Page 9 of The Shifter's Queen

“Tell him I will meet with him within the hour. Make sure he brings his daughter with him,” he ordered, his eyes still focused on the direction Elizabeth had fled.

“Yes, sire,” Bobbin replied.

Already lost in thoughts of Elizabeth, he dismissed Bobbin and turned back toward the gazebo. He noticed the supple, scarred leather satchel, its worn strap dangling from the back of the chair. He climbed the steps and walked over to the table. He swallowed, running his fingers over the waxed paper left from their meal.

The satchel felt heavy in his hands as he opened it, curious about what Elizabeth had packed. Inside were three books, a leather pouch filled with charcoals and colored pencils, and a journal bound by a leather band containing pristine parchment paper. He tugged the bundle free from its hiding place and carefully untied the string, its rough texture familiar against his fingertips. The pages of flowing manuscript were filled with delicate, artistic strokes, each letter carefully crafted on the soft, fibrous paper, creating a tapestry of words. Whimsical creatures, painted with the vibrant strokes of a master artist, leaped from the page, their breathtaking images bringing the tales to life.

The weight of the treasure in Or’Ang’s hand brought an ache to his chest, reminding him of the enchanting woman who had shared her meal with him and filled his afternoon with warmth and laughter. Sinking down into the chair, he was soon captivated by the story of a human, shrunk to the size of a seamstress’s thimble, discovering the enchanting world where creatures, both make-believe and real, lived, their tiny voices whispering secrets in his ear.

The friends she had made, her deepening love for the shifter king, and the ever-present threats they faced all made him laugh, a testament to their resilience in the face of adversity. The words on the page seemed to radiate a comforting glow, filling him with a sense of warmth that grew with each sentence he read.

No one can write something this beautiful and hold greed and malice in their heart, he thought.

He meticulously returned the pages to their well-worn binder, the leather soft beneath his fingers, and tied the string back into a perfect bow. His hand lingered on the cover, lost in the memory of her blood's metallic sweetness, a taste that was nothing compared to the intoxicating sweetness of her lips against his.

He gently placed the journal back in the satchel, his fingers lingering on the worn leather, before glancing at the titles of the books within. The kingdom’s future queen reveled in stories that painted vivid pictures of love, magic, and exciting journeys. A low, deep, joyous laugh, like a rumbling brook, slipped from him as he clutched the bag and rose. The sight of the garden before him, bursting with life, ignited a spark of determination in his eyes.

“’Tis will be a magical story made for legends, my beautiful Elizabeth. A tale of love between an enchanted shifter king and the gentle, yet adventurous human who is destined to be his queen.”

The intimate insight into Elizabeth ignited a spark in him, filling him with energy as he raced down the steps. His laughter, a joyous sound that hadn't been heard in years, filtered through the trees, eliciting a flurry of chirps and flutters from the birds in the branches as they poked their heads out, curious about the sudden outburst. Outside the walled garden, an old otter shifter stopped, his keen ears pricked up, a grin spreading across his furry face as he listened to the unfamiliar laughter drifting from the Queen's garden, a beautiful, whimsical laughter filled with joy that piqued his curiosity. He continued his journey homeward, the smell of freshly baked bread, a mix of sweetness and warmth, filling the air and reminding him of his own love that awaited him when he got home.

Chapter 5

Elizabeth bent over the fire and stirred the ladle in the pot of soup she had prepared. Her father, animated by his day in the village, was regaling her with tales of the trades he had made. Distracted, she responded when he paused.

She wrapped a cloth around the hot handle of the pot and lifted it. Carrying the pot to the cart, she placed it on the back before carefully scooping out the contents into two bowls. The soup was a mixture of vegetables they had harvested along their journey. She added a large piece of fresh bread her father had returned with as payment for some herbal medicine she had made. The simple meal would help warm them against the frigid temperatures rolling in off the ocean.

The cart was both their transportation and their home. Covered by a thick canvas that had been treated with bees wax and ash, it provided them protection against the rain and winds. Sheaths of cloth, stuffed with moss, gave them a soft bed and the thick quilts her mother had made kept them snug at night.

Her father had fashioned built in storage along the inside that protected their few material goods and the items he traded. A hidden compartment, cleverly added under the seat as a false bottom, hid the few coins they had and other personal valuables. She studied the interior with a wave of regret. The spot where she kept her satchel was empty. In her haste to escape her embarrassing encounter, she had forgotten it.

“You are quiet tonight, Elizabeth. Did you not have a good day?” her father asked.

She picked up the bowl and a piece of the bread and carried it over to her father. He reached up from the stump he was sitting on and took it with a grateful smile. She returned to collect her dinner before retracing her steps and sitting across from him on a folding chair he had designed.

“It was nice,” she said.

She could feel her father’s eyes on her as she dipped the crust of her bread in her soup. A warm flush rose in her cheeks and she was thankful for the darkness. How did one tell their father that they had been kissed for the first time—by the king, no less?

“How long are we planning to stay here?” she asked.

Her father touched his handkerchief to his lips and lowered his bowl to his lap. She looked up when he cleared his throat. A frown creased her brow when she saw the troubled expression on his face.

“I was thinking it might be best if we leave early tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Why so soon? We’ve only just arrived. Surely you haven’t completed all of your business so soon?” she exclaimed.

Harold shook his head. “We’ve been gone longer than I planned and the glen is a long way away. It wouldn’t be smart to get caught in the middle of winter. The cottage will give us better protection and a chance to regroup before spring arrives,” he said.

Elizabeth lowered her bowl and studied him. She could always tell when he wasn’t being completely honest with her. His eyes would flitter from one place to another, and he couldn’t hold her gaze. Her expression softened when she noticed the pinched look of worry on his face.

“Tell me the truth,” she quietly pleaded.

Harold sighed and clutched his bowl between his hands. “Several humans came into the village today. They were from across the waters. They said that the shifters had declared war on the humans and were raiding their villages.”

“Do you think it is true?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I spoke to several shifters who came from the ships. They said it was the humans who had started the war. They are attacking shifters and trying to drive them away from the rich farm fields of the south. The man was with his mate and children. If I had to believe either of them, I would believe the shifter. The only thing I do know is they both spoke of war.”

---