Page 9 of Thorns of Deceit: The Beast Within

A bitter laugh caught in her throat. Earlier? She had hoped to never summon the Gryphon at all, clinging to the possibility of a longer life. What a fool she’d been. Had she known it would come to this anyway, she would have called forth that cursed beast at the first sign of danger, sparing her men the slaughter.

All of them had families. Hope. Dreams. A life.

They were ready to sacrifice it for their kingdom, while she had selfishly clung to her own.

Anger bubbled up inside her, hot and caustic. Anger at the King for forcing her hand, at the enemy for pushing them to such extremes, at herself for her weakness—both in hoping to avoid her duty and in being unable to resist when the command came. She yanked at the bindings with more force than necessary, hissing as the fabric scraped against her raw skin.

“Damn it all,” she muttered, blinking back tears of frustration and pain. “Damn this war, damn this curse, damn everything!”

A soft knock at the door made her freeze. “Child, are you okay?” the old woman called, her voice laced with concern.

Skylar swallowed hard, forcing a friendly tone. “Yes, thank you. I’m almost done.”

She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. Just a little longer and then… freedom. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.

With trembling hands, she removed her wig, revealing her long silver mane twisted into a messy braid. The instant relief was almost overwhelming. She quickly undid the braid, letting her hair fall loose down her back. She ran her fingers through the tangled strands, wincing as they caught on knots and snarls.

“This won’t do,” she muttered, eyeing the wig critically. Bloody stains marred the silver-white strands, a grim reminder of the battle. She’d need to replace it with her spare when she returned to her tent.

Gingerly, she began to unwrap the old chest bandages. Each layer revealed more damage—angry red welts, patches of raw skin, places where the fabric had stuck to half-healed wounds. Skylar bit her lip to keep from crying out as she peeled away the last of the bindings tasting copper as her teeth broke the skin.

The sight of her bare chest, crisscrossed with marks and bruises, brought a lump to her throat. How long had she been living like this? How much more could her body take?

She reached for one of the washcloths, dipping it into the first basin of water. Gently, she began to clean her battered skin, starting at her shoulders and working her way down. She hissed softly as she touched particularly tender areas, gritting her teeth against the pain. By the time she finished cleansing her entire body, the once-clear water in both basins had changed into a disgusting muddy brown.

She patted herself dry with a clean washcloth, wincing at the sight of fresh blood spotting the fabric. With practicedmovements, she began wrapping the new bindings around her chest. The clean fabric was a relief against her freshly washed skin, but it still chafed against her raw wounds and tender bruises.

As she finished adjusting the bindings, another knock sounded at the door.

“Oh, dear me,” the old woman’s voice carried through the wood, tinged with amusement. “My memory isn’t what it used to be. That young man who brought you in—he’s waiting to speak with you. In his tent.”

4

The camp bustled around her, a blend of voices and clanking metal, but Skylar barely registered it. Her heartbeat quickened as she approached the command tent. She paused at the entrance, one hand hovering over the heavy canvas flap, the familiar scent of leather and parchment mingling with something uniquely Arye—cedarwood and citrus. It made her head spin, memories of countless strategy meetings flooding her senses.

“Your Highness!” A guard’s exclamation cut through her reverie, startling her. “Duke Anathemark is here to see you!”

She winced at the unnecessarily loud call. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside. The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with unspoken tension. Her eyes took a moment to adjust, seeking out Arye’s form in the shadows.

He stood with his back to her, shoulders tense beneath his dark tunic. Maps and tactical reports littered a large oak table, illuminated by flickering lantern light. The sight was so achingly familiar it made her chest ache.

“Your Highness,” she said, managing a steadier tone than she felt.

Arye turned, his eyes locking with hers. The intensity of his storm-gray depths made her breath catch. For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them crackled with something Skylar couldn’t—wouldn’t—name.

“You look terrible,” Arye remarked at last, the low timbre of his words sending an involuntary shiver through her.

Before she could formulate a response, he moved towards her, his movements fluid and elegant. In his hands, he carried a small vial and a pewter cup.

“Here,” he said, extending both. “Medicine.”

Skylar hesitated briefly before accepting. Their fingers brushed as she took the items, and she tried to ignore the jolt of electricity that raced up her arm at the contact. She uncorked the vial with her teeth and swallowed its contents in one swift motion, grimacing at the bitter taste. The cool water that followed was a blessed relief.

“Thank you,” she murmured, handing back the empty cup.

An awkward silence enveloped them. Skylar cleared her throat, desperate to break the tension. “The battlefield?” she asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

“We’re cleaning up,” Arye replied sharply. “Looking for survivors.”

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