Page 6 of A Shattered Kingdom of Steel

Not that I’d be able to sense much inside the carriage, even if I had managed to stay alert. How Viridian and Cryssa suffer this superfluous bundle of plush is beyond me. It’s enough to soften a person’s resolve with one ride.

Ceren’s voice echoes in my mind, reminding me of her teachings. “You must always be aware of your surroundings, Lymseia. If you listen closely enough, even the walls can tell you something.”

Clearly, I was not listening closely enough. If Ceren was here, she’d be scowling at me with her hands on her hips. She wouldn’t be angry with me, of course. Just disappointed. I’ve always thought that was worse.

Fully conscious now, I’m able to tell the blood’s not mine, thank the gods. Still, blood isn’t a good sign.

Blood means fighting.

Blood means there’s a threat.

Alert, I lower myself from the seat and into a crouched position. I’m still in the carriage, so I can’t rise to my full height. My head throbs, and my knees are wet, slick with blood. How this much got inside the cabin, I don’t know.

The jagged rock walls on either side of the carriage tell me that we haven’t made it out of Nemos’s Pass—the narrow route through the Kjos Mountains, which act as a border between Keuron, Inatia’s capital city, and my home Court, Steel. I creep forward, careful not to slip in the blood that coats the floor, the weight of my steel short-swords at my sides bringing me comfort. With them at my disposal, I’ll be able to make quick work of whoever attacked us.

All the same, I’ll need to be cautious. Whoever my enemy is, they’ve likely come prepared. It’s unwise to strike before counting how many guards I have left. Which wasn’t many to start with. My journey home to Illnamoor is a diplomatic one. And, given the tight, rocky terrain in Nemos’s Pass, named for the God of Death himself, few dare to cross. I brought enough guards to hold off a minor skirmish with some lesser fae bandits or disgruntled humans.

I thought that would be enough.

I was wrong.

Inching closer to the edge of the carriage, I poke my head out. Bodies lie scattered across the road. From what I can tell, all of the guards accompanying me have been taken out. Sounds of a struggle echo some distance away, but after a moment or two, they go silent.

I move my hands to my swords’ hilts, but my movement is sluggish. Slow.

Too slow.

I’ve been sitting on my ass for however many hours. I shouldn’t be tired. The pain in my head drones on, pulsing in waves. It’s so strong that I wince.

Something’s wrong.

My guards are dead, and I didn’t hear any of it. Come to think of it, I didn’t hear anything at all. How could they have been slain without me hearing?

I used to sleep like the dead, back when almost nothing roused me. But Ceren trained that out of me. Over and over, she’d wake me in the middle of the night. First by pounding on my door. Then by opening it normally. By the end of our sessions, I’d wake the moment I detected even the softest footsteps outside my bedchamber. Now, even the slightest hint of movement wakes me.

Yet I somehow slept through six of my guards being slaughtered?

Moving forward, out of the carriage, I slowly touch my feet to the blood-soaked earth below me. Instead of finding my footing, I wobble. Dizziness clouds my vision, giving me the unsteady sensation that one might feel when traveling by water.

The horses whine, straining against their collars. Behind the carriage and coming toward me, footsteps slop through mud.

Instinctively, I stand and pull my swords from their sheaths. The steel blades sing softly when I do. The sound should bring me comfort. It usually does.

But now, I wish they were quieter. In this kind of silence—dead, heavy silence—I fear they’ll give me away.

I pause, cocking my head a little.

The footsteps slow ever so slightly, squishing in the soggy dirt. I’m not able to make out how many there are, but I know there’s more than one assailant headed my way.

Taking a deep breath, I shake my head as if that simple motion will somehow clear the fog from my vision.

It doesn’t.

“Fuck it,” I grumble. Blades swinging, I launch myself forward and round the carriage, past the back set of wheels. Without it to shield me, I’m exposed without cover.

The closest assailant—a lean fae male with cropped, chestnut brown hair—dodges back, his throat just barely missing my swords.

But I’m slow, and my movements are sloppy. It takes me too long to readjust after attacking, so he lands a strong kick to my abdomen in response. The blow has me staggering backward in a daze.

---