Damien descended and heavy smoke curled through the air. She coughed, and her eyes stung. The dragon circled above the battlefield—for it was a battlefield, that much was clear—and huffed out a cloud of air that broke through the smoke. The warriors below paid no attention.
“Brace yourself, my lady warrior. We are about to land.”
Tempest wiggled until she was perched on his back, fingers still clenching his harness. Damien swept low, and she inhaled. It was now or never. Her thighs tensed as she sprung from his back toward the battle. Her teeth rattled as she hit the ground, rolling through the snow. She popped to her feet and moved into the fray without a second thought. While she didn’t condone war, she’d been raised for it.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she strode among the chaos.
Calm yourself or you’ll make a mistake. Madrid’s words were a whisper in her ear.
For half a second, Tempest breathed in deeply and surveyed her surroundings, the firelight casting ghoulish shadows over the fighting men. Gunpowder, the metallic tang of blood, and the putrid smell of excrement washed over her. She dry-heaved once and then unsheathed her sword as a dark-clothed man caught her eye and charged. She swung, easily managing to dodge his blows, before cutting the soldier down.
“That’s my girl!” Damien called, swiping his tail along the ground, throwing warriors into the air. The dragon launched into the night sky, his wings stirring snow as he disappeared into the darkness. He could have decimated the battlefield if he had wanted to, but he flew away.
Focus.
Tempest lowered her chin and swept her cloak behind her, scanning the battlefield. It would have been nice to have the dragon at her side, but she was more than capable. Another warrior darted in her direction. She met his attack and parried, slicing his Achilles tendon before moving on. Tempest plowed forward. She never outright attacked, only defended herself against any seeking to kill her, whether they were shifter or human. Her brain worked overtime to identify just what exactly was going on. Through the blood and smoke and darkness of night it was difficult to see who was fighting who. Another fiery explosion went off to her right. The ground bucked beneath her feet, and she flung up an arm to protect her face. The flames writhed like a temporary sun and illuminated the field.
She froze. No.
The crown prince stood among the fray.
What was the bloody prince and his soldiers doing here? An ambush.
Her jaw clenched. Why in the hell had Destin not mentioned that one of his sons was returning—least of all his heir? This was just getting worse every minute.
Figure it out later. Move.
Protect the prince. Protect the prince. Protect the prince. It ran through her head over and over as she fought to get to his side. Even though he was a worthless sod, he wasn’t his father, and she’d sworn an oath to protect the kingdom.
The prince stumbled in her direction, bleary-eyed and clearly drunk, trying to hold his own. He was nowhere near her level of skill, but he wasn’t terrible. What he lacked in finesse, he made for in enthusiasm.
“Damn it,” she muttered as another of the prince’s soldiers collapsed to the ground, leaving the crown prince open on his left. Heimseryan soldiers dropped like flies. The Talagans who were attacking them were not mere thieves or brigands. They were too efficient. Her fingers tightened on the pommel of her sword. This was the Jester’s doing.
Another soldier rushed at her. She met his attack and gasped as he whipped under her guard, slashing her along the ribs. Tempest sucked in a sharp breath and staggered to the side, thankful she’d worn her corset reinforced with steel. He’d have gutted her without it. The man rushed at her again, but Tempest was ready for him. She met him, brandishing both sword and dagger. Their swords locked, and she growled, feeling her boots slipping. The man spat at her and then his eyes went wide. His mouth slackened, and his legs collapsed. Tempest skittered back, wrapping a hand around her ribs, wheezing. He’d been shot with three arrows.
Were those meant for her? She locked eyes with a shifter holding a bow. The woman smiled and twisted to meet an oncoming attack. She’d take that as a no. An ally. For now. Her gaze dropped to the man, and her heart clenched at the huge silver ring sitting on his finger.
A wolf ring.
A Hound. She’d fought a Hound. And he was dead because of it.
One of your own. Who are you?
Tempest hefted her sword, ribs screaming, and stormed forward. A shifter with ram horns bellowed and charged at her. She planted her feet and screamed back—a guttural, vengeful roar that Brine would have been proud of.
The crown prince turned at the sound of the scream. The relief on his dirt-streaked face was palpable when he realized who she was. Thank your stars, boy, that I am protecting you. She could do this. Protect the prince. Become the queen. Protect the people.
Her brain shut down until she was just a product of her training. One man. Two, three, four. Some of her attackers were skilled, of that there was no doubt, but she was a Hound, trained by the Dark Court. She was death.
The prince stumbled again, a sloppy smile on his face. “Tempest!” he cried, swinging his sword like a child. “I am so—”
A spear slid right through his chest. The young man gasped, blood staining his lips.
Tempest’s vision went black, then white.
“No!” she screamed, dropping her sword and yanking her bow from her back. In a matter of heartbeats, she’d felled the prince’s attacker. Tempest tossed her bow over her shoulder and grabbed her sword from the snow, already closing the distance between herself and the prince. The young man fell to his knees, and his hands went to the shaft of the spear, disbelief in his too-bright eyes as he yanked the weapon out.
“Don’t do that!” Tempest commanded. The prince gasped wetly and dropped the spear to the bloody snow. She caught him before he fell. “Set up a perimeter!” she bellowed at his remaining guards, who were forming a circle around them. Tempest pressed the bottom of her cloak to the prince’s wound but knew it wouldn’t help.
Blood bubbled from his mouth and onto the snow beneath them, his face growing pale. A drop of water smeared the ash and snow, then another and another. She was crying. “It’s going to be okay,” she soothed.
“I—don’t,” the prince began, though the words were barely audible through his parched lips. “Don’t want t-to die.”
Tempest smoothed back his hair and lied; it was all she could do. “You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. You can do this. Just keep your lovely eyes open.”
The prince wasn’t fine, and he didn’t close his eyes, although it didn’t help. His chest stilled, and his eyes glassed over.
The royal was dead.
She froze like that—on her knees, with the prince in her arms—for what felt like an eternity, though she knew that wasn’t possible. The world slowed until it resembled a watercolor painting. A dull roar echoed in her ears, but she didn’t move, slowly rocking the crown prince. She’d never liked the boy, but that didn’t mean she wished him dead. The fear in his eyes before death took him would never leave her mind.
A hand touched her shoulder, and she flinched. A dagger found its way into her hand, and a foot soldier held up his hands. He was barely more than a boy. What was a boy doing on the crown prince’s protection detail?