Traps, Tricks, and Beasts [Book 2 Complete][Fantasy, Adventure, Underdog]

Since her conversation with Feldan at daybreak, Squirt had not stopped moving. Moving meant not thinking about her heartbreak, and she intended to not think about it for as long as physically possible. Instead, she’d spent hours slowly taking greenlings around the castle, introducing them to their new places of work in small groups, bridging social gaps that were frankly not her fucking job to do, and ensuring those who remained behind were cared for.

Pakos had made this much easier. The bond between them continued to thrum, reassuring her that those left behind were safe, cared, and accounted for.

Qzi had also stayed behind, though with less enthusiasm and more pouting about the severe lack of stabbing. Luckily enough, since Lord Everwinter and his titled were not interested in traveling in carriages anytime soon, the storage room had mostly been forgotten even by the hostlers.

Meaning Qzi was bored.

Squirt returned at one point to see the redcap stalking hay bales, slinking around the corner from the carriage storage. She came to a stop, staring and wondering what on earth he was doing.

He paused.

Then, in a move so fast she almost didn’t catch it, he lunged with his knife. The explanation was obvious the moment she heard the distressed squeaking audible under his maniacal laughter.

“Aha! Dead now, dead, dead, and dead! No one can defeat me!”

Squirt’s entire expression flattened as the triumphant redcap stood with the freshly killed rat dangling from one hand. With the other he removed his cap, twirling a blade and nicking the dead creature’s neck. Blood gushed as he hummed in satisfaction, the small tribute pouring onto his cap.

Dismissing the scene as more of his antics, she huffed and trotted back into the main carriage storage.

It was time to round up the new recruits for training.

Of the hundred that had made the journey to Everwinter, just over sixty of them followed Squirt and Instructor Hawke to the training grounds now, all of them at various levels of nervousness. She twitched at their chatter, having had to snap at more than a few who said that there was no point in learning when a greenling could never face down a stronger opponent.

The Guard were already running through drills, the last of the new recruits having graduated some weeks ago to full members of the Guard. They all stuttered to a stop at the sight of sixty greenling pixies all nervously being led by a gleeful Instructor Hawke.

Well, with one very notably angry exception.

They moved to an open area of the training grounds, separate but nearby the Guard running through their own drills, spreading out in a large circle around the silver-haired instructor. Instructor Hawke then cast an assessing look over the crowd, even briefly scanning the flabbergasted guard members who finished their drills.

He rubbed his chin in thought, his other on his hip, before he turned to Squirt. “What do you think, lass?”

She answered flatly, “If they’re anything like me when I started, they’ll need smaller bows and daggers to start.”

He nodded. “Good choice, good choice. The bows we don’t have at the moment. Footwork and knives to start.” Then he turned to Squirt with a gleam in his eye. “I think morale is going to be important, don’t you?”

The visible rage in every inch of her tense body was the only reason Squirt was still going. “As you wish.” Flying monkey she would be.

He nodded, considering the Guard members. Some had finished their drills, and the rest had clearly given up. Surprisingly, none of the instructors barked orders or chastised the very distracted guard members, clearly intent on letting Instructor Hawke do whatever he wished.

Great. Now they were all puppets.

Instructor Hawke said with a touch of glee, “Let’s do… Heath, Vlad’ukus, Al, and Xox. The four of you are good with your blades, let’s pair you against the lass for some demonstrations.”

Squirt noted that many of the fey were being very careful with the name Athereon, most referring to her as huntress, lass, or miss instead.

The training courtyard, a relatively open area within the walls of the keep, now felt cramped. There were a few new faces amongst the Guard she didn’t recognize, ballooning the numbers of those in training at this time. Still more new fey hovered around the edges of the training yard, acting as assistants by picking up arrows, stringing bows, or taking notes for instructors on boards. Most of those were younger fey by the looks of them, those learning through observation of the adults going through their standard training regimens.

Stretching, Squirt scanned the crowd as the rest of the Guard were brought to attention and put back into drills.

If it had been ten greenlings or less, she would have risked taking them to the Hunter’s Clearing instead. But with so many of them, it would be impossible to keep them safe even in the edge of the Wylds without at least some knife and sneaking skills, meaning unfortunately they would be safer in the keep itself.

The new Guard members who had either signed up or arrived since she was last here were easy to pick out, as they were sharing disbelieving eyebrow raises or chortling about the matchups. She ignored them, instead accepting the two practice daggers handed to her by one of the assistants, a lanky looking teen.

Flipping them in her hands to get a feel for their balance, she spared a thought to appreciate that the assistant brought her a good, well-balanced pair, and not one of the heels—an unbalanced dagger thrown into the pile often to teach unsuspecting students a valuable lesson.

“Heath, you first.”

Squirt squared off against a lanky looking fey who she assumed to be a shifter by the flash of his eyes as he took his stance across from her. Instructor Hawke didn’t call them immediately, instead spreading out the greenlings so that they could all see clearly while members of the Guard approached to watch from behind.

Only once he was satisfied with their arrangement did he turn his attention back to the two waiting for him, calling out, “Begin,” with no other preamble.

