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)
“Why are you showing me?”
She plants her hands on her hips. “It isn’t obvious?”
He stares at her.
She continues, “You steal all the female attention. Those princes will only bully you more, out of jealousy.”
“It’s been many years. I’m used to it.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. No, just come here, and carve in peace.”
She turns her back to him and disappears inside again. After a pause, Prins Yngvarr follows her.
Quin and I slink to the open door and take a side of the frame each, awkwardly careful not to touch. I glance fleetingly at him, but his eyes are trained on the scene with purpose, and I jerk my gaze to the room. A dusty four-poster bed fills most of it, but Casimiria and the prins are tucked into a small corner behind an uneven table. She pushes her quiver to the side and takes his mask, inspecting it. “Can I try?”
“Don’t you have challenges to fulfil at the selection?”
“Like I want to be there.” Her smile fades. “Besides, it’s only practice today.”
“You won’t get in trouble?”
She leans in. “My father is known as a god of war. They won’t mess with me too much.” She holds the mask up beseechingly. “Show me?”
Prins Yngvarr pulls out his knife. “Under one condition.” He leans in, meeting her in the middle of the table. “Tell me your name.”
Almost the instant after she says it, the room darkens.
Quin turns and I follow his gaze as he takes in the surrounding forest. The glade seems to shiver, its bright hues dimming. The leaves blur, edges smudging like water dropped on ink. The deep scents of soil and soulbloom, the sound of the creek babbling nearby—all wanes.
Quin’s voice is calm but urgent. “Cael, this is the sign to head back.”
The nearer we get to the estate courtyard, the less form our surroundings have.
When Quin reaches the rune door, he pulls it open and ushers me through first. We emerge once again to a glade of soulbloom with six large doors, surrounded by trees with the rundown cabin nestled in the fringes.
“That was tranquil enough,” Quin says and eyes the other rune doors warily. “The others, though . . .”
I swallow and march toward the second door. “We don’t have time to worry.”
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“A way.”
“A way to what?”
To get on King Yngvarr’s side. To convince him.
To save you.
I push open the second door to Quin’s warning at my nape. “Be cautious. King Yngvarr’s danger lurks in this world, too.”
We find him in his mask, hidden among gathered spectators. It’s evening; warm light bathes an arena where a young woman dances, showing off her talents to the crown prince of Lumin and his family.
The young woman finishes her silk-tossing dance with a flourish; people gossip and cheer around the masked prins as he waits another three dances for Casimiria’s turn.
She enters the ring in riding clothes, with a fierce stride. To the side, the other young ladies are hiding snickers behind their fans, and two matronly aklas are frowning. The royals shift in their seats, on the cusp of being affronted, but they accept her deep bow. And the crown prince, recognising her, smirks and folds his arms.
She angles herself to the king and queen. “Your majesty, your highness. Forgive me. I must admit my failure.”
The king glances to his queen and they share a look of surprise and curiosity.
Casimiria bows lower. “I’ve little skill in dance. I’m unworthy of standing before you. Please allow me to relinquish the stage to these more accomplished women, who are far more deserving of attention from your son.”
Quin stares at his young mother, amusement playing over his face; beside him, under his monstrous mask, Prins Yngvarr’s lips are also ticking.
“She’s putting on quite the act,” I murmur. “I see where you got it from.”
Rich laughter has me jerking my gaze to the crown prince, who rises from his chair with an intense look of wanting that promises whatever her plan, he intends to foil it. “There are many types of dance,” he says. “I’ve heard you’re quite impressive with a sword.”
He throws one to her and her instincts have her catching it as it hurtles past. She twirls elegantly as she pulls it from its sheath. When she realises his trickery, she glares in Anastasius’s direction, but the glare barely has time to land before the crown prince is in the arena with a sword of his own, coming straight for her.
She deflects his strike, and lively music suddenly erupts from the confused musicians as the crown prince and the general’s daughter compete in a dazzling clash of blades.
Prins Yngvarr forces his way to the edge of the arena and watches the martial dance with balled fists.
Quin sighs. “It looks impressive. The prins sees them fighting in harmony, as a well-matched pair. It was not so straightforward.”