Page 4 of A Kingdom of Destruction

“Pathetic,” she replied with a snap.

Hunter inclined his head. “Perhaps. Not only do you fight with your men, but you inspire them. It counts for more than you realize. Your father is proud of you as well.”

King Fergus Elridge never bothered to speak to her about anything outside of court matters, and he certainly never gaveanything close to physical affection. She’d gotten used to a pat on the head as the only thing she’d get from him. Even those stopped after she turned four.

Aven fell utterly silent as she worked to get herself together. Something about Hunter being here, saying these things, had her flinching like the kind words were actually a punch to the gut. Her hand fell to the handle of her own sword. She needed strength.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “There must be something, for you to go this soft on me. Besides, it’s my duty.”

To protect her people, to make sure they had even the smallest chance at the life they all deserved. Were they not all on this earth to make good lives for their families? To protect the ones they loved from strife and heartache and pain? She did the same, except her duties extended beyond blood.

“You are not a standard spoiled princess, that’s all I’m trying to say.” The corners of Hunter’s mouth twisted north, but his eyes held no amusement. “Gather your people. Tell them what they want to hear to get them through this fight and we’ll see who comes out on the other side.”

“Too few,” Aven admitted with uncharacteristic vulnerability.

Both sides did whatever it took to be victorious, even if it meant stepping out of bounds so far that fate itself may bring them to ruin. Aven herself felt the press of the future on her shoulders as surely as any weight.

Hunter’s jaw clenched. “One of these days we’re going to win this fight and those fae assholes will be digging their own graves. Then Grimrose will prosper again.”

Aven wasn’t too sure, but she clung to the small kernel of hope ignited in her gut.

“Trust me. I’ve seen it before. They might be long-lived but the underdogs will always rise up to fight the injustices of themighty and sooner or later, whether it’s in your generation or the near future, we will be victorious,” he said at her questioning sideways glance. “I may not live to see the day but I pray you will.”

Like she needed more pressure. Aven forced herself to bob her head in acknowledgment. “I’ll do my best.”

“Princess Aven!” A messenger ducked out into the open air, and wind immediately battered him, sending straps of leather slapping against his armor. “His Majesty requires your presence in the war room. It’s urgent.”

A darkness came over her, an internal storm, and her mouth went dry. “I’m on my way.”

“Go,” Hunter murmured. “You don’t need me to hold your hand this time.”

Her father rarely called her into the war room, and she could only remember a single time she’d walked over the threshold. He hadn’t been in attendance, and she’d scooted out of there as quickly as possible, like the walls themselves held the stress and tension of battle preparation.

She preferred to do her planning with her men in the barracks.

If he wanted to see her now… it could not mean anything good.

2

Flushed and reeling, Aven followed the guard down the winding halls toward the massive room located directly adjacent to the throne room. She was too young to remember the days when her family used the space for parties, drawing diplomats from all over the world.

They were long gone.

Her mother had often regaled her and her siblings with stories from those long-ago events, painting pictures of the glamour and the freedom, if only for a night. While her sisters made noises of pleasure and longing for those parties, Aven had scoffed even at three.

Who would want to twirl around in circles looking good for boys?

Now the doors to the throne room remained shuttered tight, whereas the solid wood panels lined with iron and steel—those leading to the war room—were always thrown open. The room filled with the echoing murmur of voices: the King’s and those of his generals.

Her father looked haggard.

King Fergus stood at the head of a long rectangular table carved from a single piece of wood and studied her as she made her way through the door. His cheeks were pale, and the dark ripple of scar tissue stood to attention. The slice, marring one half of his face from his brow bone all the way down to his jaw, spoke to his commitment to his people. It used to be that she’d see him out there alongside them.

Now his white hair and stooped posture marked him as ineffective. Too many years of fighting had taken their toll, although he was nowhere close to old age.

“Aven, come in.” He gestured for her to step closer, his rough voice familiar and foreign at the same time.

The cut of his tunic mirrored hers with a high collar and large round buttons keeping the two halves connected down the chest. His was made of sturdier material. She blew out a long breath and resisted the urge to bow to him. Even now, her father commanded whatever room he graced.

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