Crown of Blood and Ruin: A dark fairy tale romance (The Broken Kingdoms Book 3)
Crown of Blood and Ruin: Chapter 1

The wood laths reeked of vomit.

The burn of it coated the back of my throat with each breath. No one at the table seemed to mind. The man across from me kept dropping bits of his smoked herring, then eating them as if they weren’t coated in someone else’s rank insides.

With a smack of his lips, he slouched back in his chair, eyes on me. “It’s Herr Legion Grey, yes?”

One half of my mouth curled. “Has been all day.”

He snorted, then wiped what came out of his nose away with the back of his hand. “Tell me why I should sell to you? Your king offered me a fine price. And he’s the bleeding king.”

The trader glanced out the foggy window where three dozen serfs were chained like hogs going to slaughter. He tapped his left hand, then reached for his drinking horn. Left-handed. The short blade on his waist would meet me on my weaker side. Easily adjusted.

I took a drink of hard ale.

His blade wasn’t made poorly, but neither was it expertly crafted. Slightly unbalanced in the steel. Bulky. Heavy. Strikes would be swift and hard, but with less control.

“Well?” he asked. “Why d’you want them?”

I lifted my gaze. “I’m ambitious, Herr, and these are uncertain times in Timoran. You are not from these shores, but I have deep coffers. I’m offering for no other reason than I could do with a few bulky serfs guarding my gates.”

He lifted a brow. The trader kept stretching his right leg. Sore perhaps? Old injury? I’d test it if he earned the chance to stand.

“From the looks of it, Herr Grey, you’ve already got plenty of good meat to watch your back.” His eyes drifted over the formidable wall of men at my back. Tor, Ari, and Brant stood with arms folded, blades on their belts, scowls in place.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

Fools. I was here as Legion Grey, arrogant, feckless trader of New Timoran. They were meant to be my partners, my companions. Once, we were known to play our hands at game tables, were known as reckless, young, wealthy men with an eye for a good deal.

Not warriors to a king.

Ari was the only one who had reason to look as if he were in pain. Doubtless, he was. Skilled in illusion fury, Ari was the sole reason my fae features were hidden, but fury had a way of draining the body when exerted too much.

And this bastard of a trader wouldn’t stop talking.

“They are sour we have not invited them to drink,” I said with meaning and a sharp glare at Tor. He rarely smiled before, but since we last left Castle Ravenspire, only one person could bring out any emotion from my old friend.

Elise wasn’t here, so the least he could do was play his part as carefree, ambitious trade partner to Legion Grey.

Like Mattis.

The carpenter knew how to slip into a role without giving away how skilled he was with the sword on his waist. Mattis laughed and smacked a tabletop in the corner, tossing back a horn of red spice with another man who remained hidden beneath a hood.

Frey wouldn’t show his face. Not yet. Here, he’d be recognized too easily.

My smelly drinking companion tipped his horn back, eyes on me. “Apologies, Herr. But I’m not going to be stepping back from a deal with a king to feed your ambition. Take your business to Ravenspire’s open market. And a bit of advice—don’t go making it a habit of undercutting your own royal court.”

“I think you’re making a mistake.”

This conversation was about to change. As the trader blustered and paraded his importance like an arrogant cock, hidden under the table, the axe grew heavy on my lap.

A smug grin cut across his wind burned face. “I did not get to the point of trading with kings by making mistakes, boy.”

“Boy?” I said with a laugh. “Bold of you, Herr.”

“Don’t think the reputation of the wild Legion Grey, trader who beds merchant daughters while robbing their father’s blind has escaped me. To me, you’re only a wandering boy with a thick purse.”

I lifted a brow. “Do they say all that about me?”

He grinned, showing off the gold tooth in front. “They do. Good thing I don’t have no daughter, Herr Grey. I’m not trading with you. A friendly relationship with a king is more intriguing than a deal with a boy like you.”

My lips curled as I lifted my drinking horn. “I couldn’t agree more. Of course, I’d like to offer you one final chance to give over the trade on your own volition.”

“Now I’m to simply give them up?” He chuckled. “You’re mighty strange. How you’ve made it this long in a trade world, I’ll never know.”

“I take it you’re refusing?”

The trader glanced at me like I’d lost my wits. “Yes, Herr Grey. I refuse to give you my serf trade.”

