Page 159 of Reign

“Incredible,” I replied, recalling her magnetic presence, vast talent, and unexpected generosity. “But terrifying,” I added, shuddering at the memory of her brutal beheading of Herla and that grisly selkie skin she kept as a trophy. “The King may have lied about many things regarding his sister, but he was truthful about her state of mind—she’s succumbed to madness.”

“Their rivalry shall be their downfall,” Finn stated thoughtfully.

I nodded, realizing how easily our relationship could have followed that same tragic course. For our entire lives, we’d been opponents. Just a few weeks before, I hadn’t invited him to the Anchor with the other wizards, selfishly wanting to have something he didn’t.

Yet now, hearing he’d spent the eve with other magical men stirred a sense of guilt—I should have welcomed my own brother into a community that understood him long before this night.

I felt the hard cover of Greenhorn’s Grimoire press against my ribs. Though reluctant to part with it, I already knew far more spells than Finn did. That book would serve him better now.

“I want you to have this,” I said, pulling the battered tome from my cloak pocket.

“What is it?” Finn asked, taking it from my hands and inspecting the worn cover.

“A book of basic spells—things we should have learned in childhood.”

“Thank you,” Finn murmured as he pulled me into a side embrace.

As he flicked through the pages, warmth returned to his eyes—a spark I hadn’t seen in him since his arrival in Cambas.

A yawn escaped me. “I’m going to retreat to my bedstead,” I announced, yearning for the comfort of the soft mattress and silky sheets I’d grown accustomed to on the Isle.

“Where will you sleep?” Finn asked, eyeing me in my gown.

“In the smithy,” I lied, knowing I’d drunk far too much ale to make wise choices. “Good night.”

Quietly, I slipped away and skirted around the bonfire toward the tent I’d once called my bedchamber. Inside, it was dark and stuffy, packed with slumbering soldiers. Lifting my skirt, I stepped carefully over bodies sprawled on straw sacks. As I approached the spot we’d once shared, I recognized the shapes of Bash and Fletcher.

“Bash,” I whispered.

He stirred but didn’t wake, prompting me to nudge his foot with mine. My heart pounded, worrying he might turn me away.

Startled awake, Bash gasped and sat upright, scanning the darkness for signs of danger.

“It’s me,” I said softly.

He exhaled sharply, the tension easing from his features at the sound of my voice.

“May I sleep beside you?” I asked.

He didn’t reply, simply shifting to make room for me.

I crawled beneath the thin sheet and lay on my back, watching the shaking canvas of the tent above. The ground was cold and unyielding, and the straw beneath me offered little comfort.

When I turned, I found Bash watching me—just the whites of his blinking eyes visible in the dim light.

Slowly, our fingers found each other beneath the cover, his touch quickening my heartbeat. Bash rolled onto his side and drew me close until my back pressed firmly against his chest. He clasped my hand gently, nestling his face into the crook of my neck. His deep, steady breaths sent tingles along my skin as he held me close and tight.

“I missed stealing your warmth,” he whispered into my ear.

“Me too,” I murmured.

I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by a sensation I hadn’t felt in a long time. In Bash’s arms, I found a sense of home.

A Final Night in Cambas.

I awoke to a pounding head and a sour stomach—the bitter aftermath of the surfeit of ale I’d glugged the night before. Bash’s arms still encircled me, but I couldn’t savor his embrace; my corset dug into my skin as if trying to tear me in two. I struggled to swallow, my throat painfully dry and parched. Seeking relief, I decided to sneak off to the smithy in search of ale and comfier garments.

Stealthily, I attempted to disentangle myself from Bash’s embrace without disturbing his slumber. Yet, as I shifted, he drew me closer, his grip tightening. When I tried to gently peel his arms away, Bash stirred awake.