Page 29 of The War Queen's Daughter

If I can convince him to agree, that is.

I need sleep, but this new idea drives me to wander through the Citadel, feeling restless, seeking the Overprince. I pass through manicured courtyards filled with exotic flowers, their sweetness cloying, return to his study, only to find it empty. When I fail to unearth him, morning turning to noon, I finally toss my hands and accept that he will only be found when he chooses to be.

Irritated, I accept that truth and reach for the only thing that will bring me peace.

I need to move. I need to swing my sword and remember the lessons of blade and war.

Time to find somewhere to train.

My wanderings have led me to a less frequented area of the palace, and as though the gods themselves planted the idea, I hear it—the sharp clang of steel on steel, the grunt of effort, the rhythmic thump of a practice dummy being struck. My heart quickens, weariness falling away. I push open a heavy wooden gate and find myself in a small exercise yard. It’s a simple space, ringed by a high stone wall, with weapons racks and a few practice dummies, the round center thick with sand.

Several palace guards are working out, their movements stiff, almost theatrical beneath their padded jerkins. They spar half-heartedly, their forms unrefined, their breathing shallow. The air here smells of sweat and oiled metal, an honest scent that is a welcome change from the palace’s cloying perfumes.

As I step into the yard, their heads turn. Their expressions shift from boredom to shock and nervous attention as they recognize me. I might be in one of the ridiculous dresses I’ve told myself I will wear, but they clearly know who I am, even out of armor. One of the guards, his hand heavy with a wooden sword, pauses mid-swing and turns to face me.

My breath hitches as recognition flashes on my end this time.

Zenthris. The gorgeous rogue from the city, the one who smirks and steals keys. His dark red hair falls across his forehead, clinging to his tanned skin in a circle, amber eyes narrowing as he takes me in.

What ishedoing here? Openly, disguised as a palace guard.

Or wait.Ishe a guard? Or is he hiding in plain sight, a wolf among sheep?

Beside him, sparring with another guard, is his big friend, the hulking drakonkin. His movements remain quick for his size, his strikes powerful. The light catches his pale eyes as he looks tome, then his friend, bald head uncovered, faint scales showing in the sunlight that’s cleared through the clouds.

I gesture for them to resume, and they all do after a moment of hesitation. I circle the ring, observing, silent and watchful. Knowing I make them nervous has me grinning on the inside, even if I keep my expression stoic on the outside.

It’s obvious the other guards—with the exception of Zenthris—treat the drakonkin man poorly. They are dismissive of him, avoiding his gaze, making snide remarks under their breath that I can’t quite catch. They treat him like something lesser, an intruder beneath them, to be endured, not respected. The longer it goes on, the more their disrespect infuriates me. My code of honor, a warrior’s prowess earning its due regardless of origin, flares. I will not stand for such injustice.

Without thinking, I step forward. “Your forms are sloppy,” I say, my voice cutting through the dull thud of their practice. “And your tactics shameful. Your commanders should be embarrassed by your lack of skill.”

All the guards freeze, their eyes snapping to me.

“Lady Remalla,” one of them sputters, clearly shocked by my intrusion.

“General,” I snap. “Or highness. Princess, if you must. But if you call me lady again, I’ll snap your fucking neck.”

They all stare. Good, I have their attention.

“I asked for sparring partners, not a display of ill-discipline,” I go on, my voice cold. “And a warrior respects strength, no matter its source. If you cannot deliver me a worthy fight, you do not belong in this yard.” I gesture pointedly at the drakonkin, whose gray eyes meet mine with a flash of surprise.

My tone, my directness, has them silenced. The guards exchange glances, then, muttering under their breath, gather their things and leave the yard. Only the smirking rogue and his drakonkin friend remain.

Zenthris salutes me. “Kell doesn’t need you to fight his battles for him,” he says. “He has me for that.”

His big friend grunts, sour expression comical. “Enough, Zen,” he says in his rumbling voice. “Highness.” Kell nods to me, still wary but clearly curious. “Nice to see you again.”

“And you two,” I say, helping myself to a wooden sword. I haven’t used one before and instantly despise its clumsiness. Mother insisted I always carry steel, even as a toddler. “Did you find the place your newfound key belongs?”

Zenthris shrugs, tossing aside his helmet, shaking out his thick waves as he grins at me with a slow and sexy smile that I believe he’s grown used to disarming women with. “Not yet,” he says. “One simply doesn’t thrust a hard key into any old hole. The right match can be hard to find.”

Kell rolls his eyes with a groan while I laugh out loud.

“Do such tactics actually work on the women you frequent?” I swing the wooden length between us before thrusting it toward him with an abrupt match from my hips.

He really is beautiful. And he knows it. Zenthris’s hot eyes stare at my waist before he meets my amber eyes with his again. “Sometimes,” he says.

“He gets slapped a lot,” Kell comments with a shrug.

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