Page 58 of A War of Crowns

She didn’t wish to consider how much more dreary her life would become the moment Tsukiko departed from it.

“I want to know everything there is to know about this…Crow,” Seraphina softly prompted both the Oracle and her Shield. “Please.”

The two Kunishi shared a glance. After a few moments of silence, Ichiro pulled free his helm, tucked it beneath his arm, and answered, “He is a murderer, Your Majesty. With a heart as black as a moonless night.” Again, the Shield slanted a look at Tsukiko. “Forgive me, but I am not sure what else I should say. I do not wish to distress you.”

Seraphina thinned her lips. Distressing? She was the Queen of Elmoria, not a fainting goat. “You will tell me everything there is to know, Shield Ichiro, no matter how distressing you might think it to be.”

That time, it was Tsukiko who answered her. “The man who calls himself the Crow, Your Majesty, is known by another name within Kuni.” The Oracle softly admitted, “The border lords call him the Little Demon. He and his men are notorious for leaving nothing behind them but bodies and ash.”

Seraphina’s pulse quickened. This man was clearly no friend of hers.

He was simply yet one more foe.

“How many?” Seraphina asked with a glance flicked toward Tsukiko. The Oracle kept her gaze forward, though, silver eyes trained upon the trees. She looked to Ichiro next. “How many has this Crow killed? I must know.”

Drawing in another deep breath, Tsukiko expelled, “Thousands, Your Majesty.”

“Tens of thousands,” Ichiro corrected on a growl.

The hairs on the back of Seraphina’s neck stood on end. Aldric Hargrave, the madman and murderer, had been right there in front of her. He had touched her.

Had he been waiting for her there on the beach? Had he meant her harm?

The jungle rustled all around, and Seraphina’s breath caught in her throat as she searched the trees for any further sign of the scarred man.

Was he out there in the jungle now? Watching her?

Waiting for another opportunity to draw near?

When her Master of Ceremonies abruptly announced, “Welcome to Little Goldreach,” Seraphina nearly jumped right out of her skin. But the press of Tsukiko’s fingers against her arm slowly stilled her racing heart and saw her drawing her attention away from the deep shadows of the jungle and toward the makeshift city of painted canvas and wood her people had constructed.

The viscount and his assistants had truly outdone themselves.

Fashioned entirely from mere cloth, paint, and Elmorian ingenuity, the village of tents and pavilions looked utterly cozy and idyllic, nestled amongst the lush, tropical greenery. The lanterns strung from the trees sparkled like fireflies, and the makeshift streets hummed with the merry sounds of visitors strolling here and there, exploring the various structures.

Seraphina recognized most of the people as being from her own court, though there were a few dark-eyed Drakmori mixed in withthe Elmorians. She dipped her head to all those she recognized and smiled graciously at the rest.

With another gentle press of fingers against her wrist, Tsukiko asked, “It is breathtaking, is it not?”

“Yes,” Seraphina sighed, happy to agree with her newfound friend, though she did her best to not think about just how much this summit was costing Elmoria.

It would be worth it in the end if King Edmund agreed to her fresh terms.

When they reached a large pavilion adorned with ornate designs, which her Master of Ceremonies signaled was to be her home for the duration of the summit, Seraphina slipped inside the temporary palace.

She was desperate to be indoors and away from the sensation that someone still watched her from the trees.

And though she knew it was just her mind playing tricks on her, desperate to remind her of her unpleasant first meeting with theCrowof Drakmor, her wrist that the man had dared grasp burned for the rest of the evening—as if his touch alone had been enough to forever brand her skin with the evidence of his impertinence.

Chapter seventeen

Aldric

The feel of Seraphina de la Croix’s skin still chafed his fingertips. The scent of her perfume still burned his nose.

He could have killed her right then and there and been done with it. No political games. No intrigue. Just his fingers about her pretty little throat.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Calix observed while they made for the beach where the Twelve Sons had pitched their tents, “She was prettier than I was expecting. A bit odd, though. I’ve never seen a woman react likethatto you. But she was pretty.”

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