Page 6 of Keeping a Nymph’s Heart

Didn’t she know Orla was a monster? She had let the people that matter down, she had killed them, but all these people at court saw was a hero. It made her sick. A sheen of sweat broke out on Orla’s upper lip. She suddenly felt entirely too hot, but she had to get it together. She was only a few more minutes from the throne room, and she couldn’t be late for the meeting with the king and the Edamish heir. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to move farther down the corridor. I can do this, she thought, over and over again. If she thought it enough, maybe it would become true.

Chapter Four

Memories of that fateful day seven years ago threatened to overtake her.

Clanging and grunts sounded on all sides of her. The scent of blood filled the air. Orla stayed focused on the group that was fighting her and Rhyan. These were some of Edam’s fittest warriors, and clearly, they wanted to take down the famed Emmentalian warriors who had won so many battles and killed so many of their people.

One of the warriors lunged, his spear heading straight for Orla’s chest, she pivoted and missed the blow while striking out, cutting the male along his thigh. More warriors came as Rhyan and Orla cut them down in turn.

The smell of blood and muddy earth kept her grounded. She felt focused. In control. This was what she was good at. What she had trained for, for so many years.

As Orla fought, flashes of lightning blazed in the sky despite the clear, hot day. It crackled loudly, lighting up the sky in an unnatural glow. The strikes were mesmerizing, causing Orla to break focus. She looked up for several seconds. When she looked back across the battlefield, she saw a helmeted warrior focused on her as if a battle wasn’t waging around them. The warrior’s eyes locked on hers in the distance.

It wasn’t long, just a moment of distraction, but that was all it took. One of the Edamish warriors had gotten between her and Rhyan. He was coming for Orla from behind while she fought another at her front.

“No!”

She heard him before she saw him, Rhyan’s yell alerting her to the situation at her back. As Orla turned, she realized that the Edamish warrior behind her was no regular warrior at all; it was Prince Gwayne.

His golden hair shone in the sunlight on the hot day. His face was pale, freckled, caked with dirt, and battle worn. His flaxen-colored wings drooped from exhaustion, but there was a curl to his lips. One that hinted at feelings of triumph. And in a moment that lasted an eternity, Orla saw why. The tip of his blade was pointed directly at Rhyan’s throat. She lunged for Prince Gwayne, attempting to cut him down.

Orla moved as quickly as possible.

She knew she could get to Rhyan in time. She⁠—

She couldn’t.

She was too slow, and by the time she was a step away from Prince Gwayne, he had already slit Rhyan’s throat.

“Gods no,” she breathed.

Orla’s thoughts were frantic. This couldn’t happen; this wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. Orla froze as she watched Rhyan’s body crumple to the ground. She slashed at Prince Gwayne, slicing his sword arm. Not a killing blow, but one that would slow him down as she ran to Rhyan. He was clutching his throat, blood pouring out of the wound so fast Orla couldn’t comprehend it.

No, no, no.

“Please, Rhyan. Please, you can’t die. Please. Please.” The words were ripped out of her throat like a cry.

She was heaving and sobbing. The battle around her had ceased to matter. At that moment, all that mattered was Rhyan. The one person she had ever thought of as a best friend. The one person she had ever let herself love. And as the light went out of his dark, soulful eyes, something inside her crumpled.

It happened in a blink; Orla’s magic ripped through her unbidden. Her entire being felt flooded with power. When she looked up, large thorns had been conjured. They were sailing through the battlefield, tearing through anything in their path. The bodies of nearly every person in that field were torn open in an instant from her magic. As if in mourning with her, the sky opened up and rain began to fall heavy over the battlefield.

In mere seconds, so many were dead, others dying. Both Emmentalian and Edamish warriors alike, slain by her magic. She didn’t care. For the moment, she couldn’t care. The one person in that battle that mattered laid dead in her arms.

In front of her, Prince Gwayne of Edam lay a short distance away. A large thorn protruded straight through his head.

Prince Gwayne, heir to the Kingdom of Edam, leader of the war, dead by her hand.

It was everything she had fought for. Everything she had wanted, but she had never wanted it like this.

* * *

Chest heaving, palms slick with sweat, the taste of bile coating her mouth, Orla knew these sensations well. They had dogged her for the last seven years, but she had to pull herself together. Forcing herself to take deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, Orla made her legs move, one in front of the other.

As she approached the throne room’s gilded doors her breathing had steadied even though her skin was still coated in sweat. Near the door was a male she didn’t recognize. He was tall, nearly a foot taller than Orla, and clearly Elven, with pointed ears and impressively large antlers sticking out of his wavy reddish brown hair. He had high cheekbones and eyes the pale blue color of the morning sky. His long straight nose had a bump on it, probably from breaking it at some point. Stubble scattered across the male’s sharp jaw.

He looked bored, features haughty in a way that most Elves carried themselves. The whole lot of them thought they were better than every other creature in the realm, and this male looked to be no different. But his looks were not what stood out to her; he was a black dot in a sea of blues and silvers. The man wore black leather armor with the red Griffin sigil of the Kingdom of Edam emblazoned on the chest.

Orla huffed a sigh. An Edamish warrior then. He had the look of a warrior, broad shouldered and well muscled.