Page 5

Dayton

T he sun blazes high in the sky, casting a relentless heat over the realm. Even the goats have sought shade this morning. The pasture and old hut swim in my vision, and from halfway up Mount Tempitus, Hadria and the sea below look like nothing but a wavering mirage.

Sweat trickles down my back, soaking through my shirt. The scent of sunbaked earth and wildflowers fills my nose, mingling with the faint, musky smell of the goats grazing nearby.

I grip the hilts of my wooden swords tighter, the leather straps digging into my palms. Justus stands across from me, his weathered face calm and impassive as always, holding a wooden trident with the ease of someone who has wielded far deadlier weapons in the past. His eyes, sharp and knowing, see right through me, as if he’s aware of the storm brewing inside.

“Focus, Dayton,” Justus says. “Your mind is elsewhere.”

The old fae poses as a reclusive goat herder, though there are whispers he was once an elite warrior in the ancient wars.

I can barely remember when or how I talked him into training me. I think it was my stubborn ass showing up day after day until he gave in. Sure, I could have many experts teach me at home, tutors in our own lavish grounds with brand new swords and shields.

But I’d take the old fae’s rusty weapons and his audience of goats—who are actually quite judgmental—any day. There’s something about Justus’s lessons that pierces through my thick skull. Though probably not as much as he would like.

“Act, Dayton,” Justus growls.

I grit my teeth and lunge forward. Justus deflects my blows with practiced ease. Every clash of wood against wood sends vibrations up my arms, but I press on, my movements fueled by the anger simmering inside me.

Fare. Or should I say Farron. Prince of the bloody Autumn Realm, and heir to its Blessing.

I can’t believe he kissed me. Can’t believe without even a single drop of alcohol, I lost as much reason as if I’d drunk five pitchers of ale and threw myself at him.

Threw myself so deep I was drowning—drowning in the crisp scent of his skin, the rich brown of his hair, the constellation of freckles over his nose.

Now, last night feels no better than a trap. I was a bug lured by sweet nectar only to be ensnared in a world of endless duty. Because that’s what being a High Prince’s consort would mean.

Kissing Fare is exactly what Damocles wanted. My older brother, always calculating, so certain of what’s best for me. It’s as if I played right into his hands, and I hate it. I despise feeling like a pawn in his grand schemes.

“Speak your troubles,” Justus growls, “or clear your mind and focus.”

“Damocles thinks he owns me,” I roar with frustration then attack. “That he knows the best way to write my story.”

“You are master of your fate, Daytonales,” Justus quips, strands of graying hair falling across his brow.

“He wants to send me to Autumn, among the cold and death and dying!” The hot air burns my lungs, each breath a struggle. “To play consort to a prince.”

“Then show him a path no other can chart but you.”

My muscles ache, protesting the relentless pace, but I don’t care. I need this—need to lose myself in the fight, to speak the words I only can find when swords are blazing.

I think Justus knows that. We’re similar in that way.

“What if I already charted the course he wanted? What if I liked it?” I gasp. “Not the part of ruling, but the prince. We…we met. We kissed before I knew who he was.”

Justus meets my fury with calm precision, his movements almost lazy in their efficiency. “Then you are still bending to Damocles’s will.”

The name of my brother fuels my anger further. I swing wildly, my vision narrowing to the points of my swords and the infuriatingly serene expression on Justus’s face.

“I am not bending to his will!” I shout.

He sidesteps my next attack, his trident catching my blades and twisting them out of my grip. In an instant, I’m disarmed, and Justus is standing over me, the tip of his trident pressed against my chest.

“Enough.” His gaze bores into mine. “You’re not fighting me, Dayton. You’re fighting yourself.”

I slump to my knees, panting, the weight of his words hitting me harder than any blow. The anger seeps out.

“You can’t let your brother’s will control you,” Justus continues, his voice gentler now. “You must forge your own path, make your own choices. Tell me, do you wish to see this Autumn Prince again?”

I close my eyes, the heat pressing down on me, and try to steady my breath. Farron’s face flashes in my mind, and with it, a thousand conflicting emotions. Anger, desire, confusion. But beneath it all, something stronger. Something real. “Yes.”

Justus kneels beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You did not wish to court the Autumn Prince because you thought that path would bring you misery. But by denying yourself now, you are in misery.”

I grind my teeth together. “You’re right. You’ve given me an idea.”

“Daytonales, why do I think you are not yet understanding my counsel?”

He only calls me by my full name when he thinks I’m being particularly annoying. I flash him a grin. “When have I ever done what I’m told?”