Page 8 of A Shattered Kingdom of Steel

They drugged me.

Gods above. I’m in enemy territory.

At the thought, my body goes rigid. Eyes wide, I swivel my head around. I’m in a tent, sitting on a bedroll. There’s a wool blanket in a pile by my feet, strewn about as if it had been laid over me initially, but got kicked off while I slept. There’s another bedroll next to the one I’m on. I won’t call it “mine” because I’m not staying here long enough to use it again.

My hands immediately go to my hips. Of course my twin blades no longer rest in their sheaths. A gift from Ceren, I’ve worn them nearly every day, only parting with them when I absolutely need to. I feel bare without them.

Despite the lingering ache in my head, I swiftly lift myself onto my feet and into a crouched position. Luckily, whatever haze clouded my mind the day of the ambush is gone. My mind is clear, calculated. The way it should have been.

I swallow a wave of guilt. If I had been thinking like this then, my guards would be alive.

But I can still avenge them.

Driving the thought from my mind, I inch toward the tent’s opening. Looking through the slit in the material, I can make out two more tents outside, arranged in a circular position around a campfire. The smell of meat roasting graces my nostrils, directing my eyes to some kind of game suspended above the flames. I can’t see anyone in my line of sight, but I’d be a fool to think they would leave their kill unattended while it roasts. Tall pine trees surround the camp, indicating we’re in the forests of the Steel Court.

I’m home.

It’s been days, then, since I left Keuron.

I know it’s a long-shot, but I look around the tent to see if there’s anything I can use. Bedrolls, blankets, and a thin pillow. As I expected, nothing that can pose as a half-decent weapon. The fact there’s no lantern, not even an empty one, tells me that I’m in the company of other fae. With our heightened eyesight, we can see more in the dark at close distances than humans can. Though, light is still beneficial.

I mutter a curse. I’ll have to go out there with my bare hands alone.

I shake the tension from my shoulders. Weaponless, I’ve taken many a male down before. What’s a few more?

With keen eyes, I lift the tent flap slightly, cocking my head to listen for anyone outside. When I’m sure that I can’t hear any signs of movement in the immediate area, I move underneath the flap, keeping my body low to the ground.

Scanning my surroundings, I duck beside the tent to take cover behind it. The raised hairs on the back of my neck won’t let me relax just yet. The campfire is out of my view, so if anyone comes back to check the roast, they won’t see me.

But I won’t see them, either.

My warrior’s instincts rise to the forefront of my mind, clearing it of any conscious thought. With my mind silent, I can hone my focus on my senses. I’ll need to react quickly, but cautiously, if I want to escape unseen.

My knees begin to ache in protest, but I don’t straighten my legs. Instead, I inch my body further along the length of the tent, careful to be light on my feet so I don’t give away my position. When I reach the end of the tent, I pause, cocking my head to listen. Only the sounds of the forest meet me. Except for an occasional scurry of an animal, or the rustle of pine needles in the wind, no noises draw my attention.

I strain to hear more, but I can’t detect an enemy nearby. Neither can I confirm that there isn’t someone lying in wait. There’s too many unknowns. I can’t be sure I won’t be seen, but I don’t have any other choice.

It’s now or never.

In one motion, I rise to my full height and break into a run.

Curses ring out behind me. Then footsteps pound the earth in my wake.

“Shit,” I pant, urging myself forward, thighs burning when I increase my speed. But I don’t let up. The footsteps diverge behind me, now coming from three directions—left, right, and directly behind me.

And they’re gaining.

Hands grasp my shoulders and tug me backward, catching strands of my blue-black hair beneath them. My momentum works against me, knocking me off balance, and my back slams into a wall of muscle. Strong arms wrap around my torso, pinning my own arms to my sides. I squirm and writhe, but I’m effectively restrained.

“I have to admit,” an airy, masculine voice says in my ear, his breath hot on my neck, “I didn’t think you’d be bold enough to run.”

“Then it seems you don’t know who you’ve kidnapped,” I breathe, inhaling his scent—spruce, mingled with that of the air just before a storm. Without warning, I drop to my feet, making myself dead weight in the stranger’s arms.

That catches my kidnapper off guard. He nearly falls but manages to recover his balance. Still, he’s not fast enough. I take advantage of his disorientation and drive my elbow into his abdomen. Hard. He releases me, sucking in a breath. I move to run again, but two figures converge in front of me, blocking my path.

Hardening my expression, I narrow my eyes.

I recognize the figures. They’re two of the fae that cornered me the day of the ambush at Nemos’s Pass—the chestnut-haired male, and the dark-haired one with the intricate tattoos.

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