Page 35 of Kingdom of Crowns and Daggers

Words wash away, as does blood.

I focus on my work, sneaking around the palace, hoping someone is foolish enough to show their head so I can cut it off and throw it in that smug king’s face and watch that disgust transform back into fear. Petty? Maybe.

However, I don’t seem to be in luck. Everyone is being good little citizens tucked into their beds, bar the guards. I do find two fucking in the stables, others playing a game of yu-long, and some drinking when they should be guarding, but that just makes my job easier.

I’m running across a roof, my annoyance pounding in my head to the beat of my heart, as I head back to my new quarters that are attached to the king’s by a small bridge when I hear it.

I cock my head, watching a figure dance smoothly across the packed dirt floor, followed by the sounds of grunts and a sword hitting a target.

The king’s palace and the adjoining queen’s are at the very back of Moonshadow Palace, tucked away from everything else, so there is no excuse for anyone to be here, especially not so deep. The stone gives way to dirt and then to trees beyond. Carved into that dirt is a rough practise arena I had barely noticed until now.

It’s not one for the guards. No, this one is much bigger.

Targets line the arena’s edge near the trees, with arrows shot perfectly at their centres. More hang from their branches, with gauges cut into the wood. Some are scattered on the dirt ground, forgotten and chopped to pieces, but it is the man in the centre who is captivating, and I do not look away from him as I crouch on the roof. The moon shines down on him, bathing him in its light like a lover’s caress. Gone are the royal robes, and in their place are leather trousers and an untucked, loose black shirt. His hair is wound on the top of his head, his feet are bare and filthy from the dirt, and his muscles bulge as he swings the giant longsword in a practised, perfect arc.

Crouching lower, I remain enthralled. I cannot stop watching him.

The king is practising with a sword, and as I eye him, I realise two things.

One, he is very good with it, fast and precise. It is clear he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Two, he is angry and wants to be alone.

I called him the puppet king and practically told him he was dumb and useless, but as I watch, his expression transforms into one of fury as he swings the sword above his head and then down in a slash before bringing it back up in a horizontal line across his face to protect from an imaginary blow. My lips tilt in a smile as his back leg slides backward and he leaps into the air, spinning in an impressive display as he spars alone, thrusting and cutting with his sword. If he had an opponent, I have no doubt they would be on the ground, yelling or dead.

Flinging his sword into the air, he catches it with his other hand, twisting it around his body as he spins, and with a roar wild enough to shake the mountains, he brings it down into the dirt with a clank. He kneels there, panting and covered in a sheen of sweat, his impressive muscles tightening under his clothing.

I thought him weak and useless, but hiding under his royal façade is a smart, calculating swordsman.

I was wrong, which never happens, and I cannot stop myself from silently dropping to a crouch behind the palace. When I straighten, he spins, his eyes widening as he holds the sword loosely at his side. We stare at each other, both shocked and wary.

I should have known better than to underestimate anyone.

If he can fight this well, then why didn’t he the day he was attacked in the Lowers? It’s what circles through my thoughts as I watch him, his strong jawline clenching as he waits for me to speak. He lifts his sword slightly, as if anticipating an attack and ready to protect himself.

Smart man. An assassin only comes to you in the dark for one thing—death.

“You look angry, Your Majesty,” I remark, tilting my head as I run my eyes over him brazenly. He jerks, not expecting that. As far as decorum and rules go, he is practically undressed. His loose blouse gapes open almost down to his navel, showing his impressive pecs and abs. His trousers are tight enough that I can see a bulge running down one leg, and I purposely bite my lip before meeting his eyes. “Very, very . . . angry.”

“Go away, Alyx.” It’s a command, and it almost sounds cruel. He is trying to brush me off, but I won’t allow that. I like this brazen king. I like him rough and real. There are no robes, perfect façade, or dumb smile.

This is the true Joha, I realise.

“What? Don’t want your new whore queen seeing you like this? Don’t you know whores like our men sweaty and feral? It makes it that much more fun when we break them,” I taunt.

His face tightens. Gone is the young, clean-faced boy pretending to be king. In his place is a stern, dark-eyed man, bristling with anger and unleashed fury. His body vibrates with it, making him a weapon down to the one he is holding.

The part of me that craves danger screams for more, for me to taste his blade and find out just how well he can fight.

“You really do not know when to stop, do you?” he growls.

“I have never been accused of being shy.” I smirk as I pull my sword and twirl it effortlessly in the air, stepping around him. He follows me, moving to keep me in his line of sight.

Good.

“This might even be fun,” I murmur, “though I don’t expect you’ll be much of a challenge. You’re such a pretty spoiled king. I bet you practiced on servants who were not allowed to fight back. That sword”—I nod at it—“has not even tasted blood.” Lifting mine into the air, I look boldly into his eyes before running my tongue along the edge of my blade, smearing it with my blood as it cuts my tongue. “Mine? It’s tasted blood more times than I can count.”

“You are trying to make me angry.” He frowns, calculation flashing in his eyes. “You want me to attack first, but it will not work.” His eyebrows lift. “I will not spar with you.”

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