Page 6 of To Save a Kingdom

Brooks snorted, barely holding back the eyeroll as he considered the corpse’s blade. That was the problem with throwing weapons…it left him unarmed. He needed some sort of magical dagger that would manifest in his hands after every time he threw it. Now that would be worth spending the power in his gem on. He met the remaining jailer’s gaze. “You don’t seriously expect me to obey, do you?”

The guard’s face scrunched as he growled, “Then you’ll die!”

Brooks dropped to the ground as the other man’s sword whooshed overhead, close enough to give him a haircut—just a little off the top. Swinging his leg around, he caught his opponent’s ankles and kicked his legs out from under him.

The guard collapsed onto the other with an “Oof!”

Hopping back to his feet, Brooks slammed his heel down on the man’s wrist, forcing him to release his grip on the blade.

The man screamed as his steel clattered against the stone.

Brooks glanced at the front gate. This had taken too long, been too loud. There was a decent chance someone would come to check on the commotion before he was ready.

Snatching the fallen weapon off the ground, he rammed it through the final guard’s chest and into his heart with a satisfying pop.

Brushing his palms on his trousers, Brooks marched down the hallway toward the man that called to his magestone. Coming to a halt outside a much smaller cell, he crossed his arms.

Narrow eyes squinted up through circular glasses. The unruly gray hair that normally stuck out in all directions was matted and plastered to the man’s head by a mixture of dirt, sweat and blood.

Garrik, King Malkov’s master artificer.

“You ready to get out of here yet?” Brooks asked, wrinkling his nose at the stench.

Rheumy eyes stared up at him, blinking as they centered on his gemstone. Garrik scrambled to his feet. “Inquisitor!”

Brooks raised the key ring, jingling it until it caught Garrik’s attention. “I’ll break you out, but I need something from you in return.”

Chapter 4

Zadé

Zadé Brightleaf stared into the mug of ale she’d been nursing for who-knew-how-long as she listened to the general hubbub of the barracks she’d requisitioned for the elven troops in the aftermath of King Malkov’s execution. She sat, as always, far enough to the side to give her a decent view of the entire room, but within reach of the booze.

Someone had the foresight to drag a couple kegs into the corner and tap them. It was entirely too convenient to have a mini bar so close to where she slept. The easy access to alcohol kept the edges of her mind fuzzy so the weight of reality didn’t overpower her.

General.

General Zadé Brightleaf.

Despite her best attempts, she was right back where she’d started—responsible for everyone in the elven army, and still broken in the head. All because she’d been instrumental in defeating the shadow dragon and protecting Princess Tsara’s younger cousin.

She should’ve known better, should’ve anticipated being reinstated at her old rank because of her actions. Not that she would’ve abandoned their forces on the battlefield to die of course, but she might have thought to extract an oath from Tsara to not restore her commission before saving them.

Zadé’s knuckles tightened around the cup as she fought the urge to hurl it against the closest wall, shattering the glass and spilling the frothy drink all over the floor.

But a tantrum wouldn’t accomplish anything, and it wasn’t proper. Not something a general should do. Not in front of her own troops.

The last thing she needed was word getting back to Tsara. Or Elsan and Princess.

Zadé blinked. She’d have to come up with a different nickname for Aliya now. But maybe not. “Princess” had a much nicer ring to it than “Queen,” and it suited Aliya better. Zadé suspected the young woman felt the same.

The weight of a crown was even heavier, if possible, than that of General.

Zadé had never been royalty and, Lord of Light forbid, would never be royal. At least there was one rank Tsara couldn’t force on her.

She sighed, sticking her tongue out at the half-empty mug.

The amber liquid stared back, daring her to do something about it.