Page 2 of A Court of Thralls and Thorns

Solei’s hand moved to the dagger on her belt. “He is right about that. Serena returned from the Order of the Wolf. She was hurt while on assignment and said the healer was weak and could barely mend a dagger wound.”

With a huff, Cyran continued, “The healers we have access to are useless. If this trend continues, every commoner will be deprived of what little protection we have left.”

“You mean the warders. The weaker they are, the more susceptible the kingdom is to an attack.” I glanced at Solei, whose face had gone pale.

“Yes,” he said.

“You’re really going to do this,” I murmured, feeling a raw sting deep in my bones. Cyran’s eyes, as cold as the stone beneath our feet, bored into mine.

“You had three Order mothers. Only God knows where you actually came from, but I have led this Order since before you were born. You owe me a debt, Ashlyn. This is how you will pay it.”

Inside, a tempest of emotions churned—anger, sorrow, and the searing bite of betrayal. I shouldn’t be surprised; I had always been aware of what my father was and why he chose me, believing in the potential he saw in my gifts. Yet now, as he pressed the royal decree into my trembling hands, my stomach turned.

“Let me walk you to the magistrate. We will stop by your room to collect your things,” Solei said softly as she slipped her hand around my waist and led me out.

We made our way down the hallway, but rushed to my room when we heard the rustle from inside.

Bull, one of my father’s enforcers, stood in my cramped room like a silent executioner of my past. His tall, muscular framewas unmistakable even in the dim light, his steel-blue eyes unyielding as he handed me a large rucksack. My clothes, my entire life, had been crammed into that worn bag.

Solei seized the rucksack from Bull with an aggression that bordered on ferocity before passing me the cap from my bedpost. The one Cyran had bought me for my imaginary birthday three years ago. I slid it onto my head, carefully tucking my long white strands beneath the fabric.

“Don’t be like that, Sol. You know I don’t have a choice here,” Bull said. Solei shot Bull a dirty look before flipping her middle finger. Without another word, she led me out of my room, our steps echoing through the underground corridors.

“We have bought a few guards in the castle,” Solei said briskly as we navigated the compound. “If you need to get me a message or there’s an emergency, talk to Gerane. He works the gate. He has green eyes and a scar on his right hand.” Her tone brooked no argument as we left the cool, concrete confines behind us.

We ascended a narrow staircase that spiraled upward until we reached a secret door concealed behind a tapestry. Beyond the small hallway lay a modest tavern, a business Cyran ran to hide his compound. Everyone in it was loyal to the Order. Inside, the tavern’s rough-hewn stone walls were softened by the warm glow of sconces. A barmaid nodded respectfully as she weaved between tables; at one, burly men laughed and clinked glasses, while at another, a lone woman wept softly as her husband murmured comforting words.

Stepping out of the tavern, we merged with the bustling town streets, the chill of the late season air mingling with the chatter of the townspeople. Our destination was the enlistment room outside the castle gates—a place that, until today, had been the exclusive domain of nobles from distant kingdoms. Yet, the murmur of recognition followed us; Cyran’s legendary name, thelongest-reigning Order leader, opened more doors than any title ever could.

The enlistment building was beside the main gate to the massive castle courtyard. Unlike most castles, Warriath housed the largest training area for the four guilds due to it being the only kingdom that trained dragon riders. It was a half-mile walk from the gate to the castle.

Inside the enlistment room, we found ourselves in a tight line. Solei stood beside me, the rucksack slung over her shoulder, as we exchanged swift, secret signs—a language known only to Order members.

You are fast and resilient. Don’t take crap from any of the nobles. Align yourself with the other commoners in the guild,she said with swift gestures of her fingers.

I understand how you feel about nobles. I remember my training, and I’m not helpless.Mine moved as fast as Solei’s in response.

I know you aren’t, but you won’t kill, and that personality flaw could get you dead.

Most people wouldn’t consider that a downside. Besides, we both know I will be joining the healers’ quadrant. It’s reported to be the least deadly.

I don’t care. Don’t let them exploit you.

I won’t. Just remember, I love you.

Solei gave me a hard stare.I taught you better than that. Never tell someone you love them unless they are about to die. You can’t let anyone hold that kind of power over you.

I trust you,I signed back.

We were third in line when the magistrate, seated behind a scarred desk, called out the name of a tall, thin man. I was close enough to watch the process now and kept my eyes glued to the oval crystal.

“State your name,” the magistrate commanded, his tone cold.

“Olam Acker,” he said.

“Place your hand on the stone,” the magistrate ordered.

Olam’s fingers met the ancient surface of the testing stone. The crystal, dark and inscrutable moments before, erupted in a burst of sickly white light at his touch.