Page 34 of A War of Three Kings

“I’ve worked my entire gods-damned life in an orchard, so yeah, I know a thing or two about trees!” the archer snaps back, tossing her braid over her shoulder.

“Then why is it that when I tell you to move the branches, you end up growing the roots?” Drake hisses.

“Because we didn’t know this magic was possible a day ago.” The archer throws out an arm to indicate the onlookers behind her. Their teeth are gritted, their eyes narrowed.

A man strides up to Drake with his fists balled. “How can you expect us to learn anything like this? You don’t give proper instruction! And how is this going to help us in a battle, anyway?”

My stomach bottoms out as a huge smile fills Drake’s face. I frantically try to push through a crowd that won’t give. I know that look. He is about to do something reckless.

A root flies out of the pot, rapidly growing in length and girth, until it reaches the man and strikes him across the face with an audible slap. In the same moment, the tree’s branches bend and extend until the original student is encased in a woody cage.

The entire crowd turns deadly silent in their shock, as though they hold a collective breath. In a heartbeat, they are going to be screaming that this is a fae attack.

I break into the middle of the circle right before the soldiers recover their stunned wits. “Thank you for the demonstration, Drake,” I boom, turning other heads. I point at the thrashing archer.“You can let this woman go now.”

Drake shrugs and drops the magic.

I see straight through the bravado. There is a tightness to his lips and deep shadows around his eyes that haven’t disappeared despite his better accommodation.

To these soldiers, Drake is as alien as a fae comes, with skin so bronze it is almost red, and a tattoo of an immense tree across his face in silvery lines—roots reaching across his chin, the trunk a thin line up his lips and nose, and the canopy expanding over his forehead and under his eyes.

Isee the face of a friend. A man with endless kindness.

I turn to the crowd he has drawn. “I have fought alongside these fae and witnessed them in battle. They use roots to trip or bind an enemy, and branches to skewer them. Do not underestimate this power. Imagine the implications of being able to wield earth magic in a battle that takes place in a forest or a field.”

I give Drake a few private words of thanks before I move on. He seems to be the only one who isn’t harboring a personal grudge against me.

When I ask him about it, he shrugs again. “It’s not like you knew what they were doing.”

The day drags on, the clock tower tolling the hour. It feels like we have been at this for an eternity.

I am dragged from one dispute to another, constantly intervening before one group can murder the other. The strain of all that conflict sits in the tightness of my shoulders and pain runs down my spine.

I gravitate toward Aldrin, pulled in by a riptide.

He is still teaching the basics of swordcraft enhanced with air wields. Aiden faces him within the circle of crowding bodies, his long blond hair pulled back by a leather tie. The guard listens intently as Aldrin gives him a series of instructions, a hand on his shoulder. He pulls back to demonstrate a few times.

Both men take up defensive positions, coming together in a clash of swords that send sparks flying. Aiden grits his teeth but holds his own, blade sliding away and swinging down low to catch Aldrin’s unprotected thighs.

A cocky smirk forms on Aldrin’s lips as he throws up an air shield to block it. My heart tumbles at the roguish expression and the spark in his amber eyes as he crowds the other man.

It hits me all at once. I haven’t seen Aldrin smile since he arrived in my world.

Aiden doesn’t lose a beat, continuing his attack and trying to land blow after blow, which Aldrin blocks effortlessly. A frown sets over Aiden’s delicate features, his pale blue eyes becoming stormy and the force in each of his blows escalating.

There is a change in the mood, and the crowd begins to murmur. Aiden’s speed increases until he becomes near a blur. Aldrin’s movements pick up pace to match him.

“You’re holding back on me,” Aiden pants.

“Of course I am,” Aldrin replies.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

Aldrin laughs, the sound deep and throaty. It sends tingles down my spine. The fight shifts as he goes on the attack, his sword slicing through the air at a velocity I struggle to follow. Aiden loses ground rapidly. To the guard’s credit, he stops each blow with his blade or air shield.

They are almost at the edge of the crowd when Aldrin grips his sword in two hands and makes a mighty above-shoulder swing, bringing his sword down on Aiden. The guard blocks the blow, but goes down on one knee, holding Aldrin’s position above him as more sparks fly off the blades. The grinding of metal makes a horrible screech.

Aiden throws off Aldrin’s attack, forcing him to stumble backward, then rolls out of the maneuver. As the student comesto his feet behind the master, the subtlest wield pulls out the thin layer of air between the ground and Aiden’s boots.

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