Page 78 of A Shattered Kingdom of Steel

The trainee’s cheeks flush red, but he doesn’t shy away from her scrutiny. “Not well, Captain.”

“Then let me enlighten you.” Ceren’s stare sweeps through the training room.

Some trainees avert their eyes when her attention falls to them, but I keep my head held high. A flicker of something crosses her mouth, and she looks away from me.

“Before all of you were born, the Old Gods toyed with our realm. Every fighter at Lothaes that fateful day thought we were going to die—that we would lose a brutal battle, and with it, our kingdom would fall to the cruelty of the Old Gods.”

The entire room falls silent.

I’d learned of the Banishment of the Old Gods from my tutors. As the daughter of the Head of House, a noble fae belonging to one of the five Noble Houses, my mother thought it imperative that I learn the intricacies of Inatia’s history.

Even the bloody parts.

But I’d never heard the grim tales of our past from someone who was there. Someone who fought in the war against the gods.

Ceren continues, “And for a great while, I thought we were all going to be slaughtered. But though the Old Gods were more powerful than us, and though their armies of crepulnai outnumbered us nearly two to one, we were victorious that day.”

I suck in a breath.

I’d learned about the crepulnai during my lessons—humanoid creatures made from an essence so dark they siphoned and absorbed any surrounding light. It’s said there were so many crepulnai at Lothaes that a blanket of darkness swept the sky at high noon, so thick not even the starlight shone through. So many died at the hands of those evoked demons. The tales of their bravery are what made me decide to be a warrior myself.

“Despite the odds, we’d banished those cruel tyrants from our world.” Ceren pauses, letting silence fall around us. “The other side believed they knew the outcome of the battle. And yet, they lost. So, I tell you again—never assume yourself to be a diviner, because you can never truly know.”

Bringing me back to reality, Asheros moves both of his hands to my face, thumbs brushing back and forth against my cheekbones. “Listen to me,” he says, staring into my eyes. “I don’t need to be sure about anything but this—you. You are strong and more than capable of bringing Vorr’s killer to his knees. By the sheer force of your will, you will be all right, no matter what happens.”

Doubt floods my senses, sinking to the pit of my stomach.

Taking a breath, I nod and clear my mind. Pulling away, I gather my hair into a low ponytail. The heaviness of my doubt still lingers as I slip my feet into my boots, but I force myself to ignore it.

Asheros is right.

There is too much at stake to succumb to my self-doubt. Though I may no longer be the Captain of the High King’s Guard, people still look to me for strength. I can’t let my mind get the better of me. My fear of failure is only a distraction—an obstacle barring my way.

And if I want to capture Vorr’s murderer, and stop an all-out war between the Courts, I must rise above it.

Asheros searches my expression, the conviction in his crystalline eyes silent reassurance. His gaze leaves mine just long enough for him to pull a shirt on over his head.

I want to ask him why he has so much faith in me, but before I have the chance, he takes my hand and leads me to the door.

“Let’s grace the others with our presence, shall we?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“I’m going to need more ale for this,” Ronan groans, tilting his head back to swallow what’s left of his drink. Lifting his now empty tankard, Ronan signals to the waiter, who dips his head in acknowledgment as he serves the table behind us.

Savell raises his brows and takes a swig of his ale. “On that, we can agree.” Glancing behind him, he raises two fingers and makes a circular motion in the waiter’s direction. “Make that another round.”

Placing a bowl in front of another patron, the waiter nods. “Coming right up.”

The bright light of day spills into the tavern through three large windows, the panes of glass held in place by steel frames. It’s late morning, and from the streets, people flood inside to claim the remaining free tables. Conversations echo off the tavern’s wooden walls, the ease of their laughter adding another layer of sound.

With Orim gone, the six of us sit at a table in the corner by the cold hearth. Kheldryn, Gryska, and Ronan share the bench across from me, their backs to the rest of the tavern. Savell, Asheros, and I sit on the other side, our backs to the wall.

Gryska lets out a huff. “Babies. Ya need something stronger than ale.”

Cocking his head, Ronan makes a face like he’s considering the idea, while Savell just shakes his head and sips from his tankard.

The waiter approaches our table, a full tray in hand. He places a filled tankard in front of each of us. Taking our drinks, we mutter our thanks.

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