Page 21 of Reign

I reached for my father’s cap as the fat man looked me up and down.

“Sorry, you’re just so small,” he said with a sarcastic smirk—his teeth browning like an apple core rotting in the sun.

Snatching my cap back, I clutched it tightly against my chest. “Not where it counts,” I retorted.

Their laughter boomed, echoing through the hills. I tightened my fists, worrying they’d pick on me because of my small stature.

The tallest of the three stepped forward, presenting his gloved hand. “I’m Bash,” he said, his smile warm and kind, stretching all the way to his storm-gray eyes.

I shook his hand, still feeling wary.

“They call me Fletcher,” declared the man with the split lip.

He tipped his hat before elbowing the round one. “This is Arthur. And you are?”

Despite all the time I’d had to prepare an alias, I hadn’t thought of one. I was preoccupied with survival and self-loathing.

“Finn,” I blurted—my brother’s name escaping my dry mouth. “Finn Smith.”

Unease flickered in my chest. I prayed I wouldn’t come to rue that name choice.

“Son of a blacksmith?” Bash asked.

I nodded stiffly.

“I’m the son of a carpenter,” he replied, showing me that gentle smile again. “I guess we’re both good with our hands.”

Arthur ran his fingers through what remained of his white hair. “If the boy’s called Smith, did you really have to ask if he was the son of a blacksmith? That’s how surnames work,” he scoffed, nudging Fletcher with his elbow as if fishing for agreement.

“You’re the son of a cunt,” Bash said with a wicked smirk. “Last time I checked your name wasn’t Arthur Cunt—or am I mistaken?”

Fletcher roared with laughter, blood trickling from his split lip as his mouth opened wide. He slapped the lapel on Bash’s long coat like he’d said something profound rather than crude.

“Shut it,” Arthur snapped, swinging a punch toward the pair but missing them both.

Bash, still chuckling at his own jest, turned to me. “We’re looking for a stone circle,” he said. “A landmark to make sure we’re trekking in the right direction.”

“I saw one, not far from here,” I replied, pointing down the path I’d just walked.

Bash sighed, obviously relieved. “We’re heading the right way.”

“Thanks for your help,” Fletcher said, giving me a hearty pat on the back.

Arthur eyed me warily one last time before the trio marched away, their white heads bobbing as they departed down the path. Fletcher’s cackles still echoed behind them as they put distance between us.

My legs twitched with slight hesitation. They might be the last people I saw again for days, and though this band of white-haired men were far from my ideal companions, I couldn’t survive another second wandering the sea of snowy green alone.

“I’m lost,” I shouted after them. “I’m trying to find the Walled City.”

“Smith, you’re in luck,” Bash called over his shoulder. “That’s where we’re heading.”

I ran in their direction as they continued through the hills.

Once I caught up, I asked, “Why are you going there?”

“We’re joining the fight,” Fletcher replied.

“Not willingly—we’ve been conscripted,” Arthur added. “I assume that’s why you’re going?”