Page 82 of Reign

“I’ve found something better than wizards,” I snapped, my patience waning.

Fitzroy scoffed. “And what could that possibly be?”

“Witches.”

His expression shifted to intrigue. “Go on,” he said, rolling his hand impatiently.

“The women working at the Anchor are witches,” I explained, pausing to gauge his reaction.

He gave me nothing, staring blankly as he waited for me to continue.

“They’re skilled in spells and incantations,” I added. “Emma, the youngest, claims to hear prophecies.”

“Interesting,” Fitzroy murmured. “And they’re willing to fight?”

I nodded. “They’ve offered us the brothel as a secret meeting point—it’s secluded, warm, and stocked with ale by the keg load.”

Fitzroy hummed as he pondered my pitch—taking his time.

Waiting for his response was like teetering on the edge of a blade, uncertain whether he was delighted or displeased with my recruits, knowing we were moments away from celebration or a blazing argument.

Finally, Fitzroy cleared his throat.

“Good work,” he said, patting me on the back. “You’re quickly becoming my favorite person in Cambas—not that there’s much competition.”

* * *

News that the king’s latest recruits were in a training lesson had spread around the encampment faster than poppy pox. Red called for an unscheduled break so we could watch. The men were eager to eye up the soldiers, while I wondered how dull-witted someone had to be to find men clanging metal sticks together entertaining.

I took a seat between Red and Godwin at the peak of a sandbank, overlooking the commotion below.

Beneath an overcast sky, Fitzroy stood surrounded by fewer than a hundred recruits. The lords had been far from generous with their contribution—likely fretting over who would tend to their lands; no man sent to Cambas had yet returned.

I couldn’t clearly hear Fitzroy as he marched along the sands, but the way he arrogantly swung his sword suggested he was gloating about his combat expertise. With a beckoning gesture, he called one man forward and instructed him to assume a fighting position. Unlike when I’d faced Fitzroy’s swordplay, this opponent appeared experienced, gripping his own sword with confident ease.

The man struck first, slicing his gleaming blade downward with great speed and force. Fitzroy blocked it with the hilt of his sword, then sidestepped effortlessly. The challenger pivoted and lunged, his weapon thrusting toward Fitzroy’s chest, but my liege parried the smite and countered with a swift, precise stab. Slash after slash came at him, yet Fitzroy dodged and deflected them all, barely breaking a sweat. Suddenly, the man’s weapon slipped from his clammy hands, dropping to his feet. Seizing the moment, Fitzroy swooped in and pressed the tip of his blade to the man’s heaving chest.

The onlookers erupted into cheers as Fitzroy lowered his sword and extended a hand to help the defeated fighter to his feet. The applause continued while he flashed his radiant smile, thriving in the presence of an adoring crowd.

Red jabbed his elbow into my ribs. “The bastard must’ve slipped him a few gold coins for an easy victory,” he quipped, though the glint in his eye betrayed his true admiration.

I was in awe of Fitzroy’s skills—his performance deserved every cheer. Still, I kept silent, sparing him more praise when his monstrous ego was already enough to carry.

Godwin snorted. “He’s talented—brings to mind the tales of his grandfather,” he said, his gaze drifting past the sword-wielding recruits.

“The Wizard King? I thought you despised magic?” I asked, utterly confused.

Godwin’s hand reached for his scar. It looked fresher in the daylight—a grisly remnant of a battle not long fought.

“I do now—never did before the Dark Days,” Godwin replied with a roll of his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe he had to explain it.

Red tutted. “This was before sorcery turned evil,” he said, pointing at Godwin’s face, reminding me of the twisted marks magic could leave.

“Long before you were a fleeting spark in your father’s eye,” he continued, giving me a nudge.

I didn’t dignify that with a response and instead admired the view. A blue-tinged mist shrouded the sea, and I could just make out the shipyard on the far side of the sands. Fletcher’s hat stood out like a sinkhole in the fog.

More men abandoned their tools and headed to the beach to inspect the newest recruits. I spotted Bash—my heart fluttering at the sight—pushing his way to the front of the huddle to stand beside his cousin. I waved, but before he could notice, Red elbowed me again.