Page 37 of King of Pride and Talons

The king stood up from the wall. He took a brave step toward the bewitched woman and bent at the waist, staring at her. Someone or something was puppeting her, giving him all of the information he needed.

The pot over the fire started to boil over. Neither of them moved.

“And now she wants me to come see to them? To lure me in?” he asked.

Hannai nodded obnoxiously slowly.

“She has promises to keep to Nyfain and to her people. You will see when you leave. It is rather tragic down there."

Thorne stood, snatched up the oven gloves nearby, and then lifted the pot off and away from the flames. He set it down on the kitchen table and approached the door. He turned back to the witch reproachfully.

“Thank you,” he said sternly. "Whoever you are."

Hannai, or the thing inside Hannai, did not try to smile. She sat staring, nostrils flaring pointlessly.

“You are very welcome,” the voice whispered back. “Go get her.”

Thorne left the hut and shifted to race back to the kingdom. He was going to gather his army and march toward the Wyeberry Kingdom before sundown.

TWENTY

THORNE

It took the king little time to gather the troops and begin their arduous march toward the Wyeberry Kingdom. They were decked out in their sleek shifting suits and armored in steel with the same transitional quality, having been constructed by the witches on the Lion Council a few decades before.

Interacting with other kingdoms was all about diplomacy. Thorne’s father, the Great King Nash Bawold had taught him that. Even if the intentions of the enemy were transparent, it was always prudent to open a dialogue before the commencement of violence.

He had to keep the health and safety of his men in mind before selfish vengeance took hold. If remedying an issue with words could be done, Thorne would indeed grit his teeth and do it.

But the king could sense, as he slogged through the barren fields and moved through the passageway of the faintly forested area, that any hope of diplomacy with Queen Wyeberry was likely long snuffed out.

They passed the wooded area in their human form, weaving their way through the purgatory between their two kingdoms. Savanna and Wyeberry weren’t very different from one another. Both were inhabited by lion shifters and thrived under similar climates. The plains of Savanna had always been dry in a way that was natural. Wyeberry, though, received far more rainfall and was dense with patches of effervescent evergreens and spruces.

To the king’s knowledge, Wyeberry was a prosperous and semi-lush kingdom flourishing on the back of successful logging workers. There were witches that blended into the community seamlessly, and it had a vibrant nightlife that embraced all supernatural and human visitors.

That was what Thorne thought before the demonic and wistful voice had taken over Hannai. What he found was far worse than his resourceful imagination could have ever conceived.

The climate was arid, not as stifling as the savanna but dry enough for him to notice the way the dirt creased along the forest floor. The trees themselves drooped crestfallen, withering and wilted.

Thorne led his men through the labyrinth of a stark wilderness, a sadness weighing on his chest. He hadn't forgotten that the queen had his mate in her possession, but there was a more merciful part of him that wished she had come to him for aid.

The state of Wyeberry was in critical condition, and he was sure in his heart that there was very little chance of resuscitation.

They approached the castle which stood like a monolith against the gray stone sky. The queen’s army was prepared for them, adorned in armor with rusted ends and dented plates. They were astonishingly malnourished and stared through the gate bars at the king with blemished and tired faces.

Thorne made his army halt and instructed Vale to stand guard. He approached the tired faces and spoke sternly.

“Let me speak to your queen. We should not fight if we don’t have to. Let me and a handful of my men in to talk some sense into her.”

The weary men gave each other a blank look, a facial equivalent of a shrug. One of them opened the gate with great effort with Thorne taking note of the unseemly sight of the man’s waif-like bicep.

It took a long time for a shifter to look that mangy.

“Come with me,” he said.

The king gave Vale a short glance, letting him know that things were fine. He nodded and was taken into the palace with five of his best soldiers.

Cassia sat on her throne. It was ancient, gems infused into the glossy wood. But the throne room was empty otherwise, and the queen was sitting like she was in the waiting room of hell, ready to meet her maker.

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