Page 64 of Reign

Fletcher had the same leathery cross branded into his forehead as the outcast beggars at the Walled City.

A few men gasped—and so did I, shocked that I’d never questioned whether he was a wizard like his cousin.

“He got it for stealing, not for casting spells,” Bash said, stepping to Fletcher’s side. “We’re family, so you can trust me when I say he’s no wizard.”

Unease gripped me as Bash inserted himself into the confrontation. Red pointed a finger, darting it between the two of them.

“How do we know you’re not the same?” he demanded—his sweaty face and wild eyes making him look rabid.

Fletcher jabbed his finger back.

“I’m starting to think that you’re the wizard,” he said. “I believe you’re trying to sow suspicion among us soldiers, so our next battle’s bloodier than the last.”

Bash nodded firmly.

“Hear, hear,” he uttered—his gaze, usually gentle, now firm and piercing.

Red tucked his hands into his pocket, as if retreating from the argument. But as he turned away, I caught the glint of something shiny—possibly a blade—in his clenched fist.

“One last thing,” Red murmured, spinning back to Fletcher.

I forced myself to stand—cuts stinging—as I threw my body between them.

“No more fighting!” I yelled, my voice trembling with desperation. “Haven’t we fought enough today?”

Red hesitated, and I silently prayed he’d yield.

“You’re right, Smith,” he said, slipping the silver knife back into his pocket. “We can settle this another night.”

After casting one final glare at the white-haired men, Red retreated to the far side of the bonfire.

Fletcher sank back onto his seat, rocking back and forth—still seething.

I let out a weary sigh. Our army needed to employ magic to contend with Regina’s forces, and I was even willing to use my own abilities. But I knew no spells. And after tonight’s violent outburst, I was uncertain how to convince the men who did.

“Smith,” a knight called out across the encampment, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. “Finn Smith?”

I raised my hand. “Here.”

“His Highness would like to see you in his tent,” the knight said, gesturing for me to follow.

Bash scoffed. “The bastard cannot get enough of your company,” he muttered.

As I shrugged on my long coat, part of me wondered what I’d done wrong to warrant Fitzroy’s summons—while another part was relieved to escape the squabbles.

“Your Highness,” the knight announced as he held open the tent flap. “Finn Smith is here at your request.”

Inside, Fitzroy paced the length of his tent.

He’d shed his armor, cleaned the blood from his face, and now donned plush fur and his finest jewels.

I bowed my head in dutiful respect—assuming his ego would be bruised after the defeat.

“Wine?” Fitzroy asked, offering me a goblet filled to the brim.

Wine was an expensive luxury reserved for the wealthy, and I’d never tasted it before, so I eagerly accepted, taking a big gulp. Swilling the liquid around my mouth, I noted its fruity flavor edged with a vinegary tang. The wine was strong, so I sipped it slowly, waiting for Fitzroy to explain why he had summoned me.

“I wanted to thank you for the repairs on my armor,” Fitzroy said, taking my hand in a firm grip. “Your talent saved my life. You’re a great blacksmith.”