Page 146 of Reign

Regina shook her head. “No, he can keep it in his mouth,” she declared, clutching the hilt of her sword in both hands.

As I exhaled, thanking the gods for hearing my plea, Regina opened her mouth once more.

“For I want his head,” she spat.

There was no time to flee for sanctuary. In a single, decisive swing, her blade cleaved through Herla’s neck—severing it cleanly.

Herla’s body collapsed one way, his head another—both landing on the tiles with a gut-curdling thud.

A deafening shrill filled the hall, almost as quickly as the all-encompassing scent of iron.

Isobel hunched over, hands planted firmly upon the ground as she retched and heaved—her pointed ears tilted backward, her big eyes bulging from their sockets as she fought against vomiting.

I reached for Fitzroy once more. Without hesitation, his hand closed around mine in a tight squeeze, like a silent promise that everything would be fine. Yet as Regina stooped to retrieve the fallen head from the blood-slicked tiles, dread dampened my skin.

I could never support her claim to the throne.

“Does anyone else want to question my queenship?” she bellowed, thrusting the elf’s head high into the air.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a vague outline of Herla’s face—his mouth slightly open, blood still dripping from the sliced flesh—but I couldn’t bring myself to look directly.

Silence reigned for a long, uncomfortable moment.

Regina then placed Herla’s head on the ground before circling back to a vacant Mabina.

“Prepare the fairies and elves for war,” she ordered. “Inform the fae that if they refuse to fight for me, I’ll take to the skies on my dragon and burn Wistaman’s Woodland to ashes.”

Mabina didn’t move; she clung to the mantelpiece like the castle was swaying. Her bloodshot eyes were fixed on the flames, and her face bore the same defeated resignation of a captain destined to sink with their ship.

“My Queen,” Fitzroy said, rising and pulling me to his side. “Niamh and I shall depart from the Isle before nightfall, bound for Cambas to fulfill your orders and muster the army of men.” He lowered his head in a reverent bow.

I trembled, struggling to maintain balance as I curtsied.

“Have no doubt, we shall meet you on the battlefield in a matter of days,” he continued, taking my arm.

“Fly safe, Nephew,” Regina said—her tone reverting to that sweet, affectionate one she’d used before.

I shuddered at her effortless switch.

We left the Great Hall wearing calm facades, as if the events inside had been as merry as the other evenings at court. But I shook as if I were out on the peak of a hill during the longest night of winter.

Although Fitzroy remained silent, as he hurried us through the passageways, his mouth moved like he was internally arguing with a voice in his head.

As I hurried into my chamber, I realized Bronwyn was stripping the linens from my mattress. She glanced up at the sound of the creaking door, her eyes meeting mine—which were wide with panic.

“Is everything all right, just Niamh?” she asked cautiously.

I shook my head as Fitzroy stepped in, ushering me forward and quietly closing the door.

“Oh, welcome, Prince Fitzroy,” Bronwyn said respectfully, bowing her head.

With his hands planted firmly on his hips, Fitzroy began pacing the chamber. “Damn me,” he muttered under his breath.

Bronwyn watched him nervously from beside the bedstead. “Whatever is the matter?” she probed.

“Wolver was killed during a patrol last night,” Fitzroy replied, abruptly stopping still.

Bronwyn gasped, instinctively covering her mouth.