Page 42 of A Queen’s Betrayal (Legends of Worldbinders #1)

The group stood in the center of a blacksmith’s shop, one of the first buildings in the sprawling port of Alaraine.

It was massive, old, and oddly familiar.

Craydon did have a small blacksmith shop at the heart of the main square, but it felt strange to be in the center of this one, as if she had been here before.

In fact, Arenna felt that way the entire time they walked through the paved streets.

She quickly noted the abundance of wealth, so different from anything in Varios.

The port was beautiful with stone buildings towering like small mountains.

Lush green trees stood between them, flower boxes hung outside stained-glass windows, and lampposts held large half-circle planters.

It was strange to see so many Fae in one place, having only encountered a handful since she was a girl.

Growing up, children were taught that Fae feasted on the young, that their teeth were sharp enough to tear through muscle, and that their magic was uncontrollable and dangerous.

But here, in Vlazias’s largest trading port, they seemed anything but monstrous. They appeared so utterly . . . normal.

Despite their taller builds, effortless beauty, and pointed ears, she might have thought she was walking through an ordinary port in Varios.

Until they stepped into the blacksmith shop, and the look in the old male’s eyes sent goosebumps across her body.

He kept gazing her way, scowling each time their eyes met.

Self-conscious for her round ears for the first time in her life, Arenna absentmindedly pulled strands of dark hair from her long braid to hide them.

Kayson spoke to the aging blacksmith, whose graying hair was pulled back into a knot, and his matching beard hung long and braided against his chest. Wrinkles around his eyes and thin mouth deepened when he scowled at Arenna.

He stood behind a mahogany table scattered with weapons of all kinds: axes, knives, daggers, arrows, and some she couldn’t even name.

One weapon in particular repulsed her. It had a black handle attached to a silver chain with a spiked ball dangling from it.

Arenna shuddered at the thought of what a hard enough swing with that could do to a person’s skull.

More weapons hung from nails on the walls and beams in the ceiling, with an entire section dedicated to various axes, bows, and swords of different thicknesses.

The handles were all similar—long, dark—and glittering in the light from the roaring hearth behind the blacksmith.

Each had a golden pommel. Some represented the elements and carved to resemble flames, waves, wind, and mountains.

She glanced at the Fae King, whose gaze was fixed on the sword at his waist, its pommel shaped like a mountain to match his elemental power.

It unsettled her more than she cared to admit, seeing him so troubled back at the port, his eyes glassy.

He’d barely looked her way as they walked through town or even in the blacksmith’s shop.

She still struggled to grasp who he was and everything he had or hadn’t done.

Even more, she found it hard to believe she could bear being in the same room as him.

Arenna repeated his words constantly on their travels, uncertain if she could believe Jaksen had destroyed Craydon, causing her mother’s death.

Rage remained the dominant force in her heart, often clouding her judgment and preventing her from seeing things clearly. She kept Kayson’s words close, while also not forgetting what she already knew, and resolved to discover for herself who was telling the truth.

Arenna rubbed her temples, feeling the sting of yet another headache. Ever since they had crossed the Siren Sea, they’d become more frequent. Water helped, but it never fully relieved the pain. Just another thing she had to deal with, she supposed.

She caught the blacksmith’s eyes on her again. “What is that doing in my shop?” His voice was husky, fitting his muscular build, but his dark eyes held a promise of death.

Kayson didn’t look at her, instead shifting his attention to the scythe on the table while his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Pay no attention to her, Broudir. She’s with me and will be out of your hair momentarily.”

Arenna tried her best to ignore both of them.

Her stomach knotted as she stared at the tip of the scythe.

Stories followed her all her life of the Red Reaper and his weapon, all the death that came from them, and how he supposedly harvested souls and trapped them forever in his blade.

A tune Faylen used to sing rattled inside her mind.

In the shadows, he strides with a scythe so bright,

A crimson cloak flowing through the night,

The Red Reaper comes, with a whisper so cold,

Harvesting souls, as the stories foretold.

She remembered seeing a similar weapon on the Hadley , but it seemed so ordinary—not at all like a weapon entrapping thousands of souls. Arenna supposed those legends felt a bit silly now.

