Page 63 of Prince of Shadow and Ash

A string of curse words rushed through Regulus’ mind as his knee smarted and blood seeped into his trouser leg. He would heal. This fight needed to end before anyone noticed. He spun and swung toward Carrick, who, as he expected, blocked the blow. Regulus pushed their swords to the side and slammed his shoulder into Carrick. Carrick stumbled back and Regulus thrust toward the gap in Carrick’s armor under his pauldron. Carrick parried, but Regulus kept moving closer, forcing him to retreat backward.

As they moved across the field, Regulus making attacks for speed, not accuracy, Carrick’s stance got weaker and less grounded. Regulus kept an eye on the terrain, and just before Carrick stepped onto an uneven patch of ground, he drew his sword back over his head, leaving himself open. Carrick did what he expected—he swung at Regulus’ shoulder. But as Carrick put his foot down and attempted to move forward into his attack, his boot caught. He faltered for the briefest moment as he regained his balance.

With every ounce of control, Regulus brought his sword down. Carrick realized too late he needed to move or block and made an attempt, but Regulus’ blade hit the side of Carrick’s helm and continued down to his shoulder. Carrick reeled, his grip on his sword slipping. Regulus pulled back his sword and thrust toward Carrick’s neck. Carrick parried, but Regulus flicked his blade in a circular binding motion and pulled against Carrick’s blade. His grip already weakened, the sword ripped out of Carrick’s hands.

Before Regulus raised his sword to Carrick’s chest, Carrick dove around him. Regulus turned as Carrick kicked the cut in the back of his knee and Regulus’ leg buckled. Pain shot up and down his leg. The cut had started to close, and the impact reopened the wound, making it feel like his flesh was sliced through all over again. He gasped and spun on Carrick, who snatched his sword off the ground. Regulus adjusted his grip on his sword and blocked a hastily thrown attack. Their swords clanged together, and Regulus moved forward, guiding his sword down Carrick’s blade. He slammed his head into Carrick’s helm.

The impact rang in his ears, made his helm vibrate against his skull. Carrick teetered and lowered his sword. Regulus slammed the pommel of his sword into the side of Carrick’s helm. A blow across Carrick’s back, and Carrick fell to his knees. Regulus put the tip of his blade against Carrick’s neck below his helm. Carrick froze. He let go of his sword and raised his hands.

Regulus swallowed against the dryness in his mouth and throat. His pulse pounded in his ears as he lowered then sheathed his sword and stepped away from Carrick. He offered his hand, but Carrick shoved it away.

“You’ll pay for this, Hargreaves.” Carrick’s voice sounded tinny and muted through his visor. “I’m not done with you.” He stomped away without removing his helm.

Regulus turned toward the spectators, his focus shifting from Carrick to the cacophony of applause, cheers...and booing. He removed his helm. Baron Carrick stood, clapping leisurely, but his expression was hard as stone. Regulus’ gaze wandered over the crowd. Many stood, some smiling and cheering. Some yelling. He looked to Adelaide. She beamed, her broad smile making her cheeks round and her eyes crinkle as she stood and applauded. Baron Carrick held out a hand and the crowd’s excitement dropped off to silence.

“The winner of this year’s Etchy Tournament’s sword competition,” Baron Carrick said, his rich baritone ringing out over the arena, “is Lord Regulus Hargreaves of Arrano.”

Most of the crowd cheered, although some jeered. The herald walked onto the field, carrying a miniature model of a knight with gold armor and a silver sword. He presented the little figure to Regulus, who accepted it with a deep bow.

Off the field, his knights greeted him with whoops and slaps on the back and shoulders. His pulse raced. He grinned and couldn’t stop. Their exuberance heightened his own soaring emotions. But Regulus locked eyes on the woman moving through the crowd toward him. He shoved his helm and the tiny knight into the hands of one of his men, he wasn’t even sure which. He pushed past them, only aware of her.

Adelaide’s smile and shining eyes made his breath come faster. He strode toward her, ignoring the congratulations of the men he walked past. He knew what he wanted to do. Grab her by the waist, spin around as he lifted her into the air, and when he put her back down, kiss her. But that would be crazy. They weren’t there. Not yet. But as they stopped, a little too close together, ideas of proper and crazy and logical and irrational blurred and then vanished. His chest tightened as he drifted toward her upturned face. His gaze drifted to her lips.

Searing pain prickled his right arm, and he winced. Her smile faded. His heart felt heavy.Not now. Why now, Etiros? Why at all?Anger rushed through him, followed by despair.

“Are you all right?” Adelaide placed her fingertips on his breastplate.

“Yes.” He forced a smile. “Just the cut on my leg.”

Her forehead wrinkled, concern in her eyes. “Is it deep? You should see the tournament physician at once.”

“It’s fine.” He took her hand off his chest and held it. “I’ve had much worse.”

Adelaide glanced at the scar on his cheek then met his eyes. “Still. Better get it stitched.” She looked like she wanted to say something else, but she pulled her hand out of his and smiled coyly. “The sooner you get that mended, the more likely you will be able to dance after supper tonight.”

She went up on her toes and planted a kiss on his unscarred cheek before he could react. His jaw went slack. He could still feel the soft, warm brush of her lips on his skin after she pulled away.

“See you tonight.” She darted away.

“Right,” he responded in a breathy whisper. “Yes.”Idiot.The mark on his arm continued to tingle. A dull pain like a minor burn. He turned and headed for his tent.

“Nowthatlooked promising,” Dresden said, walking beside him. “So where are you headed in such a hurry?”

“I need to look to my leg.” His words sounded blunter and harsher than intended.

“Oh. Right. Yes, good.” Dresden dropped his voice to a whisper as they left the crowd behind. “Got to cover that before anyone notices.” He nudged Regulus with his elbow. “And then did I hear something about dancing?”

“I don’t think I’ll be dancing.” His throat pulled taut as he spoke in a low, sharp tone.I’ll have other business to attend to.

“Reg, what’s wrong?”

He wanted to scream. To punch something, or someone. To grab the sorcerer by the neck and shove him into a brick wall. He wanted to collapse to his knees and sob. Because he had known better. Now he knew more clearly than ever. His mark had burned right as he stood on the brink of careless joy. At the edge of love. It cut through his euphoria, pulling him back, reminding him what he was.

“Reg, slow down.”

He couldn’t risk hurting her.

“Is it the mark?”

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