Page 65 of Reign

He squeezed my hand—sincere gratitude brimming in his sparkling eyes.

Though I welcomed his recognition, I’d learned that in the brutal landscape of war, it meant nothing.

“My being a good blacksmith may have saved you today, but it doesn’t guarantee tomorrow,” I said, withdrawing my hand.

Fitzroy sucked his teeth, his appreciation evaporating quicker than a pot of water upon the hearth.

“Can you not make a snide comment for once?” he asked, his tone familiar now—snarky and sharp.

“You need to use magic,” I pleaded.

“You think if I told those heathens I’m a wizard, they’d welcome my magical abilities?” he asked, pausing for my response.

I didn’t humor him with one. Instead, I quaffed my goblet of wine.

Fitzroy tutted as I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and slammed down the goblet, overcome with queasiness as the potent liquid swirled in my belly.

“They’d throw me on the bonfire,” he continued, answering his own question.

I shook my head. “For some reason, unbeknownst to me, they deeply respect you. I truly believe many of the men would follow you through even the darkest of nights.”

“I’ve seen how quickly subjects can turn on their ruler,” Fitzroy murmured, running a hand through his dark hair. “My aunt was admired one moment, abhorred the next.”

I latched onto his shoulders, shaking him. “There’s more magic residing in Lyonesse than the King admits—I saw people on the cliffs casting spells.”

For a moment, Fitzroy studied my face—his eyes brimming with worry—before letting out a harsh exhale. “If Regina has wizards on our soil, her army is truly impenetrable—”

“The wizards weren’t fighting for her,” I interrupted. “They were protecting us.”

Fitzroy’s brows furrowed; his expression was one of deep concern. “I think you saw what you wanted to see.”

He cupped my face tenderly, as though genuinely worried I was hallucinating. For a breath, I wavered in his palms while he pinched his bottom lip between his teeth, drawing my attention to his mouth. But then he did the thing that always snapped me out of his hypnotic gaze—he spoke.

“Don’t lose your sanity,” Fitzroy said, slapping my cheeks hard enough to sting.

In the pit of my stomach, anger sparked—fueled not only by his condescending tone, but my own desire. Why was he so pleasing to the eye? Why did his lips look so good for kissing?

It was as if he’d been grown from the tree of temptation, and I—shamefully—wanted a piece of him.

I pointed my shaky finger at his face, hoping he knew it trembled in rage. “If you cannot find a speck of courage, teach me sorcery,” I demanded. “I’ll use it to win this war.”

Shaking his head, he declined my request. “Stick to what you’re good at. Once more, I thank you for your expertise in ironwork, but now you must leave—I need time to strategize.”

He ushered me toward the exit.

“There’s no time left,” I protested desperately, knowing that good fortune had been my ally during the invasion, and fearing that the gods wouldn’t favor me a second time.

Once he had pushed me to the tent flap, Fitzroy resumed his pacing. “I should dedicate my mornings to prayer and repentance, in case I’ve upset the gods,” he muttered, clearly speaking only to himself.

As he blamed divine retribution for the massacre, my mind involuntarily recalled the image of Tom’s head rolling toward my feet—his frozen, terrified face would haunt me forever. I imagined his mother, stooped over a big pot as she prepared his favorite stew in hopeful anticipation of his homecoming, only to be met with inconsolable grief.

The idea constricted my chest until I could bear it no longer.

“Your cowardice is infuriating,” I cut through his soliloquy, my voice thick with both anger and sorrow.

Fitzroy deviated from the path and marched toward me. “Watch your tongue, witch,” he growled, his breath heavy with the scent of wine.

“Stop threatening to expose me as a woman,” I shot back, standing my ground, holding my head as high as my neck would let me.