I trudge down the hall to my bedroom. All I want is to peel off my dress—and with it all the events of that stupid party—and climb into bed. Things like that Pachuate assassination attempt start wars, and I can’t afford one. I cannot have all the events canceled, have my whole future shut down for another year—maybe longer. No one gets married during war, do they?

  Then again, was that attacker really from Pachuate at all, or can he have been a rebel with a foreign sword? One of Abel’s men?

  I step into my bedroom, kick off my shoes, and nudge the door with my hip.

  A hand slaps against the door, and Lilianna barges into my room. “A word, dear stepsister?” She kicks the door shut behind her.

  I flinch. “Of course, Lily.”

  She turns on me, eyes wild. “What the hell is going on? Why would no one hardly speak to us? Why was the Prince glaring at you like you’re his least favorite person in the kingdom?”

  I slump onto the end of my bed. I blindsided Lilianna too. But where can I even start? I’ve woven myself too deeply into this mess to even begin explaining. The less Lily knows, the safer she stays. “It’s nothing. He prefers Nicoletta.”

  Lilianna opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Nothing? It’s nothing?” She throws her hands up and paces the room. “Aubrey, I’ve been out and available from the moment I turned fifteen. That’s four years now I’ve been available and I’ve not had one offer.”

  “No one offers marriage to a fifteen-year-old anymore. Society has been trending older marriages for years. Look at—”

  “Save your breath, I’ve heard it already,” Lilianna snaps. “I know my worth. I know I am nothing more than a low class gold-less noble. I’m not pretty. I have no inheritance or dowry. Look at me, I’m wearing your dresses for Sky’s sake, tailored by me! Not a seamstress. I understand my situation perfectly. It’s yours I think you don’t understand.”

  Strangulating pressure twists around my throat and down into my chest. “Lily, you’re so much more than that, you’re—”

  Lilianna raises a hand. “I’m not finished. My future, my mother’s future, the future of our home, your father’s estate, his reputation, all of it falls on your shoulders. And what are you doing with it? How can you not take this more seriously? Do you have any idea what will happen to us if you can’t get someone suitable to marry you? If you keep throwing away all the chances you get, then it’s over. There’s no magic apple, no wish-granting fish, or fairy godmother to save you. We all fall to ruin.”

  I can’t meet Lilianna’s gaze. I know this. I stare at my hands, frail and thin and faintly calloused from riding reins—yet another of my lies. How much blame will coat these hands when the rebels act on the secrets I’ve given them? I might throw up.

  “Well?” Lilianna stands with her fists clenched, teary-eyed, lip quivering. Lily is so much more than she believes of herself. I wish I could make her see it.

  “I understand your concerns,” I say, because I have to give her something, some kind of hope. “Taron is… aware of the situation and we have a plan.” Taron has a plan. “And Maurus’s offer still stands. There’s still over three weeks until the Summer Solstice Ball. And once the Prince selects a bride, if it’s not me, then the others will be able to make offers without offending him. It will all get sorted, Lilianna. I promise.”

  She narrows her eyes, like she doesn’t quite believe me.

  I pray I can uphold that promise. If I get myself hung for treason, I’ll destroy Lilianna’s reputation and any chance for a decent future forever. But I cannot just leave Farnell to die.

  Lilianna glances around the room, like she might find evidence of my lie. “Alright.”

  “Lilianna?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you... not tell Clara about this? She must already suspect, but there’s no point in involving her anymore than she already is.”

  Lilianna sighs and drifts towards the door. “You know I’m terrible at lying to her, but... I won’t bring it up.”

  “Thank you. And, for what it’s worth, I’m so—”

  “Don’t apologize!” Lilianna spins around, her eyes sharp and so very much like her mother’s. “Just say you’ll try. If you won’t for yourself, at least for me.”

  “I’ll try,” I whisper and wish, if only for Lily, it’s a promise I can keep.

  Abel leans against the side of Ma’s Kitchen like a living shadow, his mask pulled up over his nose. His long hair blows wild and untamed around his neck. He is freedom.

  Eyes already fixed upon me as I approached, he tugs down his mask to reveal a smile that creases his cheeks. “Hello.”

  My heart does a little flip-flop. I’ll never get enough of seeing his face. Him. Those angular cheekbones and stubble-shadowed jaw. “Hello.”

  “I’m surprised you came. With the wyverns and that fiasco at Vale’s party last night… I figured your stepmother wouldn’t let you out of her sight. If we do this again, it should be at a location closer to you. I learned yesterday your neighbor has gone to live with his son in another part of the city, so his place will be empty for the foreseeable future.” He pulls open the door and holds it open for me.

  My cheeks flush. If we do this again. I already want to do it a thousand more times. I pause in the doorway’s threshold. Heat and his mossy forest scent radiates from him, so tantalizingly close. I drag my gaze up to his, to those enthralling eyes that glisten in the starlight. “Was it you?”

  “No, not this time.” He touches the small of my back, urging me inside. “Pachuate wants war and apparently they intend on having it.”

  I resist his push, my feet straddling the threshold. “Have you and your council made a plan to rescue Farnell yet?”

