Page 38 of A Shattered Kingdom of Steel

Anger at my lack of composure burns the back of my throat.

Damn it.

I let my feelings show.

As if to further emphasize that fact, what’s left of my frustration seeps into my feet, pounding the steps.

At the top of the staircase is a long hallway lined with intricately-carved wooden doors. Each depicts its own forest scene, complete with woodland animals and creatures. I pass the first two doors without really looking at them and trudge past another that’s carved with a drawing of a friendly-looking troll—a much less menacing version than the one we encountered on our journey here—that is unknowingly being stalked by a grinning fox.

My movements slow, and I approach one of the bedchambers. The carving on this door is of several gnomes taking shelter from the rain while huddled beneath a spotted toadstool. Something about the carving softens my expression, and before I realize what I’m doing, I step inside.

Pressing my back to the wood, I close the door behind me. There’s a decently sized four-poster bed in the room’s center with identical rustic end tables on either side. Steel candelabras sit atop them with cream-colored candles. Two windows, one on either side of the bed, overlook the grounds, and there’s an adjoining washroom. To the left of the door, against the wall, is a dresser that comes up just past my waist.

The chamber is comfortable. Beyond comfortable, even. Having spent the past few decades living in the Guards’ quarters at High Keep, I haven’t stayed in a room like this in years.

But at the moment, comfort isn’t what I need. Raising my hands, I curl them into fists. At High Keep, whenever I was upset, I would train with whatever I could get my hands on first—swords, daggers, spears. Here, there’s nothing. No training dummies, no wooden posts for sparring, nothing that I can hit.

I itch to move, my body thrumming with the need to expel this energy. Crossing the space to the bed, I pluck the pillows from beneath the finely woven blankets. They’re free of any lumps and fluffed to perfection. Gripping a pillow in each hand, I bring them to the dresser and place them on top, positioned so they sit vertically against the wall. Hopefully, the combined thickness of both pillows is enough for what I need, but I have too much confined aggravation to care.

Lowering into a fighting stance, I level my fists with my eyes, and shift my weight to the balls of my feet. I land a punch to the center of the pillow, hard enough that my knuckles collide with the stone wall behind them. I throw another punch.

And another.

And another.

Each strike is harder than the last, my punches following in rapid succession. Though the pillows soften the blows to a degree, the force of my fists hitting the wall, over and over and over, means I’ll have bruised fingers to explain tomorrow.

Despite the bite of pain, I keep going. Damn Asheros and that smirk.

Punch.

Damn Viridian for asking me to leave High Keep.

Punch.

Damn my mother and her idealized expectations.

Punch.

And damn me for being too—

Weak.

I pull my hands back and unfurl my fists to inspect my knuckles. They’re cracked and bleeding, a mess of red smudged across my skin. Spotted with bright, fresh blood, the pillows are no better.

But the truth strikes harder than any blow ever could.

I’m a failure.

I should be in Illnamoor by now, standing by my mother’s side. Instead, I’ve been letting my fear, and whatever feelings I’m developing for Asheros, rule me.

“Emotions distract you from your duty,” Ceren had told me years ago. “Do not let them. Your duty to the crown comes first, above all.”

Asheros Larmanne is nothing but an emotional obstacle I must remove from my path.

My duty depends on it.

Chapter Eleven

---