men attacked. Your entire fleet was decimated, sire.”

King Fulke’s brows pull together. “You are mistaken. Our troops broke through Fourth’s line earlier this morning. We took Cliffhelm. Our joined armies with Sixth’s were victorious. Fourth was caught completely off guard. Our negotiations are already in place.”

The messenger darts a look around the room, eyes landing on a stoic, expressionless Midas before returning to Fulke. “No, Your Majesty.”

“No?” Fulke repeats, as if he’s never heard the word before. “What do you mean, no?”

“We—we didn’t take Cliffhelm. Ravinger’s training outpost there was full of soldiers. We never even breached the walls before they were on us.”

One of Fulke’s guards curses, Fulke’s fists tightening at his sides. “You’re saying my entire division was taken out?”

The messenger hesitates. “Yes, Your Majesty, and…”

King Fulke picks up one of the ink bottles and sends it hurtling against the wall, the glass shattering, ink splattered and dripping. “And what?” Fulke fumes. “Spit it out!”

Something is wrong here. Very, very wrong. They were celebrating. Their plan was victorious. My brows pull together in a frown as my mind whirls. What happened between then and now? How could such misinformation be passed to the kings earlier? Or is this soldier lying? But if so...for what purpose?

The messenger grips the hilt of his sword tighter under the scowl of his king, and I’m not the only one who notices. “What are you doing, soldier?” King Fulke’s guard asks, tone heavy with suspicion as he reaches for his own blade.