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But Joy was pointing to a small group, a handful of Witches training in hand-to-hand combat. They were paired together, slowly practicing their motions, as a familiar figure moved among them, assessing.
Even at this distance, his features barely visible, Fey recognized Dameon, their handler. He had once been one of the Queen’s most highly ranked generals, though he spent little time here in the training yard with the soldiers these days. No, his job was more specialized. For the last ten years, Dameon had been the face of the Queen’s Guard, her right-hand general—and their trainer. When he spoke, he spoke with the voice of the Crown itself, and he was the one who pointed the Queen’s Blades in the direction her justice was required.
He was the one who sent them to kill.
Fey liked Dameon as much as she liked any man. She respected him, at least, despite the rumors of how he had advanced so quickly through the ranks. Since his promotion to the Queen’s personal guard years ago, it had been whispered behind his back that he bore an uncanny resemblance to the young Princess Amalia, the Queen’s heir, and good money said he was the girl’s father. There were a great number among the aristocrats who believed Queen Edelin had him promoted to the role to keep him close to her bedchamber. But he was a good general, a good soldier, and a great trainer. He kept the four of them in impeccable shape, kept them bloodthirsty and ready.
No, Fey corrected herself, swallowing the pain the thought conjured. Not four, not anymore.
If Dameon were here, that meant they wouldn’t be three for long. They would be complete once again.
Fey watched the group of Witches he instructed closely. One of them could be their next sister.
Moving from some unheard command, the Witches stopped their training, separating from their pairs to form a circle. Fey watched as Dameon motioned for two of the Witches to enter the ring. Immediately, they both took up fighting stances, circling one another, looking for an opening.
“Can you see any of them? How do they look?” Lilith asked, glancing up from her sharpening.
They were too far away to make out much of the fight, but Fey knew the moves like it was a dance she’d performed a hundred times. The fight was quick and messy. Unimpressive, to say the least. Fey only snorted, and behind her, Lilith laughed darkly.
The winner declared, two more moved forward to begin their fight. Fey and Joy watched them together, leaning against the windowsill, not needing to speak.
It was the fourth fight that finally caught their interest. It was fast, even faster than the first, and when a dark-skinned Witch with auburn hair was pinned to the ground it should have signified the end of the match. But she refused to yield. She fought and bucked against her partner, who looked briefly at Dameon for help. That was all the opening the Witch needed to strike. She freed a hand, gathering a fistful of sandy earth and throwing it in her opponent’s face. The victor reared back, hands going to her eyes, and the auburn-haired Witch grabbed her by the neck and slammed their heads together.
Fey barked a surprised laugh, and next to her, Joy squealed in delight. The victor went down hard, and even from up here, three floors above the training grounds, they could hear her scream with indignation and pain.
Dameon was shouting, but the Witch refused to stop. She tackled the victor, fighting like a crazed animal as the girl shouted for help.
Lilith appeared next to them in the window to watch, her dark eyes sparkling.
“That’s the one,” she said, as below them Dameon fought to restrain the auburn-haired Witch. Fought and nearly failed.
“Oh yes,” agreed Fey. “She’s the one, alright.”
“So,” Joy clapped her hands together excitedly. “Who wants to go meet our new sister?”
Fey went, of course.
Somehow, these problems always landed on her shoulders.
She waited outside the grand arched entrance to Solare, leaning her back against the cool stone building. The afternoon sun hung heavy in the sky above her, and the small lip of shade she sheltered in was quickly fading.
A bell tolled from the palace, announcing the midday hour, and the sounds of fighting and training within the arena faded as soldiers dispersed for lunch, flowing from Solare, and out into the afternoon sun.
Fey was quickly spotted, and soon a crowd gathered around her, with soldiers openly staring as they left the training yards. Though only her eyes were visible through the mask, her blood-red hair pulled back and covered by her cowl, there was no mistaking what she was. No mistaking the sigils that covered her arms and the dark tattoo of the Queen’s Blade that marked the inside of her left forearm.
She was the best of them, the highest rank of soldier under the Crown.
She was a monster.
Fey suspected for many of them, this was their first time seeing one of the Queen’s Blades in the flesh. Was it any wonder they stopped and stared? If they were lucky, this would be the only time they ever saw her. If they were unlucky, she would be the last thing they ever saw.
Most of the Witches bowed their heads reverently as they passed, but a few—mostly the men—paused long enough to bow more formally, bending long and low at the waist. She ignored them, not bothering to spare any of them a passing glance. She simply waited, silent and cold as the stone against her back.
Her sisters had gone back to the palace—Lilith to prepare for her assignation, and Joy to get in a bout of training. That just left her alone, waiting for Dameon.
Fey forced down the frustration rising in her chest. There was an emptiness inside her, a piece that was missing. And Dameon—Dameon was dragging his feet. He was failing in his duty, failing to keep them whole.
It had always been this way, ever since the beginning. The Queen’s Blades were a group of four Witches—powerful, cunning, and deadly. There had always been four, and for three hundred years when a Blade fell, another was picked to take her place.
