Page 63 of Reign

“Doesn’t change the fact that many men died today,” he muttered—his earlier fervor softening at the sight of loyal comrades.

“How can mere mortals beat magical creatures?” I asked, hoping Red would see that Fitzroy’s leadership wasn’t to blame for our plight.

Fitzroy was far from perfect, and I struggled to understand why the men admired the very traits that made him intolerable.

Yet after today, it was clear he was fighting an uphill battle—one as steep and slippery as climbing a mudslide.

“The gods favor us,” Red proclaimed, rising to his feet, chest opened heavenward as though he’d been summoned by the divine.

“Do they?” I shot back, tilting my head up to find him towering over me—his face redder than his fiery hair.

“When that ogre ripped off poor Tom’s head, do you think that happened because the gods favored him?” I asked, my tone quieter, unsettled by the crazed look in his eye.

Red folded his arms across his wide chest—jaw clenched tighter than a vise.

“These beasts get their strength from demonic deities, not gods,” he said.

“If that’s true, we should recruit a demon or two,” Fletcher said despondently—his face lost beneath his cap. “We cannot beat magic. We all know that.”

From the way the vein on his thick neck bulged, I could tell Red didn’t like that comment.

“That sounds like something a wizard would say,” Red growled—the deep and guttural noise reverberating in his throat.

With a sudden, aggressive motion, Red swatted Fletcher’s cap from his head, sending it tumbling into the claylike dirt.

Fletcher slowly rose to his feet, then inched toward Red until they were close enough to kiss.

“That sounds like something a fool would say,” Fletcher retorted. “I don’t know what you saw from the safety of the beach, but out on the ships, there were things in that water I couldn’t imagine in my worst nightmares.”

Red’s hands shot out, seizing Fletcher by the lapels and yanking him in—their noses pressed against one another’s.

“I’ve seen a lot of blood today,” Red hissed through clenched teeth. “Another pint won’t bother me.”

Fletcher remained unfazed, letting out a low chuckle that only deepened the crimson hue of Red’s cheeks.

Around the bonfire, the drunken singing and sobbing faded away, replaced by a tense silence as all eyes turned toward the brewing altercation.

With a deep inhale, Fletcher tipped his head back—then, on the exhale, slammed it forward. His skull collided with Red’s in a sickening, bone-shattering crack.

Red staggered backward, clutching his beetroot-red face and howling in pain.

Fletcher merely rubbed his brow, then bent to retrieve his cap.

Just as his fingers grazed the felt, Red’s boot stamped on it.

My heart thumped, dreading what might happen next.

But unexpectedly, Red crouched and picked up the cap, offering it like a symbol of a truce.

Fletcher snatched it back.

Just as I believed the arguing was over, Red’s hand reached out again, brushing aside Fletcher’s white fringe.

I was stunned by the sight. Beneath the strands, he hid a scar.

Red drew a deep breath. “You’ve got the mark,” he said on the exhale.

Usually, it was concealed beneath the brim of his cap, but now it was exposed.