Page 40 of Reign

Bash steered the wyvern earthward, swooping us toward the water—my heart thudding as the mist thinned, revealing the rippling sea.

I feared we were flying dangerously low.

Then I looked ahead. Through the waves, an island appeared on the horizon.

“The Isle of Annwn,” Bash announced.

A vast castle perched atop the jagged cliffs that dove into the thrashing waters below. Moonbeams bathed the great turrets in lunar light as they peaked through the curling mist like stony sentinels.

“We shouldn’t get too close; I bet her security’s tighter than a nobleman’s purse,” he said, tugging hard on the reins and turning us around.

Her?

“Who lives there?” I shouted into the whipping winds.

Bash tilted his head, his lips grazing my ear. “Seolfor Wicce.” Silver Witch.

Goose bumps prickled the nape of my neck as his words brushed against my skin. I pushed the sensation aside, forcing myself to focus on where I’d heard that name before.

“Who?” I asked, ignoring the rapid thrum of my pulse.

“The King’s sister, Regina,” he replied.

I turned back to study the castle. Its grandeur lay solely in its imposing size. Four sturdy towers overlooked the unpredictable seas below, connected by dense, towering walls that shimmered faintly as though carved from marble. Orange beacons glowed around the impregnable fortress, warning all who approached that its occupants were awake and vigilant.

As I admired Regina’s castle, fragments of Todd’s tavern tales resurfaced. If Regina waged war after decades of being overshadowed by her sibling, I understood her bitterness all too well. The frustration of being overlooked while her brother basked in glory mirrored the resentment I’d grudgingly come to tolerate while working under Finn in the smithy.

As the castle receded into the distance, I caught Bash watching me. His unblinking gaze locked with mine while the warmth of his hand slipped from my stomach to rest on my neck. I froze—my hair the only thing moving, swirling around my face as we soared through the midnight sky.

“I’m going to take us back to solid ground. Hold on tight,” Bash said. His hand left my neck as he grasped the reins and tugged sharply, sending the wyvern into a daring nosedive toward the green expanse below.

I screeched in terror while Bash hollered in exhilaration. We plummeted as if in free fall, the taste of salt consuming my mouth as we descended toward dark, swelling waves. Just before we were swallowed by the sea, Bash wrenched back on the reins, and the wyvern skimmed the water’s surface, passing a rippling reflection of the yellow moon above. I reached out, gliding my fingertips through the mist as we raced toward the shore.

After dismounting, Bash coaxed the wyvern back to its resting place while I walked ahead, mindful that being caught in the woods during witching hour would almost certainly invite accusations of wizardry—especially if we were seen together.

Just before I broke through the final foot of forest, I heard a familiar growl. “Dog?” I whispered, peering over my shoulder toward the noise. For a moment, I thought I saw two glowing beads piercing the darkness, but when I rubbed my weary eyes, they’d vanished.

I carefully inched through camp, passing Fitzroy’s royal lodgings. The temptation to look inside was overwhelming, but the tent was sealed shut. I lingered, searching for a crack to sneak a peek into his private quarters. Before my eyes could adjust to the dim light, I sensed something breathing down my neck.

I turned abruptly to be met by a hand stifling my screams. My heart pounded until Bash’s mischievous grin came into focus. As my erratic breaths slowed, he released me.

“What are you doing?” Bash asked, scanning the area for the source of my distraction.

“Nothing,” I replied, shaking my head.

I didn’t want to explain Fitzroy’s connection to Avice or her connection to me—or why their arranged marriage made that bastard so intriguing.

Bash gave me a skeptical nod, but he let it go. “Come on,” he said, jabbing his elbow into my side.

We stealthily slipped back into our tent, crawling beneath our thin sheets as if we’d never left our straw-filled dwellings that night.

The Bastard Son of a King.

Rain drummed against the canvas sheltering the makeshift smithy as I focused on tempering swords for the soldiers. Unlike the weeks before, I no longer spent every waking moment with my friends from the Headlands. Bash’s working days consisted of collecting timber from the forest or repairing the ships anchored along the shore. Fletcher and the archers were tasked with protecting the skies, as though an imminent invasion loomed, while Arthur dug graves alongside the other foot soldiers. All could sense we were preparing for something, but no one had told us what.

“I miss… I miss home,” young Tom mumbled, his words almost lost in the scratching of his whetstone against a blade.

His heavy gaze focused on the task, but a look of defeat blemished his face almost as much as the pimples—his mind was clearly somewhere far from Cambas.