Rowena

The king’s voice drones on as if we have all the time in the world. In reality, Cook is boiling over because it’s an hour into dinner and they haven’t started the first course. I see her peek through the servant’s entrance again, rolling her eyes before she moves out of my line of sight. 

Just another reason why King Ferdinand is not to be trusted. He can’t stop talking long enough to enjoy the freshly baked pheasant I shot today, and if tasty fowl isn’t worth being silent for, I don’t know what is. 

My back aches as I lean against the stone wall, the dark leather of my huntress uniform helping me blend in with the guards. Why I’m even here is a question I’m sure we’re all asking, but the king’s whims are not to be questioned if you value your sanity. He’s never called me to a banquet before. Our interactions are usually behind closed doors. 

My eyes dart from the head of the table where the king stands, down to the seat next to him. Prince Alvor sits there with a pleasant smile on his face, a vacant look in his eyes, and the same expression I’ve seen on his face for the past five years when I’ve caught glimpses of him. His father rambles on about the state of the kingdom, and yet Prince Alvor is absolutely still, not seeming to care that he can’t eat until his father is finished speaking.

None can eat until the king sits and takes the first bite—a ridiculous rule, in my opinion.

The food is going to be cold, and the servants will be blamed for it when it’s his own kingly heinie's fault. 

But who am I to urge the king to stuff his mouth with food I worked hard to procure early this morning? I’m a nobody. A lowly hunter, the only one left, and I only have this job because Father didn’t have a son. Father realized I liked weapons and trained me to be his replacement, and I’ve bested everyone in archery contests who have come to compete to replace me.

Although if Father were still here, he’d never let me touch a weapon if he knew how much more I do besides hunt fowl for the king. 

My gaze is drawn back to Prince Alvor, a man I’ve ignored for years. Yet tonight, my magic tugs at me. A ripple of shock runs through me when Prince Alvor’s blue eyes stray from staring into space. They meet mine across the room. 

My magic leaps in my chest, and my legs twitch, the desire to step closer to the prince winding my body full of tension. Prince Alvor stares, his gaze unwavering. My magic lurches again. The light swirls like a warm, comforting fire through my veins. I tamp down the innate desire to use it. What would I use it on? There are no animals in the room, my normal affinity, and I can see everyone with my eyes, so I don’t need to see the light of their souls to see where they are. 

Why is my magic being drawn to Prince Alvor? 

Why is it reacting now, when I need to hide it from King Ferdinand? 

I fist my hands at my side. I don’t know, and I don’t care, and why is the prince still staring at me? I’m not one of the flirty maidens willing to swoon over the ridiculous man-child. 

I mentally yell at Prince Alvor to look away, to do something to draw the attention away from me.

But he doesn’t. He tilts his head, his eyes boring into me from across the room.

Well, if he won’t look away, neither will I.

Against my will, my magic spreads, warming my whole body, urging me to move toward Prince Alvor.

How odd. 

Prince Alvor blinks, his mouth twitching, and finally he breaks my gaze, redirecting his gaze down to his lap. His head shakes, as if he could hear my silent, berating humor tingeing his lips. When he lifts his head, he looks at his father, his brow furrowing as he studies the odious man. 

Ice rushes through me when Prince Alvor clears his throat. 

King Ferdinand glares at him, but Prince Alvor doesn’t look away from his illustrious father. “My king, I believe our meal is ready.” 

King Ferdinand’s mouth snaps shut, his cheeks reddening. His blackened stare travels from one noble to the next, to each nobleman and courtier. They wilt under his gaze, and if they haven’t already pasted on the permanent vacant expression that plagues the nobility—it’s on their faces now.

The same expression that’s plagued Prince Alvor for years … until a moment ago. 

Prince Alvor’s shoulders are thrown back, his posture straight and proud. Wait—that vapid smile is plastered on his face again. What happened to the smirk and the light in his eyes? The current look on his face, a passive smile, just makes me want to punch him.

Wow, lots of violent thoughts this evening. 

King Ferdinand slams his fist on the table, rattling the dishes. “If you desire to eat over listening to the king, then so be it.” He sits down so forcefully that his chair rocks backward before slamming back onto the stone floor. The violent crack causes several ladies to gasp, their tall hairdos wavering and tilting to the side. 

