Page 50 of The Savage Queen

“Let’s not waste our time lingering,” he said, his voice dripping with malice.

“They’re training, aren’t they?” Aisling ignored him, asking her question instead. “For the tests?”

Fionn exhaled. “It appears that way.”

“Have you given them any indication as to the format of the tests?”

Fionn licked his lips. “The night before the first two tests, I gift a clue. It’s up to the discretion of the player to either successfully deduce the contents of the first two tests or fail. The last test, my challenger enters blind. Otherwise, they’re given no further information.”

“What was the clue for the first test?”

Fionn spoke it, although reluctantly. “Cruachan.”

Cruachan. The word meant nothing to Aisling. It sounded western, but otherwise, it was useless information.

“Does every test require physical combat?”

“No,” Fionn said, quickly losing patience. “But enough questions, let’s continue on.”

Fionn wrapped his arm around Aisling’s waist, pulling her close until she fell into step beside him. A gentle nudge, encouraging her away from the overlook.

At his touch, Lir’s eyes flared. The mischievous arrogance of his knife-sharp smile swiftly became more dangerous, laced with brutal intent.

Lir made certain Aisling was watching before he spun on his heel and threw an axe at the statue of Fionn. The blade cutthrough stone, severing the head from the rest of the sculpture. It thwacked and split against the cobbles, rolling away with a gathering of foxes chasing after it in horror.

Aisling didn’t turn to see Fionn’s reaction. She felt it in the way his hand hardened against her waist.

Lir, on the other hand, turned to meet Aisling’s eyes, not a word except for a wicked quick wink.

CHAPTER XIII

DAGFIN

Dagfin was starving. Not for food or drink. Only Ocras.

His body was slowing, screaming at theFaerakto feed it what it craved and yet, what was left of his supply was stripped from his person when they were first captured by Fionn.

And times like these, when the hunger was at its worst, was when Dagfin remembered her voice.

“You don’t want this, prince. It may look glamorous, heroic even, but the gauntlet of theFaerakis a curse.”

It had looked heroic. That day, the sound of Roktling was deafening. The screams of undiluted joy when the myths of werewolves on the periphery of their coastal kingdom were, at long last, ended by the heroine crowned by scars and riding into Roktling on an ivory mare. The corpse of some nightmarish beast slung over the rump of her mount.

“If I wanted glamor or heroism, I’d accept the Roktan crown today. I want to make a difference. I want to fight,” he’d said,biting back tears. Praying this strange woman saw him as a man and not a boy running from his legacy.

“Join your father’s fleets then,” she’d said, counting the coin Feradach had paid her before spinning on her heel to leave. “Forge knows they’ll need every pair of hands they can get.”

Dagfin ran to catch up with her, grabbing her jacket. It flashed open, revealing a bandolier shimmering with powder-filled bottles.

TheFaerakripped her jacket from Dagfin’s grasp. Nostrils flaring in annoyance.

“If you weren’t a prince, you wouldn’t still be standing before me.”

“Take me with you.”

TheFaerak’s expression muddled, considering Dagfin more closely this time. As though she hadn’t anticipated another attempt on the Roktan prince’s behalf to flee his crown.

“The life of aFaerakis one chasing ghosts. Nightmares the world hardly knows are anything more than either myth or legend yet terrorize them all the same. We live coin to coin, on the brink of death, for blood and hushed victory. What you saw as I entered Roktling this morning, isn’t common, prince. This isn’t a life anyone asks for. Especially someone like you.”

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