Page 33 of Scarred

“Who?” someone yells.

“Who is not important, I’m sure you’ll find out when they make the official announcement.” A flash of my little doe’s face tumbles through my mind, and my chest tightens. “What matters is that you know someone placed her very strategically for one reason, and that’s gaining your trust. To make you think sunny days are on the horizon. Comrades. I’m here to tell you, the only blaze on the horizon is the orange glow of fire when we burn their king at the stake.”

Yells erupt, boots stomping on the ground until it vibrates through the air, creating a low rumble.

“Burn the king’s whore!” someone else shouts.

My eyes fly to where the voice is coming from, my muscles growing taut. “She is not to be touched.”

The cheers grow quiet at my sharp words, confused faces staring up at me. My gaze lands on Edward, standing in the back corner with Belinda and her husband, Earl, waiting for my cue. When our eyes meet, I see the surprise flowing through them.

He hadn’t expected me to say that.

I hadn’t expected to say it.

But here we are.

“It’s important to not show our hands too early, friends,” I continue. “We must bide our time. Allow them to believe she is their beacon of hope.”

“And we’re just supposed to trust you?” a voice rings out. “You’re one of them!”

Silence descends over the crowd, and my jaw tics. I raise my hands out to the side. “If you have an issue with my leadership, you’re more than welcome to come up here and take it from me. I’m nothing if not fair.”

No one moves a muscle, and I let the quiet linger, my eyes scanning the crowd to see who dares to think they can question me. “Don’t be a coward now, when your voice was just so loud.”

I continue to gaze out, my stare locking on a young man with torn clothing and dusty-red hair, his jaw set as he looks up at the balcony.

“It’s an admirable trait and an honest question.” I wave my hand toward him, annoyance pricking against my skin. “Come forward. Stand here, at the front where everyone can see you.”

His body stiffens, but he ambles through the crowd until he’s in front of them all, forced to crane his neck in order to maintain our eye contact.

I smile. “Have I not given enough to earn your trust? How many times do I need to prove my worth?”

“It’s been two years,” he implores, shaking his head.

“It’s been far longer for me. And we’re speaking of treason. Enough to kill us all with one wrong move.” I raise my fingers in the air and snap. Edward moves through the throng of people, carrying the corpse of Antony Scarenbourg—commander of the king’s army.

Excited murmurs roll through the air like thunder.

“Do not make the mistake of believing that when I’m not with you, I’m not fightingforyou.”

The redheaded man’s eyes widen as Antony’s body drops at his feet, his uniform burned and his skin blue from rigor mortis.

Edward moves again, and I stand still, waiting as he grabs a bucket of kerosene and walks back, preparing to dump it on the corpse.

“Lethimdo it,” I say, pointing at the fool who questioned my authority.

Edward glances up at me before nodding and passing the bucket off.

The young man stares down for long moments, taking in the singed and nearly unrecognizable insignia on Antony’s chest, his face growing angrier by the second. And then he tips the bucket, allowing the liquid to pour onto the body, splashing off the ground and puddling around his feet.

Hoots and hollers from the rebels accompany his actions.

My eyes meet Edward’s and unspoken words pass between us. This man will not live to see another sunset.

But for now, I’ll allow him this moment. It’s good for morale.

Pulling a matchbox from my cloak’s pocket, I strike a flame against the side.