Page 67 of The King's Man 4

Didn’t she have a right to grieve, to be a mess of emotions, to make mistakes?

Hadn’t I?

I close my eyes briefly, the shadow-laced path tightening the knot in my stomach. “Is the regent after your life for letting us escape?”

“He’d try to silence me even if I hadn’t. Perhaps with more determination. A price I thought I could accept. Then.”

The rain stops, but the scent lingers, sharpens as we step through puddles, until a cool breeze overwhelms it with the salt of the coast. A rustle in the distance has us padding quietly, ears pricking for signs of danger. Branches sway under a cloudy sky. An owl hoots. Something slithers.

Someone curses.

We press ourselves behind a tree and peer around it. In the darkness, it’s hard to tell friend from foe. Do we sneak past, or—

A pained hiss. “Damn stormblades. Just wait.”

Not one of theirs, then. Someone from our side, and injured.

Megaera realises it too, her tension ebbing with an elegant roll of her shoulder. She steps out from behind the tree, chin up, eyes sharply forward. I lead the way, scuffing through damp leaves, following the scent of blood—

I stop sharply.

A violet-robed man slumps at the base of a knotty tree, one broad shoulder resting against the trunk, the other grasped in his hand as he tries to wrench it back into place. His face is gritted with pain, but there’s a steely look in his eyes—he’s seen countless battles, fierce and deadly. His long spear rests over his bent legs, the dark, deadly head surrounded by sharp nails, angled toward me like a warning. Like a reminder of the damage it can do.

The damage ithasdone.

Crusader.

Not just any crusader. I’ve seen this determined face before—in the ruins where Prince Nicostratus was held hostage. He was teaching a boy how to destroy linea meridians.

He joined the battle during our escape.

He got up after a blow from Quin, gripped his spear, and thrust it toward the king—

My stomach drops, a sick, sludgy feeling of fear, unrealised hatred, overwhelming hurt. This man robbed me of my little magic. Magic that, despite all hardships, I’d protected, nurtured, finessed. Magic that made me feel I could help in this harsh world.

“Who are you?” the crusader barks. “What’s your purpose?” His eyes slice sharply to Megaera as if sensing the magic in her veins.

He raises his spear with his good arm.

Instinct and unbridled anger surge—I kick the spear out of his grip. If he weren’t injured, he’d have resisted, but his arm is in agony, and a deep slash across his chest has soaked his shirt with blood, staining the leather meant to protect him. The spear lands in a nest of rotting leaves.

I should leave. Before I yell. Before I lash out. Before I make a fool of myself by crying.

The crusader tries again to reset his shoulder. He hisses, unsuccessful. “Don’t need weapons for the likes of you two.”

Megaera picks up the fallen spear and aims the point at his throat.

The crusader barks a laugh, but she slides the spear along his skin, and he shuts up, jaw flexing as fiercely as my clenched hands.

“We’ll do the talking, hmm?” she purrs.

His eyes flicker stubbornly, but there’s a small jump of... admiration in his brow. “Hurry. I’ve some Skeldars to settle scores with.”

“With your arm like that?” I say coolly.

“If I must.”

“What are crusaders doing so far south?”

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