Page 49 of Reign

“Partner up and practice defending,” he ordered, his voice deeper than usual. “I want no blood drawn. You’ll see plenty of it on the battlefield.”

Arthur quickly latched onto Bash—uneasy as ever, and now wary of facing me in a duel.

I lunged toward the coward, feinting a grab for my sword hilt. He flinched, and I chuckled; Arthur was almost certainly scared of his own shadow.

“You’re a madman,” Arthur muttered, his movements still twitchy.

Bash tried to suppress the smile puckering at the corners of his lips, while Fletcher stepped forward, volunteering as my opponent.

“Remember who got you that coat before you wrestle me to the ground,” Fletcher teased, securing his cap firmly on his head—just in case.

I nodded, enjoying the esteem I’d earned among the men.

“Where did you learn that trick?” Bash asked as he parried Arthur’s blade. “You had me fooled—I thought you’d joined the gods.”

“I used to fake ailments to entertain my brother,” I said, recalling Henry’s laughter at my pretend afflictions.

“You have a brother?” Bash asked.

“Two,” I replied.

Before I could remember their faces, Arthur let out a sigh.

“There was once six of us,” he said, somberly. “Now, only my sister and I remain.”

“I’m the eldest of four sisters and five brothers,” Bash told me, and I nodded—that explained his kind and caring nature. “There’s never a quiet moment at home.”

“Your poor mother,” I said, thinking of how exhausted my own had been raising just the three of us. “And your father must treasure his days at sea,” I added, recalling how mine often sought refuge from his children in the smithy.

Arthur lowered his sword as he turned to me—jaw slack and brows raised.

Fletcher shook his head. “Unfortunate choice of words, Smith,” he muttered.

A heavy silence settled over us. I recalled the conversation, searching for what I’d done wrong. But before I could find it, Bash finally spoke.

“My father’s missing,” he said quietly. “Two summers ago, he boarded a ship that never docked. No wreckage, no debris—nothing. It’s as if the ship sailed off the edge of the sea.”

My heart sank.

“Feel terrible for jesting about his father yet?” Arthur teased. “I would.”

And I did. Bash was the last person in Cambas I ever wanted to see hurt.

“Ignore him,” Bash said, giving me a comforting pat on the shoulder. “If anyone understands my longing for my father’s return, it’s Smith.”

I nodded through the guilt, aware that he believed I was mourning a missing sister. But that wasn’t the case. The truth was far more complicated.

The Anchor.

On the final night before the planned invasion, I joined a rowdy group of soldiers for one last pint of ale. Walking alongside Bash—always desperate to be near him—I peered over the cliff edge at the burnt sands below. Cambas was a quiet seaside town that didn’t look like it had been bustling before the shores turned black. Small, timber-framed houses were nestled into the rocky cliffside, while an abandoned shipyard lay below. The briny scent of sea drifted inland and clung to my long coat, so I smelled like I’d washed my garments in a rock pool.

“Look!” Tom called over his shoulder, pointing toward the shore.

There, a few oyster shuckers sat hunched by the water, their rag-wrapped hands cradling barnacle-encrusted shells. With practiced precision, they wedged knives into the shell hinges and twisted until they cracked open.

“Reminds me of home,” Tom murmured, staring wistfully at the shuckers.

In the near distance, little orange flames flickered in the dusk, marking the entrance to the only tavern left in Cambas. Tucked into a cave with a small deck facing the sea, the alehouse was flanked by flaming rushlights that illuminated a wooden sign overhead—a painting of an anchor. It seemed a fitting name for a seaside brewery.