Page 22 of Warrior Princess Assassin (Braided Fate #1)

Chapter Eleven

The Warrior

M ost of my earliest memories include my father and a battlefield.

My mother died in childbirth when I was four, leaving my father with tough choices.

Victoria, my baby sister, was given to nannies and nursemaids, but from the instant I was old enough to walk, I had learned to ride a horse and handle a weapon, so my father kept me by his side.

I was thrust into my first battle at age twelve, when soldiers from Draegonis attacked our encampment.

I was ready. I hadn’t discovered my magic yet, but I’d already spent years in my father’s shadow, learning all the ways a man could wage war.

Seeing all the ways a king should lead .

I was full of pride to be the youngest in his retinue, so when I turned sixteen, I was surprised when he ordered me to return to the capital city to enlist as a recruit.

At first, I didn’t mind—I had years of experience that the other young soldiers hadn’t yet imagined.

I expected to be the best in the training arena, and as the crown prince, I knew I’d be glorified for my skills.

But instead of running drills and sparring with the others, my captain gave me every chore, every poor assignment, every torturous duty.

While other recruits were practicing swordplay or galloping between army points, I was shoveling manure or cleaning sweat-stained tack.

I complained about it daily, never earning a single reprieve.

I finally wrote to my father, frustrated about my lowly treatment, begging to return to the battlefield where I could be of use .

Every duty is essential , he wrote back. Nothing you do for your fellow soldiers is lowly. These are your people, and they risk their lives for you. Remember that when you are scrubbing latrines.

And then, to add to the sting, the grueling assignments got worse .

But I shut my mouth and stopped complaining—and to my surprise, the other recruits began to help me: relieving me early from long overnight guard duty, soaping up the mess hall by my side, and even scrubbing latrines.

Instead of finding glory, I gained friends .

When we eventually made it to the battlefield, I saw that loyalty in action, as my fellow recruits did indeed risk their lives for Incendar—and for me.

It led to my father’s next lesson: If you are to lead them, you must understand them.

When he brought me back to his side, I was no longer in his shadow.

He’d have me walk among the regiments every day, watching training drills, listening to complaints, mediating arguments.

It taught me to pay attention. I learned how to tell which soldiers were too confident, too fearful, too aggressive, too lazy.

I learned how to read the signs for when someone was lying, when someone was telling the truth, and all the gray areas in between.

By the time my magic manifested, it became a tool, a weapon to wield like any other.

Because my father’s lessons were so deeply ingrained, I realized that the people around me were so much more important than any power I could draw from a flame.

Even after he died, I continued my daily rounds.

I figured out how to tell the difference between a soldier who needed a friend, who needed a king and commander, and who just needed to be left alone.

I learned to spot the signs of a person who’d cave under pressure, or a soldier who’d only give his best in the heat of battle.

I determined who I could trust—and who I’d have to watch.

Thanks to those skills, I’ve been able to form tight-knit regiments that are relentless in battle.

It’s how I knew Nikko would dive right back into a fight despite the torture he endured, or how I came to trust that Roman could strategize a mission with his eyes closed.

It’s the way I can watch Callum and Garrett bicker like siblings—with the certainty that they’ll stand strong when it matters.

It’s how I knew Jory’s disguise was more than just deception.

Right now, it’s how I know Asher didn’t plan this—or if he did, it’s a complete fucking disaster.

He has no pack, no supplies, nothing beyond what seems to be a spontaneous decision to drag me out of the palace. When he first got that garrote around my neck, I thought this might be an insidious attack by Draegonis. But I simply can’t make that work in my head anymore.

A Draeg spy would never leave me alive.

And he might know how to kill, but Asher has definitely never been a soldier.

There’s a lack of discipline, of control , that’s unmistakable.

It’s a disquiet behind all the belligerence.

He hides it well, but once my adrenaline from the attack wore off, I could see every sign.

He’s defiant and hostile, but it’s a bluff.