Just another fashion choice dictated by a king who, I swear, is not in his right mind. After one comment on the attractiveness of a woman’s hair piled high, suddenly the entire court decided voluminous columns of hair were to become the mark of beauty. How easily they cower before a king who has proclaimed to be on the lookout for his next queen, yet flits through noblewomen, twisting them to his whims with nary a care in the world. 

A boy emerges from the servant's entrance, a covered plate in hand. He slinks to the king’s side, places the food down, and lifts the cover before making his quick escape. Unlucky chap must have messed with something in Cook’s kitchen to have scored serving the king tonight. No one wants to serve him; his volatile temper is most often taken out on the young servant boys and squires. 

The floodgates of serving boys open, delivering plates to the court. The sweet scent of pheasant breast drenched in red wine, with mushrooms and roasted vegetables, assaults my nose. No one lifts a fork, waiting for the king’s signal to begin eating.

Just as King Ferdinand lifts his fork to his mouth, my stomach clenches. A mewling sound echoes through the quiet room. 

I don’t move. I stare at the back of a nobleman’s chair. But I feel their gazes, anyway. The guards turn toward me, and I even see Prince Alvor’s head tilting in my direction. 

I would rather die than admit my stomach made that sound. 

Little John was right. I haven’t been eating enough. I should really pack something to snack on for my hunting days. The days when I avoid being in the king’s employ, I’m able to forage more. 

But how am I supposed to stomach eating food that could go to the refugees who find us in Sherwood Forest? Especially when I can flit down to the kitchen after dinner and poach leftovers from Cook before she throws them out—by order of the king. 

No. Stomach grumbling aside, our people need the food more than I do. I’ll forage to survive, even if looks of disdain over normal bodily functions are my penance.

At least I go hungry for a good cause—not because of a ridiculous king who doesn’t realize he’s a tyrant over everything, including meals. 

The guards who turned to look at me sneer, and it’s almost an improvement to their perpetual grumpy-looking faces.

Throughout the first course I subtly shift on my feet, alleviating the tension in their arches. My thin leather boots are made for hunting and silence, not for comfort while standing on stone floors. 

The first course is finished, and I sigh as the second is brought out. Only one more to go, if the king is being reasonable tonight. Maybe I was called here on nothing more than a whim of the murderous king? Nope, that’s probably just wishful thinking.

“Huntress, attend me.” The king’s voice rings out across the table. Forks still, and so does the beating of my heart. 

For as much as I hate King Ferdinand, and even though I’m secretly rebelling against him, I have yet to conquer the innate reaction his voice brings when he addresses me.

My heart thuds painfully against my chest, urging me to break free. My magic recoils, drawing into me and making itself small inside my chest. 

Without the warmth of my magic coursing through me, I grow cold. Frozen in place. 

Only a nudge from the sneering guard next to me breaks me out of the trance. 

My steps are measured as I resist the urge to flee from this room. Mentally, I’m counting each of my hidden weapons. There are the ones tucked up my sleeve, the dagger tied to my thigh hidden under my hunting leathers, plus the thin one in my pocket lining. If King Ferdinand tries anything—I’m prepared both to fight, and to lose my life. I’m willing to take the odious man down with me if he tries any funny business. I’m not a maid he can dally with and send away when his pleasures are satiated.

My fingers clench, the leather of my gloves creaking. I need to oil them again before I go hunting. The thought brings back a sense of normalcy, and my magic unties itself enough to send a little more warmth and confidence throughout my body.

I stop three feet from the king’s chair and bow low, as expected, before straightening. “Yes, King Ferdinand?” 

The king’s eyes are darkness personified, but they aren’t looking at me—they’re looking at Prince Alvor. “I find that I have neglected my son’s education. If he is to be king one day in the far future, then I need him to learn the art of . . . silence. I’d like you to take him on a hunt and teach him how to be silent.” 

My breath catches, and my palms sweat in my gloves, his implied message being communicated clearly. Slowly, I let the air flow out of my nostrils, forcing my heartbeat to steady. It’s sheer willpower that keeps my knees from quaking. “Yes, my king. When shall I take him?” 

At this, the king finally meets my gaze. His once-brown eyes are black, swirling with a darkness that goes beyond mere hatred. “Tomorrow. He must learn, tomorrow.” 

My carefully laid plans have gone up in flames. With one simple word, everything I’ve worked for is ruined. 

Tomorrow, I’m expected to kill the prince—on the day I had planned to assassinate his father. 

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