Page 46 of Reign

I knew I should accept his claim that the stains were merely burns, complete the fitting, and leave. Yet after my wyvern flight, an unrelenting curiosity for magic clawed at me, urging me to try to uncover more about my true self.

“Wizard,” I murmured, my voice barely audible, afraid of the consequences if I’d misjudged this.

“You realize what you’re accusing me of, don’t you?” Fitzroy growled through gritted teeth.

He sounded furious, but the unease in his eyes reminded me of how I felt the night Avice accused me of the same. He was scared—and I secretly relished that. I wanted him to squirm like a worm atop sunlit soil.

Finding courage in his fear, I stood, meeting his gaze directly. “Wizard,” I repeated, louder this time. “You practice magi—”

Fitzroy’s reaction was immediate. His hand shot to my throat, stifling my words before they could leave my mouth. His grip constricted, tightening until I thought I might suffocate.

“If that’s what you believe,” he hissed, shaking me to assert his dominance. “I’ll have your head before you tell another living soul.”

I spluttered, gasping for air—quickly learning that Fitzroy’s favorite threat was death.

“Thou’me a wicce.” I am a witch, I choked out, clawing at his fingers, desperate for him to release me before I blacked out.

“Thee’ar a hwat?” You are a what? he asked, loosening his grip just enough for me to draw a breath.

I steadied myself. “Thou’me a wicce.” I am a witch, I repeated, my voice trembling.

Fitzroy raised an eyebrow, his expression a blend of confusion and intrigue. “Thee’ar a wicce? Thou gelefan thee’er a mann.” You are a witch? I thought you were a man, he asked incredulously.

A nervous heat warmed the nape of my neck. “Thou missprecan.” I misspoke, I stammered, shaking my head, desperately hoping he’d believe my lie.

Finally, Fitzroy released me, but the smirk playing on his full lips kept my breaths short and sharp.

“Did you say you knew Lady Avice of the Wetlands?” he asked, clinking over to his desk and snatching up the crumpled letter from the lord.

Smoothing out the creased parchment, he cleared his throat as he scanned the text.

“Ah, here’s the part I was looking for,” he said, tapping a finger on the letter. “‘As you are aware, Avice was murdered by a magical beast known as the Black Shuck. That evening, she was accompanied by the local blacksmith’s daughter, Niamh Smith’”—he glanced at me after he read my name—“‘who has vanished since the attack. Until Niamh is found, I cannot spare any of my knights. I have ordered my forces to search the Wetlands and surrounding Moorlands. I believe she will know what happened to my daughter, your betrothed.’”

Fitzroy scrunched the letter once more and tossed it at me.

“I suppose I have you to thank for ending my engagement,” he said. His tone had an air of genuine gratefulness.

“I didn’t kill Avice,” I replied, though only part of me believed that to be true.

“Are you or are you not the villager the lord has chosen to send his knights after, instead of fighting to save Lyonesse from Regina’s wrath?” he demanded.

I shook my head, lying. “My name is Finn Smi—”

“Tell me the truth,” Fitzroy interrupted sharply. “Or I’ll order my knights to strip you bare. Then I’ll know for sure who you are, Smith.” He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“I can tell you who I am,” I said, folding my arms across my chest to hide my womanly parts. “I’m the best blacksmith you have.”

“As I’ve been told,” he replied.

“You’ll need my skill and hard work to win this war.”

“If you say so.”

“I beg of you, don’t send me back to the Wetlands,” I pleaded, my mouth drying at the thought. If he sent me home, I’d be accused of witchcraft—and my family and I would be burned at the stake. “Let me prove my worth.”

“Smith,” Fitzroy said, pressing a finger against my lips. “Shut it.”

I fell silent.