A feint. He’s got the vicious skill to back up his threats, and in the short term, it’s clearly effective.

He took down Nikko in two seconds. He forced me out of the palace by vowing to kill my soldiers.

But when I don’t flinch away from his aggression, Asher clearly falters.

The moment he put that knife against my throat, I refused to move—and it became clear that he wouldn’t push it farther.

I’ve had soldiers like that before: skilled men who hesitate when they meet true resistance.

It’s a lack of resolve. Of conviction . If he were one of my recruits, he’s the kind of man I’d have to pair with less experienced soldiers to build his confidence—offering nothing less than candor to gain his trust.

It’s no surprise that he had to attack from above and behind. I rather doubt he would’ve had the mettle to come at me face-to-face.

He’s faltering now, too. It’s in the way he left me alive, leaving me the choice to follow.

Or the way he insists that he didn’t kill Nikko—when he absolutely could have.

There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to believe him, but he sounded so.

.. annoyed when I accused him of killing my soldier.

He seemed hurt when Jory doubted him. That speaks to truth.

But if he left Nikko alive, that was reckless—and there’s certainly no advantage to telling me.

Asher should want to appear as vicious as possible.

But he’s not.

He’s certainly convinced Jory. She’s following him willingly now, striding through the snow ahead of me, but there were moments where she seemed genuinely afraid.

I wonder how they know each other. They share a casual manner that suggests familiarity—but the princess seemed truly shocked by his brutality. Not just shocked. Horrified.

That said, she helped him do this. I just can’t tell if he coerced her or if she was willing.

I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d balked in the washroom, if I’d called his bluff then, before we were so far outside the palace . He vowed to kill the rest of my soldiers one by one—but I’m beginning to suspect that he wouldn’t have done anything more than take the princess and flee.

Not that I’m in a position to criticize. I was distracted by a pretty girl.

By the time we finally stop, we’ve gone at least a mile through the brush, and falling snow has trickled under my collar to make me shiver.

This cold is piercing, and it assaults us all.

The princess is clutching her arms against her body, her hands tucked under her biceps.

None of us have a cloak. The only person with gloves is Asher, and even his breath is trembling as he shivers.

I’m still wearing the fur-lined gear I wore on the ride here, but my bare fingers feel numb, and my ankles ache from walking with my bootlaces tied together.

I don’t know where I expected us to end up, but there’s almost nothing here. Just a small copse of pine trees encircling a tiny hut that’s practically buried in a snowdrift. If we hadn’t stopped, I might not have even noticed it. Asher kicks snow away from the door, tugging at the handle.

I stand at a bit of a distance, doing my best to calculate how much time has passed.

Asher said we were a mile away from the palace when we stepped out of the sewers, so we can’t be too far outside the capital city.

I hoped we’d hear evidence of search parties: shouting in the woods, mounted guards and soldiers trotting through.

But there’s been nothing—and walking so far underground will make us impossible to follow.

This falling snow will obscure our tracks, too, and rather immediately.

I close my eyes and think of my friend. Sev. Please. Find me.

I imagine him somewhere out in the world, equally desperate. Ky. Where the hell are you?

The door finally gives, and snow slides from the roof to land inside. Asher gestures for Jory to enter, then stands back and looks at me. I can only see the barest glimpse of his features under the hood of his coat.

“Don’t go near her,” he says. “Stay by the wall.”

I’m tempted to push him a little, to see how he’d react—but I suspect he might just lock me out here in the snow. I walk past him, my tied bootlaces snapping taut with every step.

Once we’re inside, I hope for cloaks or blankets or something .

But no, the walls and floor are bare planks that smell musty, with an old wood-burning stove taking up one corner.

Dust and cobwebs coat the dark surface, but a small stack of aged wood sits beside it.

I don’t need magic to know that it’s been a while since a fire burned in this room.

I sigh and lean against the wall beside a snow-covered window. I keep trying to flex my wrists, but there’s so little give.