Page 36 of Her Cruel Redemption (The Dark Reflection #3)

Chapter Thirty-Six

I barely felt the blow, my body moving on instinct as I twisted away from the follow-up strike. My opponent—one of my officers, younger, faster—pressed forward, fists flying in rapid succession. I absorbed one hit against my ribs, let another glance off my shoulder, then struck back.

My punch connected with the man’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. He staggered but didn’t fall. Good. A soldier who stayed down after one hit wasn’t worth my time.

We circled each other, bare feet scuffing against the stone floor. The chamber was wide, its high ceilings and torch-lit walls turning every breath, every movement into something that felt larger and more sinister. The air smelled of sweat, warm and sharp. I relished it. I preferred the certainty of combat, the rawness of it, over words whispered in dark halls. Always had. In the sparring ring or in one of my father’s trials, hostility could finally be answered with force, and then it didn’t matter what my lineage was or how little favour I had with that gluttonous tyrant. It only mattered that I could take a hit better, could think faster, could keep getting back to my feet longer than any of my brothers.

Fighting now staved off the tremors of terror and helplessness that kept creeping up to remind me of what I’d endured last time I’d been in this fucking castle.

My opponent feinted left, aiming low, but I saw the trick before he even committed to it. I stepped in, too fast for the other man to react, and drove my fist into his gut. He let out a strangled sound, doubling over, but I wasn’t finished. I grabbed the man’s arm and wrenched it behind his back, forcing him onto his knees.

‘Dead,’ the I murmured, voice edged with satisfaction.

He gasped for breath and gave a short, pained nod. ‘A clean kill.’

I released him, stepping back and rolling my shoulders. There was always something to be gained from testing my limits, from feeling the way my body moved, sharp and controlled. But this had been only a warmup, and I wasn’t winded yet. I was about to call for another round when the doors burst open and Lester strode in. I straightened, immediately picking up his disquiet, washing over me in jabs of frantic energy as I shook out my hands.

‘How did I know I’d find you here?’ he said, remaining poised on the threshold.

‘Because you always find me here. What’s wrong?’

‘There’s an army knocking on our door,’ he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

‘Have you engaged them?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘They want to negotiate.’

‘We did that. They have my terms. Unless they’ve rounded up their druthi and Sarmiers is burning behind them, I’m not interested.’

He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking up at me from beneath his shaggy fringe, nose screwed up as though he didn’t like the taste of whatever words were about to come out of his mouth. ‘Rhiandra is with them.’

I stiffened as her name cut through me. It was followed quickly by a rush of resignation, tinged with shades of anger to be so resigned. ‘She’s at the gate?’

‘Literally standing on the doorstep with the King of Oceatold.’

I closed my eyes. Took a breath. Let it out. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t suspected this would happen. When I opened my eyes again, Lester was watching me with a tense frown scoring his face. I didn’t answer the lift of his brows, just strode past him out of the hall to find myself a horse.

I could hear the drumming as I mounted the battlements—a rhythmic thrumming shuddering beneath the wind. Pathetic. A show of bravado eroded by the rippling waves of terror I could feel lapping at me even with the thick city wall between me and the scores of soldiers lined up in the grey dawn. I stopped to run my eyes over them when I topped the wall, elbows slung across the top of the parapet to get a good look. They were rows and rows of shadowy figures, silhouettes of what was likely catapults or other siege weaponry, horses pawing nervously at the mud, pinpricks of flame piercing the gloom where fires were lit in preparation for their archers. A smaller group had broken away from the larger army to cluster before the gate, flanked by banners and heralds. There, my gaze caught on a figure on a bay horse. Even from this distance, I recognised her, felt called to her, my attention held hostage by her. I could see, or perhaps I could just sense, the defiant tilt of her chin. I cursed under my breath as I imagined curling a hand around the exposed curve of her throat. What the fuck was she doing at the front of an army?

‘Have they sent a message?’ I asked the captain of the unit loitering nearby—Kastien Vale, his name was. One of Yaakandale’s most seasoned rebels. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d fought for me.

He handed me a curled piece of parchment. I scanned it quickly. Some flowery shit about being the rightful sovereign dum dum dum dum, and an offer to let us leave with our lives if we withdrew from Port Howl immediately and sailed back to where we’d come from. I snorted when I read that part, handing the page back to Vale. ‘Respond with no.’

A pause. Then, ‘That’s all?’

‘Yes. That’s all. And take aim if they come too close.’

‘And your previous orders regarding—’

‘Still stand. Aim carefully. ’ I drummed my fingers against the stone wall, gaze once again fixed on that figure on the horse as I waited the interminable period between the message being written and received. Oceatold’s king seemed to take my refusal well enough—at least, he didn’t throw any tantrum visible from here. Then again, he surely hadn’t been expecting a different answer. When the party at the gate turned and retreated from the front line, I breathed a little easier. If she remained at the back of the attacking force, away from the wall, the siege could proceed the way any siege would. We’d stay behind the walls. We were well defended, which they’d find out bloodily in due course.

But that would change if Rhiandra joined the fight.

Then I would have to join it too.