Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“You must be the son of”—Prins Yngvarr tries to catch her gaze, a look of warning in his eye, but she doesn’t see it—“an arrogant prick.”
Anastasius throws out a furious wind and his laughter sails on it to smack into her face. When it dies down and she’s caught her footing again, he says, “Why aren’t you with the other ladies, wishing to be selected as my wife?”
Understanding hits her and she pales briefly, then roots herself to the ground and shoots a pummelling wind back at him. “I’m less willing to join them now.”
Anastasius’s eyes flash and he returns her gust. Their angry back-and-forth whips at their clothing and forces Valerian to hide behind the tree, while Prins Yngvarr attempts to yank Anastasius off balance. Leaves and twigs fly in the air like sharp missiles and—
Yngvarr sees it first. His mask, whipping around them in circles, and his carving knife hidden amongst the leaves, headed straight for Casimiria. He lurches into the battling tempests and reaches the handle in time to jerk it away from her heart. Instead, the sharp blade slices her arm and she yelps.
Magic ceases, and for a few breathless seconds, Yngvarr is frozen with the knife. He drops it, rips his cloak, and hurriedly ties a strip around the wound.
Anastasius shoves him aside and funnels a vitalian stitching spell into Casimiria’s arm.
Casimiria pulls away, turning her back to him, and helps Yngvarr to his feet. “Are you alright?”
Her kind words are drowned out by the urgent holler of an aklo rushing towards the brothers. “The king requests your immediate presence.”
Anastasius and Valerian swiftly follow, and Yngvarr glares after them.
Quin and I watch as the prins and Casimiria finally meet one another’s gaze and I can feel the tautness in the air. For long beats, they stare. Then the prins is bowing.
Quin is motionless beside me, his face cast in shadow. “Do you think she already knew?” I ask softly.
His lips press into a thin line, and for a long moment, I think he won’t answer. “She was never one to act without knowing the consequences.”
Yngvarr murmurs, “Thank you—”
Casimiria reaches out and urges him quickly upright, the loosened bandage around her arm slipping down to her wrist, to his arm where she holds him. They both look at the frayed fabric and Casimiria rips her hand back. “You’re the Skeldar prins. You should bow to no one.”
“Your injury came from my knife.” He pauses. “How do you know who I am, when you didn’t recognise your own Crown Prince?”
She laughs, flushing, and glances at the bandage that’s fallen to the grass between them.
Yngvarr frowns and pivots sharply away from her. He finds his mask and knife amongst the leaves, and picks them up.
“Wait,” Casimiria says, following him. “I didn’t recognise him because I only arrived last night. I recognised you because . . . because . . .”
He pauses, his back to her, and stares at the mask in his hand.
He waits and, when she doesn’t continue, nods and starts to walk away.
Casimiria rushes around to his front, gripping the bow over her shoulder so hard her fingers are white. “They say the hostage prins is the most beautiful person they’ve ever seen. The ladies here for the marriage selection. So . . .”
Prins Yngvarr grimaces. “Ah.”
“You don’t seem surprised. Not a hint of bashfulness, at being so admired?” She leans in, eyes dancing.
“They like the allure. But would they like me as this?” He puts the ferocious-looking mask against his face.
Her laughter rings loudly, and she tips her head back with it. “Gosh, what a fright it would stir. You must wear it!”
Behind the mask, Yngvarr catches his breath as he stares at her.
“Your highness?” she says.
“Yes?”
“Forgive me.” Casimiria doesn’t wait—she grabs his arm and pulls him at a run down the hill, over the field, and into the black forest. He yields to her, knife in his belt, mask dangling between fingertips, eyes trained on the back of her head in wonder.
We race to follow and find ourselves quickly in shadows, the scent of moss churned up under our footsteps. We walk, deeper and deeper into the forest, following Casimiria’s laughter as she pulls the prins along, and come suddenly to a clearing. A glade filled with soulbloom, and across it, a familiar dilapidated cabin.
“This is . . .”
“Yes,” Quin murmurs. “Exactly the same, minus the rune doors.”
Casimiria lead Prins Yngvarr up the steps and swings open the cabin door. She waves a hand at the sudden cloud of dust, coughs and laughs, and steps inside.
The prins stands on the top step, hesitating. “What is this place?”
Casimiria comes back to rock her feet on the threshold, her bow and quiver set aside. “My father and I have been stationed on this estate many times. This is where I go to have some peace.”