Page 26 of Reign

I pushed the blade harder, finding the bravery I couldn’t muster on that night by the well.

The boggart’s yellow eyes flickered with fear. “Fine,” he said, his stubby limbs trembling.

“Smith, you’ve proved your point,” Bash said, his tone stern.

I released the blade and freed the boggart. He scrambled toward a narrow staircase beside the bar, disappearing into the shadows.

Stew had sloshed over my lap during the altercation, soaking my breeches. Pathetically, I stared down at my soggy crotch.

“Have you pissed yourself?” Fletcher jeered, cackling as I shook off clumps of nettle clinging to the fabric.

I slumped onto the bench beside Arthur, eating what was left of my soup in silence, like a disobedient child who just got a scolding.

Bash reached toward me. “May I see that?” he asked, nodding at the blade.

I handed it over.

“Exquisite craftsmanship,” he said, twirling it between his fingers. In the candlelight, the blade shimmered like melting ice.

“Thanks,” I replied, feeling a sense of pride. “I made it myself.”

Bash raised an eyebrow. “Smith, if I survive this war, I want you to make me one.”

I beamed at the thought of my first customer—even if I had to masquerade as a man to seal the deal.

A gust of cold air flurried through the inn as the front door swung open. A clanging sound announced his entrance, and even after the door was wedged shut again, I couldn’t help but shiver.

“Knight,” Fletcher murmured.

The knight removed his metal helmet, cramming it underneath his arm. His chain mail hung heavy on his frame as he navigated through the tables. My eyes caught the gleam of his polished sword, sheathed at his hip, its intricately carved pommel stirring memories of working alongside Father in the smithy before he left for war.

He pounded a sheet of parchment onto the tabletop before us, then clinked his way toward the bar. The drawing caught my attention—a dog, its teeth bared in a vicious snarl. Though I couldn’t read, I recognized it instantly as a wanted poster, with its bold lettering printed above an unflattering caricature.

“Wanted—the Black Shuck,” the knight announced as he pinned another poster to the inn’s wall. “A magical beast has been on a killing spree in the Wetlands. Two dead—including the Lord’s daughter—and one villager still missing.”

He was from the Wetlands, and fearing recognition, I shrank into the shadow cast by Arthur. Fletcher picked up the parchment, examining the drawing like he wanted to etch every detail into his memory.

“I thoughts the Wetlands were free o’ magic?” the innkeeper asked.

The knight shook his head. “It appears not. The Lord’s offering a handsome reward to anyone who can bring him the Shuck—alive or dead.”

“Maybe we should go hunting tonight,” Bash whispered, shooting me a wink.

The men chuckled.

Arthur snatched the poster from Fletcher. “Smith’s good with a knife, he could take on the Black Shuck alone,” he muttered, clearly still fixated on my tussle with a creature small enough to nip at my knees.

I scooched across the bench, peering over Arthur’s shoulder at the drawing of Dog. They’d depicted her as a deranged beast—with beady eyes, sharp fangs, and a tangle of untamed fur. That wasn’t the Dog I knew. The one who loved belly rubs and neck scratches. The one who protected me. Tears pricked my eyes as I realized I owed my life to the very beast on that wanted poster.

“I’m going to sleep,” I announced, rising without waiting for the men to bid me good night.

“Third door on your left—no, right,” the innkeeper called after me as I hurried up the narrow staircase.

I ducked under the low doorframe and stepped into the chamber. The ceiling hung so close I could have kissed the rafters, and the bedsteads were cramped enough for pillow-sharing. One was already occupied by a snoozing lump beneath a blanket. I’d only ever slept in my family’s cottage, and as I crawled under the scratchy sheets of the bedstead by the window, a sense of homesickness hit me. I muffled my sniffles into the thin pillow, forcing myself to remember that I was alive, while others were not. That was something to be grateful for.

I must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing I recalled was the sound of men clambering into the chamber.

“I’m not sleeping beside stabby,” Arthur whispered. “He’ll probably get annoyed with my snoring and knife me.”