Page 89 of Reign

Dog.

Less than a day later, Finn and I were working side by side in the smithy. We weren’t speaking, but that was fine by me—I’d perfected ignoring him during our adolescent squabbles, so acting as if he didn’t exist came naturally. Unlike at home, Finn couldn’t delegate the hardest tasks to me. I secretly relished seeing him struggle with the assignments Red handed out, hoping his toil might make him realize just how much he relied on my skill.

The shift was tiresome, but my day was far from over. After nightfall, when the soldiers and knights retired to their dwellings, I’d a magical rendezvous planned.

As I headed to the bonfire with the rest of the men, Red clapped me on the back. “How are you such a great craftsman,” he said before placing a hand on Finn’s shoulder, “and your brother so average?”

Red cackled, though the frown on Finn’s face told me he found no humor in that remark. Every time Red praised my work, I savored the recognition while Finn seethed with resentment. Our relationship was already cracking, and my rising status in the smithy threatened to shatter it entirely.

When we arrived at the soldiers’ camp, Finn took a seat on the far side of the bonfire while I recouped with Bash and Fletcher. I sensed Finn’s gaze on me, likely envious of my newfound friendships.

“You should invite your brother to sit with us,” Bash said, his concern over our fractured relationship obvious.

I snorted, knowing Finn would rather sit among the kindling.

“Have you asked him how he’s coping with the news of your missing sister?” Bash continued, placing a comforting hand on my knee.

Guilt burned in my chest as he attempted to reassure me over nothing more than lies and misunderstandings, prompting me to slip my leg from his grip—I didn’t deserve his kind touch.

Bash sighed. “When my father disappeared, the support of my siblings got me through the darkest days.”

He couldn’t comprehend how siblings could be so cold to one another, but Finn and I had competed our entire lives—with him always having the upper hand. This was the first time we were equals. Living as a man had finally allowed me to crawl out of my brother’s shadow and bask in the light, eclipsing him.

As the daylight disappeared, so did the men, withdrawing to their sleeping quarters. I never thought I’d envy someone resting on straw sacks, but I did. My heavy lids struggled to stay open, as if the sandman himself was sprinkling dust into my eyes.

“Smith,” Bash called, snapping me awake.

He tilted his head toward the woods, where Fletcher disappeared among the trees. I slapped my cheeks, forcing myself awake despite my exhaustion.

The earthy scent of the forest was a welcome change from the smell of burning coal. I trudged through the dead of night, with Bash and Fletcher following close behind, cackling at each other’s vulgar jokes.

Before long, I spotted Fitzroy leaning against a tree trunk, waiting.

“What hour do you call this?” he demanded, tapping his leather boot impatiently on the track.

“Witching hour,” I teased.

Fitzroy didn’t laugh; he simply marched through the trees, directing us toward the Anchor.

The journey through Cambas was quiet—the bushes rustled in the biting breeze, like their leaves were whispering secrets to one another. In the near distance, the sound of snapping twigs ground us to an abrupt halt.

“May the gods smite me now,” Fletcher muttered, puffing trails of smoke. “The Black Shuck.”

“Where?” I asked, desperate to see my furry companion. I feared her leg had turned gangrenous after the goblin attack, and no spell could save her now.

“There,” Fletcher whispered, pointing toward two amber lights.

I straightened, then crouched, peering between branches and trunks for Dog. Moonlight filtered through the frosty canopy, illuminating patches of the forest floor where two beads of orange flickered.

“How can you be certain?” Fitzroy asked, his gaze locked on the mounds of black fur crawling closer.

Fletcher clutched his cap, as if preparing to bolt. “I’ve seen the wanted posters,” he mumbled, inching backward.

“Ought we flee?” Fitzroy uttered.

“Yes,” Fletcher replied, darting toward the Anchor.

Bash and Fitzroy chased after him, but I was rooted to the spot—hypnotized.