Page 7 of Ravenrose

I blink at her, confusion ebbing into irritation as I climb the hill to join her.

“Maks. What are you—” My question cuts off the moment I crest the hill.

Below us lies the bend in the road, right before you reach the gates to Rosecliff.

Normally quiet, today it’s full of activity: a small caravan of soldiers moving through. I stare down at the men—or rather fae—my eyes catching on the swords slung across their backs, dagger hilts glinting in the sun at their hips, bows and quivers full of arrows on a few.

I don’t recognize any of them, but a little of the tension in my shoulders ease at the sight of Sitara’s white and gold colors, and the star crest on their armour.

The men are laughing, shouting to one another as they drag something behind them—or should I say, someone?

The soldiers are too preoccupied with their prisoner to notice me—high up on this hill at their backs. I dare a step closer, peering down at the filth-covered man, nearly every inch of him caked in dirt—or was that blood on the side of his face? His hands are bound before him, and he trips and sways wearily as the Sitari soldiers, who appear to be growing increasingly irritated with their burden, drag him roughly forward, each time a little harder than the last.

But despite his circumstances, the man laughs.

Laughs!

In fact, he holds his head even higher as he laughs at the soldiers who curse and spit at him until one of them, having had enough of the man’s antics, shoves him forward hard enough that he falls.

More shouts ring out, bringing the small military convoy to a halt.

At the disruption, a rider toward the front turns his horse around. His presence alone is enough to put a stop to the prisoner’s harassment, and every Sitari soldier takes a wide step back as he approaches. His auburn hair shines in the sunlight, and I tilt my head to study him. To study the familiar way he sits upon his saddle, his rigid posture, the set of his jaw…

Without warning, Maksa takes off again, racing down the hill and toward the caravan of soldiers.

“No!” I shout, not giving it a second thought when once again, I pick up my skirts and tear after the stars-blasted wolf.

Maksa is just about the friendliest creature on this side of the fae lands, but the soldiers waiting at the bottom of the hill don’t know that… and when they see a gawky wolf pup bounding up to them, I’m fairly certain they’ll shoot first and ask questions later.

I’m so wholly focused on Maksa, slipping and sliding, just barely keeping my footing on the way down the muddy hill, all while shouting at the soldiers not to shoot… that I don’t notice the familiar rider sliding down from his horse, that is, until Maksa leaps right into his arms.

My face twists in horror, but one quick look has that horror dissipating nearly as quickly as it comes, and I don’t slow down either before I, too, tackle the rider, wrapping my arms tight around his waist.

“Stand down! Stand down!” I hear the rider rumble out to his men. I glance up quickly, not realizing how the other soldiers have their weapons at the ready, waiting for his orders.

Strong hands grip my shoulders as the male pushes me off of him, holding me at arms length in order to inspect me fully. After a few seconds of sharp scrutiny, he pulls me roughly back in. My arms wrap around him so tightly, I don’t think he could shrug me off again if he tried.

My heart warms at the familiar deep rumble of his laugh that tumbles out of his chest, my grin spreading ear to ear.

“Are you acquainted with this,” a nearby soldier starts, then pauses, “feral little thing, Your Highness?”.

“This feral little thing is my sister.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Your princess.” He calls out that last part loudly, and the effect is immediate.

I shove my brother back roughly, my grin quickly sharpening to a glare when everyone around us drops to one knee, bowing their heads, one fist over each chest. Well, everyone except their prisoner—the only one left standing besides Fel and I.

Fel’s amber eyes sparkle at what he’s done, a smirk on his face. He knows just how much I hate all this pomp and circumstance.

“On your knees, swine,” a gruff voice snarls, pulling my attention just in time to see one soldier whack the back of the prisoner’s knees with his fist, forcing the man to the ground with a grunt before raising his arm to hit him again.

I’m already moving to intervene. “No! No, it’s all right. He doesn’t… None of you have to⁠—”

“Stand down, Breck,” Riven shouts at the soldier as he gracefully descends the hill, finally catching up.

Breck drops his chin deeply in respect, halting his assault on the man.

I eye the prisoner, inches deep in the road’s muck, still on his hands and knees. Sensing my gaze, the prisoner lifts his head, raising his eyes to meet mine. They’re blue. A pretty shade of blue, I notice, before he winks.

Winks!