Page 110 of A War of Crowns

They always looked at her as if she were the sigil of her family—a gleaming stag wrought from gold—come to life prancing about before them. It was as if they had never seen a woman in the flesh.

“Have you come to watch the lads at their sport, Your Majesty?” another of the Sons asked her. A large, middle-aged man whose name she didn’t know.

There were just entirely too many of them for her to remember them all.

“I’m sure she hasn’t,” the Crow answered for her, rumbling the words in thatobnoxiouslydeep voice of his. His one eye remained firmly fixed on her, as if in challenge. “I’m sure she was just leaving.”

Lifting her chin, Seraphina arched an eyebrow at the Crow when she contradicted him—merely out of principle—with, “I’m sure I wasnotjust leaving,” despite the fact that wasexactlywhat she had just been wanting to do.

But now that she could see just how much her presence vexed one Aldric Hargrave, she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to vexhim further. His mouth twisted into a frown when she nudged her mare in closer to their little group.

She couldn’t help but present him with a sweet smile in return.

“It’s easy entertainment, Your Majesty,” the oldest man of the lot informed her with a crooked smile that revealed several missing teeth. “The boys get restless, so Mother brought them out here to wallop each other a bit.”

At the realization they were out here beating on one another, Seraphina’s heart sank. But something the older man said piqued her interest. “Mother?” she asked, flashing a glance in between the Sons in her immediate vicinity.

“Master Fitzjesmaine,” the only gentle-mannered one out of the entire group informed her with a low dip of his head.

Though she knew them to all be the natural-born sons of various Drakmori noblemen, that Son in particular out of the twelve of them was the only one who possessed a noble air. He was even wearing silk on that day rather than leather.

Its emerald hue complemented well his tawny Drakmori complexion.

“It started out as a bit of a jest,” the gentle one continued in his explanation while the Crow frowned at them both from his perch atop that monstrously large stallion of his. “Since we are the Twelve Sons, some took to calling His Highness ‘Father,’ and so it just became natural to then call his second-in-command, ah…‘Mother.’”

“Thanks for the history lesson, soft hands,” Master Fitzjesmaine called out from where he was standing near two others who looked as if they had already been mid-bout before she arrived, if thecurrent state of their bruised faces and bloody knuckles were any indication.

She swiftly looked away, her stomach twisting uncomfortably at the sight of the blood. Instead, she focused her attention back upon the one Master Fitzjesmaine had just namedsoft hands. “And you are…?” she prompted him with an apologetic smile. “I fear we haven’t been properly introduced.”

The Son swept into another bow, his right hand placed over his heart. He introduced himself as, “Kynielle Flemoine, Your Majesty…though the other Sons simply call me Kyn.”

“Master Kyn, then,” Seraphina compromised, not entirely sure she wanted to handle either the nameKynielleorFlemoineon her tongue. “You are…not a Fitz?”

Master Kyn lifted a hand and made a so-so gesture when he explained in a suddenly careful tone, “Well, Iam, yes, Your Majesty. We are all illegitimate here, save for His Highness himself. But, ah—”

Master Fitzjesmaine interjected with a light, “What he’s trying to say without really saying it, Your Majesty, is that Kyn’s daddy was the only one to love him enough to properly recognize him.”

“Oh,” was all the response Seraphina could manage to that bit of news before the Crow drove his great stallion between her mare and Master Kyn’s standing form.

“What are you doing?” the little man snarled at her.

She stared at him, confused by the suddenly venomous quality of his tone. “Well, Iwasgetting to know your little mercenary bandbefore you so rudely interrupted—”

“I’m not just going to sit there,” the Crow bit out next, his voice kept low, as he leaned in close to her. Close enough that she could feel his breath caressing her skin. Close enough that she could have reached out and brushed her fingers across the intricate network of scars written across the entirety of his visage, if she so wanted.

She would have rather gnawed off her own hand.

“And watch youflirtwith my medic,” her fiancé finished on that same low snarl, luring an immediate, disbelieving laugh from her lips.

“I was merelyspeakingto the man—”

“Did I truly incapacitate your lover in that duel?” the Crow asked next, and Seraphina jerked her face away from his as her disgust burned like bile in the back of her throat. “I didn’t think I hit him so hard that you must now go hunting for a new stud amongstmymen—”

Seraphina didn’t know what possessed her then. All she knew was that in one moment, she was simply sitting there, listening to Aldric Hargrave level those vile accusations at her, and in the next, she had slapped his face with such force she nearly knocked the man clean off his horse.

Her hand stung. The sound of steel being unsheathed rang through the air, disturbing the peacefulness of the day as her Queensguard readied themselves for potential retaliation.

But for all that she had just struck their leader, not a single one of the Twelve Sons leapt to his defense. They all stared at her, wide-eyed.

---