“Understood.” My grip tightened around the handle of my battle axe. A comfort lived there, in the leather, the wood, the steel. Something familiar and deadly. “Unfortunately, this night is not going to go well for you. The king has no interest in friendly trade with the likes of you. He was simply offering a fair shot.”

His grin faded. “What are you—”

Before the trader finished, the curved edge of my axe sliced through the fingers he’d rested on the tabletop. A guttural, sick scream broke the peace of the alehouse. My men from Ruskig rose against his men before they even realized what was happening.

Mattis’s sword cut through the spine of a trader. Frey pulled back his hood and threw a dagger at the aleman, the point piercing the man’s throat. I didn’t question, doubtless the Ettan guard had his reasons to kill him.

Patrons in the alehouse screamed. Some reached for weapons. They didn’t live long. A few gaped at Frey, even smiled with a touch of victory. As I rose from my seat, Tor, Mattis, and Brant handled the rest of the trade crew, shoving them onto their knees, knives at their throats.

Ari let out a breath of relief when he released the illusion over my features.

I adjusted the cuffs of my jacket and went to the trader’s side. His brow was limned in sweat, his skin pallid. Blood blossomed over the table, mingling with spilled ale.

He winced at the darkness in my eyes, the points of my ears. I stroked a finger down the edge of the battle axe, and lowered into a crouch, hand on the back of his neck.

“I should apologize. You see, I haven’t been entirely truthful about our meet.” I dropped the weight of my hand on the handle of the axe cutting into his knuckles. The trader groaned and closed his eyes. “First, though, I feel I should clear up some of the more atrocious rumors about me. I don’t bed daughters. I’m wholly satisfied with one daughter of Timoran. You would understand if you saw her, Herr, I assure you. Truly beautiful and frightening all at once—”

“Perhaps we could move this along. These sods think they can break free, and it’s rather irritating,” Ari said, grinning. The traders in my men’s grip struggled and tried to reach for weapons sheathed on belts.

“Forgive me,” I said with a blithe look at my trader. “When I start to speak about Elise, I tend to go on and on.”

“Who are you?” he choked out.

“You came to trade with the king, did you not? As I said, he—I—do not wish to trade with you. But I will be taking your haul.”

Perhaps the loss of blood and fingers drew out a bit of madness in the trader. He laughed, and spittle tangled in his wiry beard. “You’re mad. Your k-king will slaughter you f-for this.”

I turned a bemused look to Tor. “He keeps saying my king. Oh, I think I understand.” My eyes narrowed. “You must be talking about the false king. So like Calder to keep up with his game of pretend.”

“F-false king?”

I stood and leaned my lips close to his ear. “You came to my land with the intent to trade magic, to trade my people. To me, you have practically declared war.” I nodded at Tor. “Kill them.”

It happened swiftly. Knives and daggers cut into the trade crew; the lead trader jolted at each thud against the pungent floorboards. With less care than I could’ve given, I ripped the axe off his slaughtered hand. The trader cried out, curling over the table. He trembled.

“I let you live today,” I said. “You’re welcome. When the Ravenspire guards come—and they will—to bring you before the false king, I do hope you give him my best wishes. Tell him King Valen Ferus is coming. And again, I do so appreciate his trade. His caravans have been incredibly useful to the true people of the land.”

The trader stared at me with heady fear. There was a bit of satisfaction that came from such a look. One I reveled in each time we did this. For months we’d attacked Calder’s trade, cutting him at the knees, weakening him.

With a quick gesture, I signaled at my men to leave. Brant dropped a linen cloth near the trader, clapped him on the shoulder, and left him with the mangy bandage. The ravens would come for the man, they’d take him to Calder. Either the boy king would kill him, or . . . no, odds were Calder’s temper would demand the trader be killed.

Outside, Frey and Mattis worked on freeing the serfs. I stripped the damn waistcoat from my shoulders. Never would I understand why Timorans found comfort in these clothes.

Mattis tossed me my second battle axe, grinning. “Well done, My King.”

Laughter rang into the night. Some folk were clearly not from Timoran and their blood from bruised and battered bodies held a pungent scent of cloying rot. Alvers. Magic folk from a distant kingdom. I grinned, imagining Junius, our Alver friend, would be pleased to know we’d found her people and snatched them back from Ravenspire.

