Venn continued to shield Clare as men rushed past. One skated so close Venn twisted away, pulling her with him.
Her darting eyes caught the assassin pushing against the tide of fleeing men, his dark eyes trained on her.
She gasped. “Venn!”
The corded muscles in his arms pulled taut at her shout. His fingertips brushed her stomach as he grabbed her waist—no, Eliot’s dagger.
He pushed her aside and spun, shoving the small blade into the assassin’s gut.
Clare tripped on a man lying prone on the floor. She fell, arms swinging, and pain exploded at the back of her head.
Chapter 6
Grayson
Grayson left his horse with the stable hands and tried to shove aside all thoughts of Latham Borg and the innkeeper’s condemning wife. It never did any good to remember what filled his long days.
Patrolling soldiers slid back when they recognized him and servants halted midstep, eyes clinging to the ground as they waited with bated breath for him to pass. With darkness falling, there weren’t many members of Ryden’s nobility milling about the yard, but they also kept their distance. Some dared peek at him as he passed—the youngest Kaelin Prince, the king’s Black Hand.
Grayson tried to ignore all of them. The stares. The whispers.
The fear.
He trudged up the steep yard, the shadow of the hulking castle covering him. In true Rydenic fashion, the castle was sturdy, intimidating, and stark. Thick gray walls made it a fortress and unadorned towers ensured it looked more like a military keep than a palace. It certainly was not a home.
Once inside, Grayson kept to the least travelled passages as he wound his way up to the second floor, which primarily housed the royal family. His hands automatically drifted above his belted weapons as he walked the familiar corridor where all the apartments were located, his fingers ready to draw at the slightest provocation. He was always on alert, but especially when he came closer to his family.
The hall remained empty, though tension still stiffened his body as Grayson unlocked his door and slipped inside. He pressed it closed and bolted it, but even then he didn’t relax. He searched every corner and shadow, lit every lamp, checked the latch on the window. Only then did the knots in his back loosen.
One hand rubbed the base of his neck as Grayson gazed out the tall window. The view of the northern mountains, covered in dark pines perpetually tipped with snow, was always impressive. It whispered of freedom, and even if he would never experience such a thing, the mere ghost of it never failed to catch his eye.
But there was a view he craved more than the mountains, and she was waiting.
Grayson peeled off his black and emerald uniform, leaving him in his black breeches. At the wash basin, he tugged off his leather gloves and plunged his hands into the shallow water, seeing the scars he normally hid.
Most of the marks on his body were from Tyrell, the brother just a year older than him; he enjoyed leaving scars, especially in exposed places so he could smirk over them later.
Grayson’s hands fisted in the water, tendons rising and corded muscles standing up on his arms. As the youngest, he’d been the whelp of the family. He’d had no choice but to learn to fight. His survival depended on it, though his father had found other ways to motivate him. Now Grayson could beat them all, though Tyrell still provided the greatest challenge.
Grayson unclenched his fists and turned his hands over in the water, the reddish-purple burns on the fingers of his left hand standing out starkly against his pale skin.
Queen Iris was a practical woman. She knew her sons would always have enemies, so she’d taught them to be suspicious of everything. They’d learned the different reactions of every poison, both local and exotic, so they could know the signs and antidotes in case they were ever poisoned. Grayson’s first experience with this was at six years old, when she poisoned his dinner. He’d been sick for three days and she’d threatened to poison him again if he didn’t name what she’d put in his leek soup.
Garn Root.
He’d gotten better at dodging her tests. The last to slip through his defenses was two years ago, a fine powder left on his quill that caused excruciating burns.
Flame’s Breath.
Grayson rubbed his thumb over the old burns, then shoved the memories away. Dwelling on old pain accomplished nothing. He scrubbed water over his neck and arms, rinsing off the city’s grime. Shivering at the splash of cold water, he gritted his teeth and washed quickly, snatching up a towel and turning as he dried.
His room was dominated by a large four-post bed, the thick curtains drawn back. He only pulled them closed on the coldest winter nights, since he preferred to keep an unobscured view of the door. The king had once asked Carter to practice the art of an assassin, so he’d snuck in with a dagger and sliced open Grayson’s arm while he slept. Carter had been fifteen at the time. Grayson had been ten.
He’d learned his lesson and always slept lightly.
There were no personal touches in the room. The armchairs before the cold fireplace were old relics and there were no tapestries or paintings to decorate the gray stone walls. Queen Iris believed art was a needless distraction and she’d rid the castle of it when she’d married King Henri. The few personal items Grayson cared about were locked in his desk. Near the bottom of the cupboard was a stack of drawings he rarely took out for fear of someone glimpsing them. Though some had been done by his childish hand, most belonged to a far more talented artist.
Tossing the towel aside, Grayson strode for the wardrobe, lifting out a black long-sleeved shirt. The muscles along his back tensed and rolled as he fitted the shirt on and the cloth stuck to a few