When she finally tore her gaze from the weapon and looked up, the blacksmith hadn’t stopped glaring at her, like a caged animal ready to strike. A growl eased from his hairy throat. “Do us a favor and wait outside, won’t you? Damned Noveeack .”

One of Arenna’s eyebrows raised . Noveeack ? She had never heard the term before, but the way he growled it, she knew well enough it wasn’t a compliment.

Kayson slowly straightened from his hunched position, standing taller than the blacksmith. The male’s beady eyes shifted nervously toward his king, his throat bobbing. “You will not speak to her like that again, Broudir.”

Arenna swore the blacksmith shivered, especially when he glanced at the weapon now held firmly in Kayson’s grasp. He looked at her with hateful eyes, but eventually nodded. “Of course, my king.”

“Wait outside,” Kayson said over his shoulder to Arenna. “Marea, go with her.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Arenna muttered under her breath. Kayson half-turned, his narrowed eyes locking onto hers. She held up her hands in mock surrender.

Marea straightened, gently setting a blade down on the table. Without a word—but with a loud enough sigh to make her feelings clear—she brushed past Arenna, heading for the door.

Like a dog with its tail between its legs, Arenna followed. And hated it. And might have been thinking of all the ways she could punch Kayson directly in the mouth.

Arenna hadn’t realized how hot and stuffy the blacksmith shop had been until she stepped outside, the winter air nipping at her cheeks.

They stopped walking on the stairway leading to the shop, a wooden sign clanking above them.

Marea leaned against the iron railing, cleaning her nails with the tip of her dagger.

Neither of them spoke, which wasn’t ideal, as it left Arenna too aware of the Fae passing through the port. Despite the heavy wagons they pulled or the sacks on their backs, many glanced her way, their eyes narrowing. A few females leaned close together, whispering as they looked her up and down.

Arenna undid her braid, letting the thick, black strands fall to cover her round, human ears. “What does Noveeack mean?” she asked, turning her back to the growing crowd of Fae on the streets.

Marea didn’t bother looking up. “It’s a slur we use for humans. Not something you’d consider a compliment.”

Arenna had suspected as much. “What language is it?”

“The Founders’ Tongue,” Marea replied, sheathing her dagger. “Some Fae in the older Houses and ports still speak it, but the language died off years ago. We adapted to the human language to better read their maps and learn from their books.”

“Can you speak it?”

Marea rolled her shoulders, sighing. “A little. I understand more than I can speak. Kayson’s fluent, though.” She resumed fiddling with her nails, turning slightly away from Arenna—a clear sign the conversation was over.

Arenna turned her attention back to the street, her stomach dropping at the sight of the crowd, which had doubled since she’d started speaking with the Lady Commander. She decided to head back inside the blacksmith shop, completely content with Kayson and Broudir’s hateful eyes to avoid the crowd.

As her fingers curled around the bronze handle, the door was yanked open from the inside, revealing the king in the threshold. She stumbled, catching herself just before slamming into his chest.

His eyes trailed over her. “Forget how to stand?”

“Forget how to brush your hair?” she shot back, eyeing the wild waves of chestnut hair falling to his cheeks, though most was tucked behind his pointed ears.

From the corner of her eye, Arenna saw his hand raise and instinctively flinched, bracing for the blow, for the sting of jeweled rings cutting into her flesh. But no pain came, no blood spilled.

Blinking, she tilted her chin up, biting the inside of her cheek to suppress the shame welling inside. Kayson had only pulled a blade from his waist and was holding it out toward her. His brows were furrowed, his jaw clenched so tightly she could see it twitching. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

The shame only deepened. Why was she apologizing?

Thankfully, Kayson moved on without a word. He twisted the blade in the afternoon sun, rays of buttery light glinting off the silver edge. “Take it.”

“This— this is mine?” she choked out, still fighting the burning heat on her cheeks. Arenna quickly rubbed her hands together, hoping the Fae council around her would assume the redness was from the cold. But she knew all too well they did not.

“You know how to wield one, yes?” Kayson asked.

“I know the basics,” she admitted. “But I’ll need more training.”

“Already arranged. Take it.” He wiggled the blade impatiently.

“It’s beautiful,” Arenna said, grasping the handle. The steel was impeccable, polished so finely she could see her reflection perfectly on the short length of the weapon.