“Frey? Frey!” A deep, throaty voice called over the others.

Frey dropped his sword, a broken smile carved over his lips. He sprinted through the messy crowd and collided with another man dressed in rags. More eyes fell to my guard; they whispered his name. Then again, this was Frey’s township. His home. A place where Ravenspire had destroyed and robbed its people. Killed its women, its children, enslaved its men.

“King Valen,” he’d said weeks ago. “I have a request of a personal nature.”

“Personal as in?”

“Call it revenge.”

The call to vengeance was all too familiar to me. I’d nodded. “What is it?”

“I want to liberate my folk, my brother. Then, I want to slaughter those who have kept him prisoner for two turns.”

He’d given a few details. Explained how the Ettans in the southern townships fought for Old Etta, for my family. They were killed and traded for their rebellion. They would be yet another caravan we could take from Calder. But more, Frey had tracked this particular trader with this particular haul.

When his brother, who shared nearly identical features, pulled back from his embrace, clasping Frey’s face between his palms, an ache pierced my chest. Strange how the joy of brothers reunited soured my stomach.

Frey had saved his brother; I had abandoned mine.

“You’ve been freed by King Valen Ferus,” Tor shouted over the laughter. Voices hushed at once; only a few mutters with my name carried on the wind. “We stand with magic folk. All magic. We stand to take back this land.”

No mistake, these serfs had been abused and beaten for gods knew how long. Still, as Tor spoke, more smiles brightened the night, more hope gleamed in dark eyes.

“Stand with us!” Frey called. “Many of you are my people, you are Axel’s people.” He gripped his brother’s thin shoulder.

Axel turned his gaze to me and held my stare for half a breath before he lowered to one knee, fist over his heart. “I stand with the true king.”

Others kneeled, some hesitated.

Brant stepped forward and sliced his palm. His blood held the stink of sweet, like many of the serfs in the trade. “We fight for all magic.”

More smiles curled over lips. Those with smelly blood chuckled and slammed fists over their chests.

Brant hardly understood his own magic, having only discovered he was one of the Alver folk half a turn before. His magic blood proved useful, though. Brant’s gift of premonitions and warnings of danger had saved our necks more than once.

Since I’d revealed my true name, more Ettan folk and Night Folk had traveled to Ruskig for refuge and to join their people. Calder was being forced to trade outside our borders, and he’d brought strange fury—or mesmer as Junie called their magic—and with Brant’s help, we’d taken that from the false king, too.

Mattis came to my side, arms folded over his chest. “Another success, I’d say. Calder grows weaker. He fears you.”

“Us,” I said. “He fears us.”

True enough. Castle Ravenspire had increased its defenses tenfold. They feared the growing threat of fury, but it also meant Calder was desperate. One thing I knew about powerful men hells-bent on keeping their control—they were unpredictable. Dangerous. We needed to rise carefully.

Some still resisted and demanded all Timorans be slaughtered. I thought of Elise. Hated to think it, but there were new faces in Ruskig who eyed her like she ought to join those at Ravenspire when they burned.

It wouldn’t happen.

She would help heal the scars between people in this land. Elise Lysander was the choice of my heart, and these people would need to grow accustomed to their temporary king loving a Timoran royal.

“Calder will bite back,” Tor muttered as Frey and Brant arranged the serfs into travel units.

“Let him,” I said. “He is slipping. We’re close, and he knows it. He will start to bring him out, and when he does, Sol is ours.”

Tor closed his eyes. “Valen, I will not be able to kill him.”

Sol was Calder’s one weapon against me. I’d believed the Sun Prince to be dead, but all this time Castle Ravenspire had my brother—a dark fae—and used his fury to create wicked poisons; they used Sol as their own kind of beast.

In my mind, if Sol were a threat to our people, he’d want me to kill him. But much like Tor, I didn’t know if I’d be able to follow through if the time came.

“I have no plans to kill my brother. But when they bring him back into the light, I have grand plans to take him back. To bring him home to you.” I rested a hand on Tor’s shoulder, then turned away to lead the new caravan back to Ruskig.

Yes, Calder would bite back. But we’d be ready.

Crippled by our attacks, the boy king could hardly feed his own people, and I doubted he cared. He was too focused on taking my head to have time for actual strategy.

Soon enough his head would be mine.

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