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I thought they were incredible—big, powerful, larger than life and equipped with the finest weapons I’d ever seen.
Never in a thousand years could have I imagined I’d be training them when I was older.
The very first time I was allowed to hold a sword was when one of them—a burly, gravelly-voiced man called Braemar—called me over.
How they’d laughed when I tried to lift it—and failed miserably.
That moment is etched into my mind. It’s probably the very thing that ignited my passion for the sword. I couldn’t have imagined that someday I’d wield it with such ease.
The trainers called me a freak of nature. It was soon discovered that I had a great aptitude for the fighting arts. I progressed at an alarming rate, besting seasoned veterans, easily winning tournaments.
NowI understand why.
I push open the big wooden doors and enter the War Room. The scent of aged oak fills my nostrils. That’s because of the large oval table in the center. Worn and pitted and ancient, it’s where the Guards sit and plot strategy; where they eat and drink and smoke and wager.
Where I used to play with my toy soldiers.
I pull a chair and take a seat in the middle. There’s a seldom-used chair at the end of the room, elevated on a wooden platform. A smaller version of a throne, where my father used to sit and receive briefings or issue orders.
I’m not interested in sitting in that chair.
I wait.
My mouth is filled with the taste ofher.Her scent lingers in my consciousness. I can hear her, several rooms away, leafing through ancient texts.
She’s in my father’s secret library, searching for information about her Dryad heritage; about her mysterious powers.
A feeling of calm descends upon me. I don’t quite know why. I’m just filled with certainty that Finley will become formidable—even more so than she already is.
She managed to handleme, didn’t she?
If she wasn’t there at the pinnacle of my anger, I probably would have done something destructive.
But now I’m satiated and somewhat contained, so when I hear footsteps—one of the Guard, no doubt—echoing down the corridor, I’m able to compose my thoughts and conceal my emotions behind an expressionless mask.
Eventually, he enters the room. He stops dead in his tracks as he catches sight of me.
He’s one of the guards that greeted me at the entrance. I know him. Tarron.
Huge, muscular, freckled, and crimson-bearded, he’s a warrior to be feared for his cunning, endless stamina, and incredible strength. He’s also blessed with unwavering loyalty and a relentless work ethic. I’d gladly have had him in my crew, but there’s no way he would have left the Elite Guard.
Once an Elite, always an Elite. They swore an oath. They would have defended my father to the death.
And now that he’s gone…
Who are they going to be loyal to?
It’s up to me to convince them to swear fealty to me, and Tarron, their leader, is instrumental in that equation.
He approaches me, holding his hands with his palms facing outwards to show that he’s no threat, even though I know he could have his fingers curled around the hilt of his broadsword faster than the human eye can see.
I tip my head in greeting. “Tarron.”
“Your Highness.” His tone is grave. I wonder if he realizes what’s come to pass. “I’d be lying if I said I was surprised to find you here.”
“Thank you for respecting my privacy earlier,” I say quietly.
He offers a gruff nod in response.
