A Kingdom of Flesh and Fire(109)

“I know that, but the Princess thing isn’t official. I haven’t been…crowned or whatever.”

“It’s customary to refer to you as Your Highness or my Princess, even before the crowning,” Naill explained.

“Can we not?” I asked.

“It would be considered a great dishonor.” Naill paused. “Your Highness.”

I looked at him, and the Atlantian smiled innocently at me.

Casteel snorted.

“By the way, congratulations on the marriage,” Emil said, drawing my gaze to him. My senses told me he was sincere. “I have a feeling you will make a very interesting Queen.”

Queen?

Oh gods, how in the world did I forget that in the whole this-marriage-is-now-for-real thing? There was no way Malik would be in any shape to lead the kingdom once and if he was freed. Casteel would take the throne. Eventually. And I would be…

Okay.

I was not going to think about that.

“Then we will be calling you—Your Majesty,” Emil said, winking at me. “Isn’t that right, Cas?”

“Right,” he replied flatly, placing his hand on my hip. “Both of you should be getting into position.”

Emil and Naill made a great show of bowing before they left. “What was that about?” I asked. “You sending them off like that?”

“It’s official,” Casteel said, watching Emil as he stopped to speak to one of the Guardians. “I’m going to have to kill him.”

My head whipped in his direction. “What? Why?”

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

Confused, I glanced back to where Emil was walking toward the stairwell. “How does he look at me?”

His hand was a scalding brand on my hip, even through the layers of clothing. “He looks at you like I do.”

My brows lifted. “That’s not true. You look at me like...”

Those heated amber eyes met mine. “How do I look at you, Princess?”

“You look at me like...” I cleared my throat. “Like you want to eat me.”

Casteel’s eyes narrowed into thin slits as his gaze return to Emil. “Exactly,” he snarled.

I stared at him and then laughed. His gaze flew to mine, his eyes bright and wide like they always were when I laughed. “You’re actually jealous.”

“Of course, I am. At least I can acknowledge that.”

And he was jealous. I could feel it, an ashy coating in the back of my throat. “You are…”

“Devilishly handsome? Wickedly clever?” He turned back to the western sky, where it still carried the haze of fire. “Stunningly charismatic?”

“That wasn’t what I was going for,” I told him. “More like ridiculous.”

“Endearingly ridiculous,” he corrected.

I rolled my eyes. “You know, not once have I even considered seeking the affections of another. Not since I met you.”

“I know.” He bent his head, brushing his lips over my brow. “My jealousy is not rooted in anything you’ve done.”

“Or in logic.”

“That we will have to disagree on. I know how he looks at you.”

“I think you’re seeing things.”

“I know what I see.” He pulled back, his eyes meeting mine. “Every time I look at you, I see a gift I’m not worthy of.”

My breath caught as my heart swelled. It wasn’t new—him saying things like that. What was new was me believing them. “You are worthy,” I told him. “Most of the time.”

He cracked a grin. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

I wondered if that was true as we stepped into a parapet. Bows and stocked quivers were placed against the wall. I looked down at the dark road and fields ahead, seeing nothing.

“Are they down there?” I asked, recalling what I’d learned when they discussed strategies. “The wolven?”

“They are in the fields, well hidden, even from vampry eyes.” He placed his hands on the stone ledge, and the ring on his finger snagged my gaze. “The Guardians are in place, waiting for my lead. Those who can wield a sword are in the courtyard, and the others, the ones skilled with a bow, will be up here.”

Pulling my gaze from his ring, I looked over my shoulder. They were already arriving. Mortals who were too old to lift more than a bow. The Guardians escorted them to different parapets. The trickle of fear returned as I turned back to Casteel. “How many do we have? The final count?”

His jaw hardened. “One hundred and twenty-six.”

I pressed my lips together and closed my eyes as I forced myself to take a deep, even breath.

“I wish you’d gone with Alastir and Kieran,” he said quietly. “You would be far away from here. Safe.”