  He presses more firmly on my back, the heat of his splayed fingers seeping through my dress to my skin. “It’s in progress. Our greatest risk is the High Guard. I’ve seen him fight and he’s never lost. Never. Not since he was fifteen. I’m good, but I don’t like those odds. We’ll either need him not physically present or very distracted. The best idea we’ve come up with is the Summer Solstice Ball. There’s still a lot of arrangements to be made, though. We won’t have room for mistakes.”

  My stomach turns over. I saw the High Guard in action just last night. He’s even more inhuman and beastlike than Abel. I nod and give to Abel’s pressure on my back.

  Everything, it seems, has its deadline for the Summer Solstice Ball.

  “What happens if we go to war with Pachuate? For your rebellion?” I ask as Abel follows on my heels. His hand on the small of my back guides me deeper down the hall. Every step, every minute shift of his fingers sends little shivers of delight up my spine.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He sighs. “Then all the Disciples have worked for will be for naught. If we cripple the monarchy, Kheovaria will fall. Even now, she might be too weak from the damage we’ve already done. Our people can’t afford a war. And Pachuate doesn’t assimilate the conquered as civilians. They take slaves.”

  “What does that mean? Do you just give up?”

  “Not yet. For now, we’ll be careful. Kheovaria can’t lose her army. I must be very selective about who I kill and when.”

  Like a game of chess with real lives. Except it isn’t just him against the monarchy, Pachuate plays too.

  We reach the narrow staircase at the end of the hall that I saw last time. The staircase leads to another long hallway, dimly lit by moonlight filtering in through a few open doorways.

  “Watch your step,” Abel whispers into my ear. “Ma keeps a tight ship around here, but sometimes the children have to sleep in the halls if there’s too many of them.”

  I squint in the darkness as we pick our way down the hall.

  A head pokes from one of the open doorways. A boy. No, the same boy Abel and I rescued. “Aye,” he says, his voice little louder than a whisper, “it’s him.”

  A dozen other faces leap to the doorways with wide, eager eyes.

  “Good evening,” Abel says, nodding to each as we pass.

  “He looks like one of them,” a girl says, wrinkling her nose. She’s maybe eight or nine, with bushy brown hair that sticks out wildly around her narrow face.

  Abel pauses beside her and kneels down to her level. His face cracks into a broad grin. “Ever heard of a wolf in sheep’s clothing?”

  “No.” She juts out her chin, unimpressed.

  “Well, it’s just like it sounds. I’m the wolf.” He touches the top of his boot and her gaze drops. From it, he withdraws a dagger and wiggles it in his long fingers to catch the light, then drops it back into its hidden sheath. He lifts his hand up to his tailcoat, and taps the buttons there to draw her eye again. With incredible speed and deftness, he knocks the buttons loose and draws one side out wide, exposing several small throwing knives hung neatly in a row. “And this is the sheep’s clothing. Mighty clever, don’t you think?”

  “Wow,” she says with wide eyes. “Can I have one of your knifes?”

  Abel laughs. “Ma would skin me. But I do have…” He waves his hand dramatically, then dives it into a pocket within the jack and rifles about.

  The little girl’s eyes grow wider and she leans closer.

  With another flourish, he pulls out a small pouch that clinks with coin. “Can I trust you to divide this up fairly between the lot of you?”

  The girl looks up at him with awe-struck wonder and takes the pouch as if he’d handed her the keys to the palace. “I promise.”

  Abel straightens up and starts down the hall again, every little face fixed upon him. I follow along behind, as awe-struck as that little girl. Skies Above, this man.

  We round another corner and ascend another long, narrow staircase. At the top, Abel pushes open a door and we step out into the humid night air of a large, flat roof.

  “What is this place? An orphanage?” I ask once the door shuts again. The wind catches a stray hair from my bun and sends it twisting and twirling around my face.

  “Of sorts.” Abel shrugs off his coat and unbuttons his waistcoat. He tosses both by the door and kneels to light a small lantern waiting for us. Once lit, he straightens, removes his cravat, and undoes the upper buttons of his shirt, so that it flaps open, revealing fine dark hairs and the upper swell of his pecs. “Children need a place to go. Ma provides it however she can. She’s agreed to let us use her roof, at least for tonight—What are you doing?” He coughs.

  I look up from the skirt buttons I’ve just undone and grin. I let the skirt pool at my ankles, revealing the trousers I used to wear on adventures with Farnell.

  Abel clears his throat. “I suppose that’s… sensible.”

  My smile grows. There’s something addictive about seeing him… affected. “I’m ready.”

  He claws his wild mane back and secures it with a cord, his eyes still dancing with amusement as they sweep over my newly revealed attire. “I can’t promise miracles. It took me two decades to learn what I know. I started when I was a young boy, then I trained with your father’s army, and more since. But I can teach you a few things that might give you an opportunity to escape or buy you a few extra seconds of time. Sometimes that makes all the difference.”

  “Yes, I’ll take that.” I was powerless when Maurus grabbed me by the arm last night, unable to twist away. I want whatever Abel can give me.

