Page 23 of Reign

“In the name of the gods, what is that thing?” Arthur gasped, ducking behind my frame, using me as a shield.

“Could say the same about you,” the critter snapped as it scampered closer. “Fat git,” it muttered under its breath.

“Back off!” Fletcher barked, kicking out with force.

His boot whacked the creature’s swollen belly, sending it tumbling among the sharp gravel.

“Eeek!” it squealed, the sound grating like a rusty hinge, as a plume of stone dust engulfed it.

I instinctively stepped forward, wanting to help the poor thing, but Bash grabbed my arm.

“We should go inside,” he murmured, dragging me away.

I nodded, keeping my gaze fixed on the creature as it stumbled to its oversized, flat feet.

Arthur clung to my cloak while Bash pulled me toward the inn with haste. Fletcher shoved the wooden door open, and we all tumbled inside to safety.

“What was that?” I asked, curious about what magical creatures still lurked around the realm.

Fletcher shrugged. “Ugly, that’s what it was—”

“Shouldn’t we tell the innkeeper?” Arthur asked, fear laced into his hushed tone. “Bring it in here and have it killed?”

Bash shook his head. “Four strangers walk into an inn with a magical creature… We’ll be the ones who end up hanged,” he whispered, though his voice was firm. “Sometimes it’s safer to keep quiet.”

I nodded, siding with Bash. I’d seen the hysteria firsthand—when Dog bounded through Green Vale and the villagers turned frenzied.

“You’re right,” Arthur said, his hand drifting to his throat like he could already feel the rope. “I’ll find the innkeeper—ask about lodgings.”

He thumped across the chamber, the floorboards groaning beneath the sheer weight of him.

The inn was dimly lit by a crackling fireplace and a few candlesticks, their wax dripping onto the decorative mantelpiece. Around the hearth were some uncomfortable-looking seats and a wonky wooden table. I sank onto a bench, moaning in delight as I relieved my legs from their duties. The fire thawed my frozen bones—warmth at long last.

“I miss home already.” Bash sighed as he collapsed into a tattered armchair opposite me.

Fletcher chuckled, perching on a stool. “Get used to it. You’ll never see the Headlands again,” he said, giving Bash a jovial shove.

“What’s it like there?” I asked, curious if all of Lyonesse was as rainy and green as the Wetlands.

“Beauteous,” Fletcher replied. “White sandy banks and blue skies.” He closed his eyes, as if trying to recall it from memory.

Bash leaned back in his chair. “The port bustles day and night with merchants, shipbuilders, and shopkeepers. There’s always trouble in the waterways—pirates from the Bristolia Islands harass us seamen who’re trying to protect the Headlands from drifters and poachers. But on a peaceful day, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than on a boat, watching the amber sun melt into the waves on the horizon.”

My stomach rumbled, making me think of food. “What do people eat there?” I asked, thinking of Green Vale’s staples: : potatoes, corn, brambly apples, and strawberries in the summer.

“Lamprey,” Arthur said as he returned from the bar, settling into the space beside me.

“What?” I asked, having no clue what that was.

Arthur sighed. “It’s a long, finless fish, with a mouth as round as a tankard’s rim and lined with rings of tiny teeth. The sea’s so clear, you can catch buckets of them with a single spear.” He mimed stabbing the air. “The Lord of the Headlands once feared they were magical and ordered fishermen to use giant foreshore weirs to trap them. Those ruthless nets caught everything—even a few sirens. But the lamprey kept coming back.”

“Resilient little creatures—and rather tasty, too,” Bash added. “If you don’t mind jaw ache, that is. They’re rather chewy.”

I chuckled as Bash beckoned me closer, and I relaxed into his company, copying his posture as he rested his elbows on his thighs.

“Before the Dark Days, the Headlands were thought to be a holy place,” Bash said. “Everything there was white—even the people’s hair—a sign that all had been blessed by magic. Now the King claims it’s been leached of life. He insists the Headlands aren’t white because they’re enchanted, but because they’re soulless. That the ivory’s as cursed as the coal-colored shores of Cambas.”

“When the King speaks, it becomes truth,” Fletcher interrupted, saluting the air sarcastically.