Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(60)

Jespyr’s club slammed into Gorse’s shoulder.

The crowd erupted in a hollering jeer. “And with that,” Hesis called, “we begin.”

Jespyr looked at her bat, then at to Gorse, her gaze wide—like she hadn’t meant to hit him. A moment later, her eyes narrowed. “You don’t deserve to wear the Destrier’s cloak.” She turned to Ravyn. “Neither do you.”

Vitriol poured out of him. “You think you could be a better Captain, Jes? Take it from me. Hell, I’ll even waive the challenge. Because you couldn’t beat me, not without your Black Horse—your precious little crutch.” Ravyn’s voice went dangerously low. “Go on, take my place. Be Uncle’s puppet. Bow and scrape and swallow the bit he shoves in your mouth. You’ve always been better at those things than me.”

Jespyr lunged.

Ravyn pivoted, but not before the nails in his sister’s club took a bite out of his cloak.

“You want to talk about crutches, brother?” she seethed. “Let’s talk about yours.”

Ravyn held his arms open wide. “Do your worst.”

Jespyr pushed left and the circle shifted. She, Ravyn, and Gorse moved in a slow rotation, never taking their eyes off of each other.

“You tell yourself the Destriers hate you because you’re infected. They don’t—not all of them.” Jespyr spat the words. “They hate you because you think you’re better than them.”

“I am better than them.”

Gorse opened his mouth but Jespyr cut him off. “Big, strong Ravyn Yew. The Captain who never smiled, never fell, never flinched—who lies to his King, his men, and most of all, to himself.” Her eyes went cold. “You’re not better than anyone, brother. And you’re not stronger than me. You’re just better at pretending.”

“You want to know what I’ve been pretending at all these years? I’ll tell you.” Ravyn went still, breaking the circle’s rotation. “I pretend that I don’t spend every moment of every day hating myself for being Captain of the Destriers.”

“You’re a traitor,” Gorse spat. “And you’ll bleed for it.”

“Likely.” Ravyn fixed his stance—aimed with both eyes open. “But not yet.”

The scythe flew. Without his Black Horse, Gorse’s reflexes were slow. The scythe caught him along the shoulder, the dull edge finding purchase over his breastbone.

Deep. But not, with such an aged, rusted blade, deep enough to kill.

The crowd roared. Ravyn was across the yard in a breath. Vision limned in red, he knocked Gorse to the ground, hand on the Destrier’s throat. Gorse looked up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes. He’d dropped his whip. But his fists met Ravyn ribs over and over again.

Air shot out of Ravyn’s lungs. He kept his hand on Gorse’s throat and thought about blood and whips and the smell of smoke, clawing its way up the dungeon stairs. Of terrible things he’d had to watch, had to do, as Captain of the Destriers.

Ravyn leaned close to Gorse’s mottling face. “Be wary, Destrier,” he ground out, “Be clever. Be good.” Then, with a final, brutal push—

He crushed Gorse’s windpipe.

A slow, hungry cheer raked over the courtyard. They’d wanted Destrier blood. And Gorse, taken by the great, final sleep, was a crimson canvas. Red spilled from the scythe wound, trickling into the dirt, feeding the soil, burrowing its way into the cracks in Ravyn’s hands.

The smoke’s magic slipped away, taking rage and hate with it.

Ravyn stared down at Gorse, hands shaking. This time, the bile refused to be forced down. Ravyn leaned over and was sick in the dirt, his ribs screaming pain as he heaved.

The courtyard went eerily quiet.

Ravyn looked up. Someone had breached the circle and was standing between him and Jespyr. An unmasked woman, shadowed by two young boys. She wore a green dress and a cloak of the same color with a white tree embroidered near the collar. Her graying gold hair was loose, her hazel eyes wide. Wide, familiar—

And trained on the Nightmare.

Opal Hawthorn put a hand to her mouth. “Elspeth,” she said, tears in her eyes. “You’re alive.”





With a few booming commands from Otho, the courtyard cleared—spectators filing into the fort, the dark sockets of their bone masks trained on Ravyn as they went. They dragged Gorse’s body with them, a bloody trail the Destrier’s last mark upon the kingdom he’d served.

Ravyn locked his hands into fists. Even then, they shook.

Opal stood at the post opposite the Nightmare, staring at what used to be her niece, tears in her eyes. Ravyn knew her pain by heart. She’d seen a maiden with black hair and thought it was Elspeth—only to be met by terrifying yellow eyes.

Just as Ione had in the dungeon, Opal placed a hand on the Nightmare’s cheek and lost the color in her own. “What’s happened to you?” she whispered. “You’re—different.”

The Nightmare’s expression was smooth. “I am.”

“You’re—you’re not Elspeth.”

The Nightmare said nothing. Opal’s hand fell. She stepped back from the post and began to weep. Her boys stood next to her, their young eyes wide as they stared at the Nightmare. But when Ravyn moved to approach—to explain—Hesis pulled a rapier from her belt. “Stay back.”