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The soldiers around us fall into quiet murmurs at the display. “Firebranded,” someone utters out in astonishment. Another hoots, stirring up several snickers, followed by a subsequence of more hoots, cackling, and slow clapping. Many eyes turn from the fire to peer at the two of us.

I’m about to question the prince about it and stop short when I see the bewildered look on his face. He trails a hand over his mouth, frowning as he regards me, puzzling, before his face twists into a defined sneer.

“See! Even the Gods agree he should be with the nought after what his half-breed of a mother did.” It’s the same gruff voice from the next table over.

“Who’s to say he’s really even Pelias’s son? He should’ve never married that whore. She always intended to kill him and seat her bastard on the throne,” another chimes.

The prince goes rigid, murderous intent leaking out in the blacks of his eyes. He slams back the rest of his wine and sets the glass on the table in a measured motion before rising to his feet. His hands move with a fluid grace, fingers arranging themselves into quick intricate patterns and the soldiers, along with everything on their table, plates, glasses, and food, crash to the ground as their chairs and table disappear from beneath them. They scramble to their feet, cursing and muttering. One of them starts forward with his chest puffed. The prince merely sidesteps him and saunters off.

“You’re as traitorous as your low-bred mother, Nightshade,” the soldier calls after him.

The prince doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn back once, his form disappearing into the nearby wood, leaving me among the soldiers to fend for myself.

My only option is to sit here and wait. Wait for someone to instruct me on what I should do next. Soldiers glance my way every so often. Thankfully, they do not approach. Between the sporadic pulses of adrenaline throughout the evening, a lack of fluid intake, a long day of riding, and the lack of sleep over the last several nights, a heavy exhaustion settles over me. My eyelids grow heavier and harder to hold up. Every time my head starts to roll forward, I jerk back up in a panic as I remember where it is I am and who I’m surrounded by.

Hours pass like that until the only soldiers who haven’t bedded down are the drunkest and rowdiest of the bunch. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself, but when my vision starts to haze, and my tongue becomes so dry it sticks to the roof of my mouth, I realize I’m going to have to get up and get a drink.

Arguing breaks out between the soldiers, something that had been happening off and on throughout the evening. When their voices grow louder and more aggressive I sneak a cautious peek back.

The soldier in question is on his feet, advancing on another as he extracts that strange, distorted face off his breastplate. It’s not only an ornament to their armor. It’s a mask. His has curling horns protruding from the top of the mask’s head. I watch in horror as he places it over his face, and it melds to him like a second skin.

The breath lodges in my chest as his form widens and lengthens, and his body disappears into a haze of shadows. Amidst the darkness, I spy furry limbs, long claws, and hoofed feet. He leaps toward the other soldier, whose form is shifting in the same manner. They tear into each other, rolling across the ground faster than I can keep eyes on, the snarling sounds emanating from them more animal than human. Monsters. This is exactly the kind of horrifying display I anticipated of witches.

I’m paralyzed to the back of my chair until they come too close and knock into my table in their tussle. Finally finding the will to move, I bolt toward the tents. I have no idea where I’m going, only that I have to get far, far away from them. My heart pounds a furious rhythm, and my vision hazes. I take shelter behind one of the tents to catch my breath, debating my options on where I can go from here when two soldiers appear from the other side of the tent.

They halt when they spot me. I recognize them as the light- and dark-haired soldiers who ushered us in. Their masks are still safely ornamented against the front of their armor, but their gait is sloppy with drink. The light-haired one strides forward, the other lingering behind.

“Look what we have here, Ahrimon. Did Nightshade leave you all alone? Didn’t come to claim his bride,” he tsks. He continues forward and I inch back, stumbling into the tent behind me that’s surprisingly solid despite its fabric appearance.

“You might have better luck if we get rid of this. Depending on what you look like under there.” He grabs the chains of the Shroud and yanks, jerking my head forward and sending painful jolts up my neck. When it doesn’t do him any good, he grips the bar that crosses my forehead and gives it another yank, trying to free it from my head.

“Stop,” I rasp. “It—it does not come off.”

His lips twist into a sneer. “I’m sure we can find a way.”

My throat is so dry I’m not sure if I can even muster a scream. Not sure if anyone would come if I did. He lifts a palm, drawing his hand into a symbol.

“Leave her.”

The soldier stiffens, and we both look up to find the prince. “Come to claim your bride, after all, Nightshade?”

The prince simply jerks his head to the side. “Leave.”

The soldier snorts. “You know she won’t last the week.”

To my relief, he and the other soldier accompanying him saunter past me. The prince eyes me for a moment before he turns and stalks off for the third time tonight. I lean back into the tent, panting as I watch him go, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now. He stops and turns back with a scowl. “Coming?”

I scamper after him, vision tunneling dangerously as he disappears behind the fabric of the next tent. I hesitate for only a moment before peeling the fabric back and stepping in, certain that if I don’t sit down soon, I’m going to collapse. Surprise ripples through me when I see the tent looks less like a tent and more like a fully furnished room. I step inside.

And then I collapse.