Page 2 of A Kingdom of Destruction

She only wished redrawing the sigils of strength and power were a little less pinchy.

Anyone looking at her would think she actually liked the pain, considering she’d covered herself in runes. Every inch of visible skin and much of what she kept hidden underneath her tunics and fighting leathers showed evidence of the engravings, a protection against her enemies.

Those who made it past her sword, anyway.

The attacks would come. They always did.

Better for her to be prepared than to leave anything to chance. The runes were another line of defense for Grimrose and one she’d be stupid to leave the castle grounds without.

A second slap bounced off her knuckles, and she glanced up at the mage with a scowl. “What was that for?”

The wizened woman, who had probably been drawing runes on humans for more years than Aven had been alive, only grinned at her and showed a wide gap between her two front teeth. “To keep you sharp and on your toes, Princess.”

Swallowing over a grumble, Aven vowed to hold still when the wand touched the tender area on her left bicep.

Only the major magics were set in ink beneath the skin. Minor runes, such as those for keen eyesight or faster speed, for calm, were usually painted on several days before a major battle. Aven cut it much too close with the heavy fight looming tomorrow.

They were lucky they’d caught wind of Mourningvale’s attack with plenty of time to rally.

A small window cut into the stone walls of the artist’s room showed thunderous clouds darkening the sky outside. The storm had moved in unexpectedly this morning, and her gut told her it wasn’t going anywhere soon. This sort of weather might work to her advantage tomorrow.

“There, done.” This time, the old woman’s pat on the top of Aven’s hand fell lighter, softer. A bit maternal. “You’re done. They look as beautiful as any I’ve ever done.”

Aven drew her hand back and worked her wrist in a circle, her skin tight where the design stretched from her knuckles to her forearm and higher. The intricate design of the rune coupled with stark lines of pure black cutting along her bone and veins. A small magic for humans to perform, true, and yet the wandsworked. The runes worked. If it gave her a better chance of fighting against the fae, she’d take the advantage.

She was only human. Small compared to some and often a joke to the larger, more muscled male officers who’d been part of her father’s army for decades before her birth.

The rune on her wrist and forearm would help her stave off attacks should any of the fae get too close and her sword and shield fail. A rune to thicken her skin and make her all but impervious to the nick of a dagger. Once she got out there, alternating between her wand and her gun?—

Unstoppable.

“How much do I owe you?” Aven tugged on the end of one of her braids, twine winding through the sable-colored strands to keep them out of her face.

The mage took her in, from the tip of her head all the way down her tightly laced tunic and the leather holster sheathing her sword at her side. “For the royal family? It wouldn’t be right for me to accept payment from you. I’m only doing my job, Princess.”

The words were uttered low enough that Aven knew from experience the old woman was hungry for money and would benefit from a few gold marks. Everyone in the kingdom could. The royals didn’t have much to spare these days, but she made a mental note to deliver a few extra pieces of food in thanks and a few coins.

“Thank you, then,” Aven replied. She worked her wrist in another circle, which failed to loosen her overly tight skin, and slid her arm back to her side, locking her elbow to keep her arm straight. “It is much appreciated.”

“Good battle tomorrow.” The farewell was called out before Aven made her way out the door, the woman’s rheumy brown eyes meeting Aven’s blue-green. “Fight well.”

Aven ducked her head before she turned, long-legged strides taking her into the hallway toward her next stop for the day. She didn’t need words to understand what the artist would have said to her, had she not been a princess.

Humans had no business fighting against the fae.

Their enemies were long-lived and powerful. They had magic on their side, the innate kind that came from generations of being born with it in their blood.

Grimrose’s soldiers only had decades at best of mastering stolen magic to power their weapons.

As the youngest of her siblings, Aven never had a choice in what she did. Her heavy footfalls echoed off the dim stone corridor walls, each one heavier than her delicate frame would suggest. She relished the crown never being hers and as the last of the line, she was assured she’d never rule. It didn’t lessen her responsibilities to the people of her father’s kingdom, though.

Which was why she gladly did her part.

Much to her family’s dismay, King Fergus especially, Aven continued to draw her runes as well as wield manufactured magical weapons, and lead battalions. But in a years-long war with the powerful fae across the borderlands, they needed her. So, they let it go.

Another prime example of her lack of options.

She paused at the end of the corridor and took an abrupt left turn out onto the parapet. Her first inhalation brought with it the scent of the oncoming storm and the charge of electricity in the air.

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