Page 73 of Forged in Cursed Flames (Crown and Crest 2)

“None of this matters at the moment,” I say before the conversation can go any further off track. “Right now, we need to focus on getting into Revalane and rescuing Camellia. The princess must be our priority.”

Clover huffs, but when I glance at her, she simply puts her prim nose in the air and looks away.

“Though Henrik’s focus is upon my sister, please know thatIonly care about clearing your name,” Lawrence assures Clover with an indulgent smile. “The High Vales can keep Camellia. In fact, my only concern is they’ll boot her out of the province before the nuptials are finalized.”

Clover’s lips twist in a smug smile, and she raises her eyebrow at me as if to make a point.

“Rescuing Camellia is the key to clearing Clover’s name,” I say, exasperated. “It’s killing two birds with one stone.”

“So vulgar,” Pranmore mutters under his breath, making Ayan snort.

We can’t get out of this boat fast enough.

“What was that?” Bartholomew suddenly asks, sitting up and squinting at the shore. Tall trees grow right up to the water, along with thick patches of long grass and reeds.

Immediately, our conversation falls short, and we follow Bartholomew’s gaze.

Clover suddenly grasps my arm and points to the shore. “There! I saw him too, but only for a moment.”

“Him?” I demand.

“The elf from the tavern in Heistone,” she hisses quietly.

“Impossible,” I say. “How would he follow us all the way out here—”

But then the man in question stands, revealing his position not ten feet away, and brings a small pipe to his lips.

Acting on sheer reflex, I rip Pranmore’s leather journal from his hands and hold it in the air, intercepting the projectile mere inches from Clover’s shoulder.

We stare at the small wooden dart that’s penetrated the leather cover, slack-jawed. No one is more surprised than I am.

“Henrik,” Bartholomew says in awe, temporarily forgetting the imminent threat, “that was amazi—”

A dart hits him square in the chest before he can finish the words. Quickly, he pulls it out, but his eyes begin to droop, and I realize it’s too late.

Clover smacks me in the head as she pulls her bow from her back and reaches for her quiver, which I belatedly notice is missing most of her arrows. They must have been lost when she fell into the bog.

But before she can shoot the elf, he sends another dart her way, and I’m not quick enough to block it this time.

I try to duck when he shoots one at me, but it pierces my arm…

And the world fades to black.

19

Clover

“He doesn’t looka thing like Augmirian,” a female voice says, jarring me from the blanket of deep slumber. My eyelids are heavy against my eyes, impossible to open.

“He is, however, the spitting image of the late duke,” a man assures her. “And magic doesn’t lie. Without a doubt, this is Ayanleon.”

The woman responds with a noise that makes me think she’s not terribly impressed.

I mumble and try to shift, but my limbs feel like they’re made of lead.

“The girl is waking up,” the man says.

The light becomes shadowed beyond my eyelids, making me believe the voices' owners are in front of me now.

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