“You didn’t need to do that,” the archer says, grimacing. Eyebrow Tattoos throws his head back with a guffaw.

A chill spreads through me, all the fiery tumult of my emotions icing over.

The rope binding me falls away. I grab Eyebrow Tattoos’s wrist, yanking his dagger a safe distance from my neck. His head whips around in time for me to bash my forehead into his face. His nose cracks as he falls. I wrench the knife from his slackened fingers, slam his good hand into the grass, and stab the knife through it, pinning him to the earth.

The whole thing takes only a second. As he screams, I advance on the other two. The one who cut Saengo’s braid rushes me, drawing back her sword. I smash my knuckles into her throat before she’s even swung. She makes a harsh choking sound and instantly drops. Too late, the archer scrambles for where he’d carelessly tossed his bow. I beat him to it, stomping my boot against the wood and snapping it in two.

I retrieve the sword Eyebrow Tattoos dropped. My eyes pass over the stump of Saengo’s braid. That braid, and the attached feathers, meant more to her than mere rank. It was evidence of her defiance, her refusal to bow to her father’s demands and the duties of her station. With one cruel act, they stripped her of everything she accomplished these last four years.

“Stop!” the archer shouts, glancing wildly from me to his incapacitated companions. “Queen Meilyr will have you locked—”

An arrow strikes the earth between us. I startle back, recognizing immediately the silver and black plumage on the arrow. The Queen’s Guard.

“Hold your fire!”

I jolt at the voice, sucking in my breath. A company of Blades bursts through the trees, led by a familiar figure—Prince Meilek Sancor, captain of the Queen’s Guard and the queen’s younger brother.

FIVE

In moments, we’re surrounded by a half-dozen riders, their arrows drawn.

Prince Meilek breaks away from his circle of Blades. I immediately drop to one knee, bending low so that my forehead brushes my pant leg. His mount’s clawed feet sink into the soft earth as he approaches. I risk a glance up through my lashes. The triple-horned stag of House Sancor is emblazoned across his black chest plate. An embellished gold pin secures his black hair at the crown of his head, the ornament indicating his royal blood.

He takes in the scene, making me excruciatingly aware of how this might look. How are we to get out of this now?

Prince Meilek nudges his mount forward, his expression unreadable. The soldier I punched in the throat is similarly bent over one knee in deference. She’s still wheezing, which gives me a small measure of grim satisfaction. As does Eyebrow Tattoos lying facedown in the grass, whimpering.