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“I’ve been hearing the Duke’s worried about the upcoming Rite,” Pence said after a moment, his slender face drawn. “I’m guessing there’ve been credible threats. Fear the Dark One will get the Descenters here riled up into doing something.”

The Duke had every right to be concerned about the upcoming Rite. One side of my lips twisted up as I turned from Pence, thinking the guard would likely piss himself if he knew who he stood beside and spoke to.

The so-called Dark One.

The Prince of a fallen kingdom the Blood Crown claimed was hellbent on murder and mayhem. Many believed that, but the false King and Queen hadn’t been able to convince everyone in Solis. The Descenters knew that the Kingdom of Atlantia hadn’t fallen. Instead, we’d thrived and rebuilt in the four centuries following the war, strengthening our armies.

If Atlantia invaded Solis, something many within Atlantia wanted, Solis would be taken. Thousands, if not millions, would die in the process. And that was exactly what would happen if I didn’t get off this fucking Rise and get my hands on the Maiden.

Because unbeknownst to the people of Solis, the Blood Crown had stolen someone very important to Atlantia. Not just their Prince but the heir to the throne. If he wasn’t freed, there would be war. And this time?

This time, there would be no retreat for the greater good of the people.

THE SCENT OF ROT

Six guards had ridden out on horseback to take care of the Craven before they reached the Rise.

Three returned.

It was rare for those who fell outside the Rise to be brought back for burial rites. Sometimes, there was simply nothing left of the body for their loved ones to mourn. Usually, it was all due to the Ascended not wanting the people to know exactly how many were lost while fighting the Craven.

In other words, they didn’t want the people to know how little control they had of the situation.

I tensed as I watched one of the guards dismount just inside the Rise. The man was unsteady on his feet. I inhaled deeply, catching the stale-sweet scent of…rot. Shit. Not liking the look of what I’d seen or smelled, I walked to the edge and waited for the guard to turn.

“Hawke Flynn.” The high-pitched, nasally voice of Lieutenant Dolen Smyth cut through the low chatter of those on the Rise. “You weren’t at roll call this afternoon.”

Pence bowed as was required for one of Smyth’s position. I didn’t. Instead, I tracked the dark-haired guard’s movements as he spoke with several other guards on the ground. “I was there.”

“I just said I didn’t see you,” Lieutenant Smyth snapped, which was utter bullshit. He’d seen me. I knew he had because he’d been eyeballing me like he wanted to see my head on a spike. “So, exactly how were you there, Flynn?”

“I’m not sure how to answer that question.” The guard I was tracking had started walking, leading his nervous horse to the stables. He turned briefly, his profile blanched in the firelight. I recognized him. Jole Crain. He was young. Fuck, he was younger than Pence. “I think it would be a question better asked of a Healer.”

“And why the hell would you think that?” Lieutenant Smyth demanded.

“Because if you didn’t see me…” I began, catching sight of Pence out of the corner of my eye. He looked as if he were attempting to disappear into one of the curved parapets. “Then there appears to be something wrong with your vision.” I turned to the Lieutenant then, smiling tightly. The white mantle of the Royal Guard flapped from his slender shoulders in the wind like a flag of surrender. While Smyth lorded his authority over others like far too many in his position, he’d earned that coveted spot among the Royal Guard. Only the strong and the skilled stayed alive long enough to make it off the Rise. “And I would suggest you have that checked out immediately.”

“There is nothing wrong with my vision.” The blond Lieutenant sputtered, and his normally ruddy cheeks flushed even more in anger.

I reminded myself that throwing his ass off the Rise would not do me any favors. “Then you did see me. Perhaps there is an issue with your memory, then.”

His nostrils flared as he took a step toward me, but then he stopped himself. The knuckles of his right hand turned white from how tightly he clenched the hilt of his broadsword. He didn’t draw it. It was clear he wanted to, though. Whatever instinct the man possessed had prevented him from making an entirely foolish choice. Or perhaps it was smarts. Smyth was as intelligent as he was a bastard.

And I was beginning to think he was perhaps too wise. Too observant.

Because he’d been on my ass from day one, watching my every move and asking too many questions.