Page 106 of Reign

With a deep, calming breath, I reminded myself it was Yuletide, and I wasn’t going to let the bratty prince ruin my festivities.

Fitzroy held the slice out once more, a charming smile lighting up his face—his mood shifting like flames.

“It better not be poisoned,” I muttered before taking a bite.

The flavors surprised me—rich and meaty, with a smoky aftertaste that lingered pleasantly. As I chewed, spices tingled my tongue, mingling with the sweetness of dried fruit.

I swallowed my mouthful and then took the slice to offer it back.

Fitzroy nibbled modestly, still managing to get cake on his face.

I chuckled, gently brushing the crumbs off his chin as he smiled—his allure returning now that his mouth was full of cake instead of his commentary.

Something flickered in the pit of my stomach—something I wanted to ignore. But as Fitzroy held my gaze, I couldn’t help indulging in desire. His eyes briefly flitted to my mouth. For a heartbeat, I wondered if he wanted a taste of something else—then I worried I might also have crumbs clinging to my lips.

I moved my hand from his face, hastily patting my own.

Fitzroy snorted, and I realized the burning tension between us was all in my own head.

“What do you think of figgy pudding?” he asked.

“Best thing I’ve eaten in Cambas,” I said, downplaying the taste.

That cake was the best thing I’d eaten, ever. It was delicious.

Skirmish by the Sea.

A glint of morning seeped through a crack in the tent, and I silently thanked the gods that dawn was finally breaking. I’d hardly slept a wink since Yuletide—spending the first few days of the new year utterly exhausted. When I did eventually collapse onto my bedstead, my body felt too weak to move while my mind raced uncontrollably. The incantation I’d repeated hundreds of times echoed in my ears, making sleep impossible.

Dragging myself from the bedstead, I braced for the arrival of the men, who would soon stumble drearily into the smithy for another day of grinding, sharpening, and welding. My hands throbbed as I laced up my boots—I couldn’t tell if the ache was from relentless spellcasting or the ceaseless tasks at the forge. I slid on my gloves, put on my long coat, and stepped outside to savor a moment of fresh air.

The crisp morning alleviated some discomfort in my chest. Hours spent confined inside that smoky tent meant that most mornings, I hacked up mouthfuls of bitter black bile.

The planks beneath my feet were slick with dew, and beads of moisture rolled steadily down the canvas tents. For one fleeting moment, the encampment lay as quiet as I imagined Lyonesse was on the first day of everything—before the gods placed man in the kingdom to fill it with noise and destruction.

Suddenly, something darted between two tents—a dark mass creeping through the camp with the stealth of a predator stalking its prey. I tracked its movements like a hawk as it flitted between the canvas. For a moment, it froze, then sprang straight toward me. Fear jolted through my chest, and I stumbled backward. As the figure approached, I caught a glimpse of the familiar face hidden inside the hood.

Emma grabbed my shoulders. “Something wicked is coming this way,” she whispered, her voice low and urgent.

I frantically ushered her into the smithy, as she continued, “I was awoken by a prophecy. It was as clear as the sky on a summer’s day.”

My heart fluttered faster than a surrendering white flag. “What did it say?”

Emma closed her eyes, like the words were written on the inside of her lids, then softly intoned:

“They shed their skin on dry land.

Do not be fooled, this is no man.

The seal folk feed on human meat.

If you hear their song, retreat, retreat.”

When Emma opened her eyes, her brow furrowed with impending dread. She raised her hands toward me, beginning an incantation.

“Hedan pis wicca, ordain a weal—” Protect this wizard, create a wall.

A blaring trumpet interrupted Emma mid-incantation, shattering the quiet and sending my heart into a frantic thud.