I opened my eyes.

Casteel stared into the darkness. “But I’m glad you’re here. Spessa’s End needs you. I need you.” He looked at me then. “But I still wish you weren’t here.”

I could accept that. “I wish you weren’t here,” I whispered. “I wish they weren’t coming.” I let a little of the fear through. “We still plan to free your brother and see mine, right? We still plan to prevent a war?”

He nodded.

“But after tonight?” I swallowed as I looked out to the western sky. “It may be too late. War has come to us.”

“It’s never too late. Not even after blood has been drawn and lives have been lost,” he said. “Things can always be stopped.”

I hoped so. I really did.

He turned to me, touching my cheek. “We may be absurdly outnumbered, but everyone who picks up a bow or sword to fight for Spessa’s End, for Atlantia, does so because they want to. Not for money. Not because joining the army was their only option. Not out of fear. We fight to live. We fight to protect what we’ve built here. We fight to protect one another. None of them—the Ascended, the knights, Solis soldiers—will fight with heart, and that makes the difference.”

I blew out a steadier breath. “It does.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then I felt his lips against my cheek, against the scars. “I will ask one other thing of you, Poppy. Stay up here. No matter what. Stay up here and use the bow. And if something were to happen to me, run. Go to the cavern. Kieran will know to find you there—”

“That’s asking two things of me.” Pressure clamped down on my chest.

“You are what they want,” he said. “With you, they will be able to do more harm to both Atlantia and Solis than if anything happens to me.”

“If anything happens to you—” I cut myself off, unable to go there when everything between us now was still so new, when it would breathe life into the fear I already felt. “These people need you more than they need me.”

“Poppy—”

“Do not ask me to do that.” I looked at him. “Do not ask me to run and hide while someone I care about is hurt or worse. I will not do that again.”

He closed his eyes. “This is not the same.”

I started to demand how it wasn’t when I heard the low call of warning from the fields. Both of us turned as fire sparked and a torch flamed to life in the distance, one after another until light spilled across the empty road.

Casteel signaled back as he reached for the hood of my cloak, pulling it up. As he fastened the row of buttons at my throat, the archers rushed forward, dropping behind the battlement walls.

Heart rate kicking up and breaths becoming too quick, I picked up a bow and an arrow out of the quiver—it was the kind I was familiar with—and stepped back so I wouldn’t be seen beyond the stone walls. Casteel remained where he stood, the only person visible to the approaching regiment. Instead of what marched forward, I stared at him, focused on the straight line of his spine and the proud lift of his chin. And as the silence gave way to the sound of dozens of boots and hooves falling upon the packed earth and the creak of wooden wheels turning, my senses stretched out to him. There was the bitter taste of fear, because he was no fool, but it was such a small amount because he was no coward.

“This kind of reminds me,” he noted, “of the night on the Rise in Masadonia. Except you’re not wearing slippers and a rather indecent nightgown. I don’t know if I should be relieved or disappointed.”

My heart slowed, and my breaths were no longer shallow. My spine straightened, and my chin lifted. “You should be grateful. You won’t be distracted tonight.”

He laughed softly. “Still a little disappointed.”

I smiled as my grip tightened on the bow.

There were no more words then as we watched the soldiers of Solis draw closer, shoving torches into the road and embankments. Their front lines were mortal soldiers, carrying heavy broadswords and wearing plates of leather. Horses pulled three catapults, and beyond them were the archers and mounted soldiers in metal armor, wearing black mantles. Knights. They were maybe two dozen or so of them. Not many, but enough to be a problem.

The knights parted as a windowless, crimson carriage rolled forward between two of the wooden catapults. There was something in them. I squinted. Sacks? It wasn’t gunpowder or other projectiles. Instead of relief, unease blossomed.

Soldiers parted, making way for the carriage that bore the Royal Crest. Several of the knights rode forward, surrounding the conveyance as the wheels stopped, protecting whoever was inside.