Her face hardened, looking at the narrow trail squeezed between the rocky outcrops of white stone. The wagon sat right in the middle of the bottleneck. She doubted she could lead her horse up and over the steep terrain. If they didn’t move, she’d be forced to backtrack and wait them out. Bri guided her horse to the side and waited in the tall grasses. She prayed any snakes hiding amongst the sun-warmed rocks had slithered away. The last thing she needed was to be bucked off a spooked horse.

“Like I said, you’re not welcome in Swifthill,” the son hissed. The defiance in his bratty eyes made Bri chuckle.

“Gods, you’re a grumpy lot.” She dismounted her horse in one smooth movement. Rolling her shoulders, she grabbed the halter of the horse hitched to the wagon and led it forward. She clicked her tongue. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Stop!” the father bellowed, yanking on the horse’s reins.

The son dropped from his seat and Bri grinned, hoping he might be reckless enough to attack her.

“Shit,” the one at the back growled, jumping from the wagon bed and running to back up his friend. The father cursed under his breath and reluctantly climbed down as well.

What was it with men and fisticuffs? Every tavern brawl ended this way—one idiot bolstering the foolishness of the next until a chaotic mob erupted.

“On any other day, I’d indulge you, friends.” Bri grinned as the first fae rounded on her. She hadn’t had a chance to train during the last two days due to constant travel. Normally, she’d let him get a few swings in and correct his careless movements even while besting him, but not this day. She had to reach the palace and find out how bad the situation was after the attack.

The Western Court Queen was dead. That’s all Bri knew for certain. Delta had frantically called upon her through the magical fae fires, begging for her help. Bri had already been on the Western Court border, fighting Balorn’s cursed blue witches in Valtene. The aches of that battle still echoed through her muscles even as she rode with haste toward the Western capital.

The youngest fae swung wildly, and Bri easily stepped out of his reach. She waited for his momentum to pull him to the side before she stepped in, throwing out a quick punch. She connected with his jaw and kicked him in the gut for good measure. He tumbled backward into the scrub brush, groaning as he clutched his stomach. He’d be fine, but he was wise enough to stay down.

A hand landed on her shoulder and she grabbed the wrist, instinctively twisting until her attacker cried out at the unnatural angle of his arm. It wasn’t dislocated, but it would hurt every time he moved it for the next few weeks. They didn’t know how many years she and her twin brother, Talhan, had spent perfecting that move. She swept his leg out from under him, and he slammed down into the gravel. Plumes of white dust lifted around him as Bri looked up to the father.