A Fate of Wrath & Flame (Fate & Flame 1)

“I do not know.” Wendeline is perched on the settee, her eyes bloodshot from healing as many as she could. Four soldiers and six servants were killed by the nethertaur, another five were mauled—two far beyond the priestess’s skill. The few female aristocrats remained mostly unscathed, save for a few cuts and scratches. A wicked part of me was disappointed that I didn’t see Saoirse’s body among the heap thrown into the wagon, but I heard she leapt onto a horse and galloped away at the first sign of trouble.

Bena was among the perished. When I saw her body, I cried.

A messenger raced out to carry news to the hunting party of the attack. They arrived back to camp a half hour later, the horses’ mouths were frothing from exertion, Zander’s and Atticus’s faces pale.

Zander won’t accept Wendeline’s answer. “It went from tent to tent, as if searching for something. Or someone. Why would it do that when we had the only caster in the forest? That was intentional for that reason.”

“Maybe it sensed Clyda had been here.”

“We would have crossed paths and drawn it away.”

“There is another possibility.” She swallows. “There may be traces of Margrethe’s caster magic on Romeria. It could have somehow sensed that.”

“This long after?” he asks doubtfully.

“I am no expert in the nethertaur, so I cannot say for certain. But it’s the only reason I can think of.” Wendeline’s eyes flicker to me briefly.

Other than the truth. The beast could sense my caster magic, tucked behind whatever firewall Sofie created and bound to this ring. It came out of the forest’s depths to find me. Bena—and all those other people—died because I was there.

I tamp down the guilt. Zander must not know. Not yet. “The important thing is that it’s dead, right?” Its reeking carcass was loaded onto a wagon so that it may be hauled through Lower Market Street as a prize.

“Yes, I suppose.” Zander pauses, and a slow smile curls his lips. “And it was the future queen of Islor who defeated it. That is something to celebrate.”

The last thing I feel like doing is celebrating. “I had help.”

“Merely a finishing strike. Come.” He curls an arm around my worn, frazzled body. “You need to be at the head of that parade.”

“Stop fidgeting.”

“I haven’t moved an inch. Ow!” I wince at the sharp poke from the pin Corrin slid into my hair.

“That was the last one.” She steps back to admire her creation—a complex weave of braids and coils that pulls half my hair back while leaving the rest tumbling over my shoulder. “Go on, take a look at yourself.”

I ease out of my vanity chair and stand before the full-length mirror, shifting from side to side to appreciate the dress Dagny dropped off late last night, flustered and bleary-eyed, as if she hadn’t slept. The stitchwork is pristine, the fit flawless, the style poised and yet sexy.

If I’d known what I would be wearing it to, I would have asked her to make me a sack.

“I’ve done my best,” Corrin declares. “If the king is not pleased, it will be because you chose a style that is entirely out of fashion.”

“Since when does the king pay attention to women’s clothes?”

Corrin harrumphs.

“Besides, doesn’t the queen set trends?”

“So you are willing to play the queen now?” She smiles smugly.

I enjoy playing his queen, the one he comes to at night, the one he wakes to in the morning, unclothed and welcoming. It has been that way every night since our first together, our evenings fraught with passion, our mornings lazy and sensual repeats, before he slips out to tackle his day of kingly duties and Corrin barges through my door.

I just can never play his queen in the nymphaeum, that relentless voice in my head reminds me.

I need to tell him.

And yet every time it’s on the tip of my tongue, I bite it back, afraid it will ruin what we have.

I stretch my leg out, watching the slit part and the gauzy material cascade around my thigh. Sexy stilettos would suit this dress, but there is nothing of the sort in Princess Romeria’s closet or, dare I say, anywhere. Still, we managed to pair the dress with gray satin-and-leather heels that don’t match the color but complement it nicely. Together with the complex weave on my head, I hardly recognize myself.

I don’t know if it’ll be strong enough armor to face a day of death. “You’ve done well, Corrin.”