  Abel teaches me how to stand and distribute my weight between my feet, how to hold and angle my body to throw a punch. He shows me the most vulnerable places of the body to strike at.

  Everything I do is clumsy and awkward at first. It all feels wrong. But after an hour or so, my body falls into the methodicalness of it. Strain, focus, preservation are all things I understand. I know balance, have awareness of my body’s shape and positioning. All things Clara’s ruthlessly grilled into me for years.

  Abel’s hand closes tight on my wrist.

  I move to twist.

  “Wait,” he says, “not yet. Hit me first, or spit in my eye. Distract first, then break away. If you twist first, you announce your intentions.”

  I lift my knee towards his groin, careful to draw up short of striking him.

  He mocks a flinch away and loosens his grip.

  I twist my wrist towards his thumb like he’s taught me and break away.

  “Good.” He nods.

  Over and over, we practice. From different angles, opposite grips, different starting positions. He grabs my wrist, my upper arm, my shoulder. Teaches me how to break from each. How to protect my face. Which part of my fist to hit with. How to throw an elbow.

  “Again,” he says.

  I heave myself upright, sucking in a breath as I use the back of my hand to wipe at the tangle of hair and sweat on my forehead. My once-respectable bun flops around loose on my head.

  “Step back a bit more.” He nudges my foot back with his. “See?” He grips my shoulders and pushes.

  This time, my back foot keeps me steady.

  He releases me and steps back, his eyes darting to each foot before his gaze flicks up to mine. He nods. “Now, when you’re wearing a dress, you actually have a unique advantage, despite its physical limitations.” He waves a hand at my feet. “Not only would no one expect a woman in a dress to attack them, but they won’t be able to see your stance to predict your next move.”

  I smile at the thought. Skies Above, there’s absolutely no one who’d expect me to attack them. I move to strike Abel, but he steps back away from me and I lose my balance, tripping forward.

  “No, no, don’t lead with your front leg.” He takes me by the arms to reposition me, his tall frame pressing hot against mine. He uses the toe of his boot to push my right foot back again.

  I steal a look up at him as his hard, damp body presses against mine. Heat and his unique scent radiates from him, masculine and faintly of horses. Sweat beads over his lip and trickles down his tautly muscled neck, glistening in the lantern light. I can make out each dark hair of his stubble, the dark lashes of his downcast gaze pinned on my footing.

  “Yes, like that.” Eyebrows knit in concentration, he glances up from my feet to my face. His grip on my arm slackens. His throat bobs and he doesn’t move away. That gaze slides slowly down my face, to my mouth. The pattern of his breath changes, quickens, hitches with an inhale that parts his lips.

  Deep behind my navel, something tugs, lifts, as if I’ve stepped off a ledge I didn’t know was there. The world spins and only Abel holds me in place. His grip on my upper arms turns into a splay of roughly calloused fingertips that sets my skin aflame.

  His head tilts towards mine, so close his breath dances across my lips, short and ragged. The lanterns light flecks of green in the eyes holding me captivated, breathless.

  My pulse skitters. My lips part, ache.

  Able jerks back, hands flying away as if I’ve scalded him.

  The magic between us snaps and shatters.

  I stumble, too, the fire inside my chest sputtering and dying with a horrible, crushing squeeze. My heart pounds against that miserable ache; arms and legs suddenly weak, unsteady, shaky.

  Abel takes several steps back and turns away, thrusting a hand into his hair. He clears his throat, gaze everywhere but on me. “It’s late. You should get home. You’ve done very well, especially for your first session.” His voice is rough, raw.

  I swallow back the raging sensations threatening to sting my eyes, dumbfounded by how intensely I’ve been affected—how intensely rejection stabs me. Composure, commitment, conviction. “Thank you.” My voice sounds lower than usual, hoarse and raspy.

  He clasps either elbow in a stance that’s very unlike Abel, defensive, stiff, conflicted. “You’re welcome.”

  I know I should turn away, go home. Yet I hesitate, held by the tension in the air between us. Had he been about to kiss me? Do I want him to? That painful, stupidly hopeful twist in my chest is answer enough.

  Oh, I’m in such trouble.

  He’s a murderer, a warrior, someone capable of taking others’ lives just as brutally as the Prince. Yet… the reasons behind those choices mean so much more than the actions alone.

  I swallow down the lump in my throat, clinging desperately to my composure. “Please don’t give up on Farnell,” I whisper and with the words comes that grip on my spine, that familiar fear of all my hopes and dreams lying in someone else’s hands.

  He straightens, drops his arms from their cross, and levels his gaze on me. “We gave you our word. The plan remains. There are no guarantees it’ll work, but I promise you we’ll try.”

  A chill rolls down my spine, raising the hairs in its wake. I want to believe him.

  I draw myself up, set my shoulders back. The tautness of the scars on my back reminds me who I am. This isn’t my fairytale. “Goodnight Abel.”

  “Goodnight, Aubrey.”

  I pick up my shawl and start for the door that leads back downstairs.

  “Again?” Abel asks as my hand falls upon the door handle. “Two nights from now? The Privetts’ neighboring roof?”

  A wave of cool relief washes over me. “I’ll be there.”