Page 8 of The Warlord's Wildflower
“Oh,” I reply, letting a smirk curve my lips. “But, I’ve got all three.”
Dakar huffs out a low chuckle as Garron’s frown deepens. I offer a half-assed nod, respectful enough to avoid a lecture later, but lazy enough to make my disinterest clear, and turn back toward the ring. My hooves crunch over the gravel as I walk away.
Garron’s glare prickles against my back, but I don’t really care.
I wonder if she’ll come.
Chapter Three
Annie
I’ve never worn silk before.
The dress Maeve found for me is a soft shade of lilac, more purple than blue, like the wildflowers in the garden. When I twirl, it catches the light like water, and I have to stop myself from doing it again. I don’t want to wrinkle it. I want everything to be perfect.
Just thinking of seeing him again makes my knees go soft and my stomach flutter like the wings of the butterflies that love the marigolds. My hands are shaking as I run my fingers over the satin ribbon that matches my dress. I wind it carefully and tuck it into a little woven pouch, filled with the herbs Elda gave me yesterday. I don’t know why I’m bringing it. I won’t need them. But for some reason, it makes me feel…safe. Almost as if I can carry the healer’s kindness with me.
I hook the pouch to my belt, hiding it beneath the folds of my skirts, where it bumps lightly against my hip. I smooth my palms over my dress again. Everything is fine. Everything is okay.
Only, my hands won’t stop shaking.
I sit by the mirror and begin to braid my hair, section by section, with so much care that it takes me nearly half an hour. My curls are thick and wild, but today they're smooth. I weave two soft braids along the sides of my head and pin them back.
I stare at myself when I’m done.
My deep, umber skin is glowing, like the rich earth in the gardens when the sunlight kisses it after the rain. I smooth the honey balm over my full lips, giving them a glossy sheen. My brown eyes are gently smudged with a little coal, softening their shape. Looking into the glass, I blink, almost not recognizing myself. I look pretty.
Then the worries start to creep in, like they always do.
What if he’s just being kind?
What if it doesn’t mean anything at all?
I take a deep breath and fluff out my skirts. I’m not brave like Maeve or fierce like Beatrice, but maybe, just for today, I can stop hiding.
The tournament grounds are overflowing.
Colorful banners flap in the breeze, voices rise in a hundred overlapping threads, and the ground vibrates with drumbeats and hooves and laughter.
I don’t belong here.
I clutch the ribbon in my hand, my fingers fidgeting with the end of it as I scan the crowd, heart pounding, until I spot him.
Fenric is standing at the edge of the sparring ring, laughing with a few of the other warriors. His horns catch the sun like polished ivory. He is not wearing a tunic, and Stars above, I have to look away. His chest is broad and strong, every inch of him carved and powerful, and he’s smiling as if he's already been named champion.
I take a tiny step forward, then another.
Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t—
I bump into someone. Hard.
“Oh!” I gasp, stumbling back, clutching the ribbon tight to my chest.
She turns, glaring at me. She’s beautiful. Definitely not from Havenmoor, I know all the girls from our village. Her strawberry-blonde hair is braided into a perfect crown atop her head, and her horns have little golden caps that catch the light. She’s taller and slimmer than I am, more toned, too, and the deep green gown she wears clings to her curves. I shift on my feet, suddenly all too aware of how plain I must look beside her.
She raises one perfectly arched brow. “Oh, I didn’t see you there. What’s your name again?”
“A-Annie.”