The man lunged with his longsword. Squirt dove to the side, then rolled over her shoulder to get in closer. He was fast though, shifting the direction of his blade and forcing her to parry it. She cursed, gritting her teeth as the blow rattled her bones. Still, she continued, dodging or glancing the blows off of her daggers, using superior mobility to make up for the height disadvantage until, shockingly, she managed to get under his arm, kicking his knee and “gutting” him with one blade as she touched his neck with the other.

Panting from exhaustion and exertion, it took her a moment to hear the applause. Her opponent smiled at her, saying, “Damn good match, miss,” with a wink, confusing her more. He stood, exiting out of the cleared space as she noticed that the rest of the Guard had now officially given up any pretense of their own exercises to watch, the other instructors spacing them out evenly behind the greenlings.

Squirt glared at the unrepentant Instructor Hawke.

He grinned, sauntering forward and addressing those watching. “Now you see that there is little point in underestimating an opponent, no matter how small or weak they might seem. Greenlings might not have the ability to shatter your spine, but they’re more than capable of holding their own.”

Squirt muttered darkly to herself, realizing the man was using her as a fucking training demonstration for everyone and not just the greenlings, teaching the newcomers a lesson in respect.

Again.

Whatever. She wiped the sweat from her brow and focused on getting her breathing under control. The same assistant that had handed her the blades stepped forward and nervously offered her a waterskin. She eyed it and him suspiciously before pulling out her own and taking a swing.

Was that disappointment in the boy’s eyes?

Genuine forlorn longing.

What the hell? He was acting like a water bearer in the gladiator arenas for his favorite fighter.

Nope, that should in no way be endearing.

Turning to her next opponent, she recognized the d’mi as one she had faced before, taking her stance in the center of the ring.

Instructor Hawke walked around them, addressing the crowd. “Now, what I want you to pay attention to is how she dodges. Little ones like you lot,” he said to the greenlings, “can’t take many hits. Avoiding a hit is more important than making one. She makes it look easy, but she’s in better shape than most fey I’ve ever met. Why? Because unlike you lazy asses,” he addressed the greater Guard, “she doesn’t use magic to enhance her abilities. What you see is pure physical training, something all of you could stand to have some more of.”

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Ignoring the pissing contest, Squirt let the world fade to just her anger as she prepared for the fight ahead, knowing this one was faster than the last.

Unbeknownst to her, a savage grin tugged up the corner of her lips.

“Begin.”

Bartos was just writing up a letter with yet another request for supplies, factoring the reports from his titled he’d just finished compiling, when a scratch came to his office door. He glanced up, his eyes narrowing on it, wondering if he misheard when it came again.

Curious.

More curiously, his magic was reacting, urging him to go.

The Whims, hm?

As he had been taught, he followed, allowing his instincts to guide him and wondering if this was somehow again related to Athereon. He was no stranger to these types of instincts, but he had experienced them more frequently since the spring.

Opening the door, no one was there. A frown etched itself into his face when took a step forward, carefully scanning the hall just as a familiar pair of tails turned the corner.

“Pakos?” he murmured to himself.

Following the instincts, he exited out of the office and followed the tails of the moon hound. Down the hall. Around the corner. Up a staircase. Bartos always turned the corner only to see the twin tails disappear once again around another until he’d gone halfway across the keep. Always at an even, steady pace, the instincts urging his limbs to move drumming at a slow pulse instead of desperate pull. He was surprised then when the hound led him up, not down—up to the top of the observation tower, where he could see for miles around.

Turning one last corner, Bartos slowed when he saw Pakos sitting expectantly, waiting for him by the balcony door. He approached, and the hound turned his attention to the door before eyeing Bartos meaningfully.

Bartos obeyed, opening the door expecting to see Athereon on the other side, though why she would be here, he couldn’t seem to fathom.

Instead, he opened the door to reveal none other than the wayward prince himself.

Prince Feldan.

He’d arrived on the first day of fall just as he had proclaimed.

And now he was here, at the top of the observation tower, about as far from the one he’d come to court as possible, doing something that had to be about as far from his usual eccentricities as possible.

Moping.

The man was seated on the balcony ledge, every inch of him dejected. His shoulders were hunched, a metaphorical cloud weighing down the man’s usually indomitable aura of positivity and fun, staring down at the ground as if wanting to fall towards it.

Bartos spared a questioning glance for the hound, who fluffed out his fur as if to say, “He’s your problem now,” before trotting off, his tails held high. Bartos watched him go, wondering just what in the realms had prompted such a play.

Shaking it off, he turned his attention towards the prince.

Bartos approached, joining him at the railing and peering over the edge. He noted the ward the prince had put in place to keep himself concealed before he realized this spot gave him a perfect view of the training yard and the practice bout going on.

Athereon. Taking the fight like she always did, like it was her last, leaving absolutely nothing behind. Despite her best efforts, she looked like she was tiring and would likely lose this round.

Prince Feldan didn’t acknowledge him right away, his concentration down below. For several minutes, the two men watched as she battled it out before, eventually, she lost. Still, the match had been close. She moved off to the side, relaxing for a bit and drinking from her waterskin while Instructor Hawke began lecturing those watching.

Pulling his attention away, Bartos considered the prince beside him again. He noted the glum expression. The sagged shoulders.

Quietly, he said, “I would have thought you’d be celebrating your freedom.”

His words only served to deepen the other man’s depression as he stared down at the small army of greenlings.

Bartos considered him before turning his attention back down, giving him space.

It worked. Just about a minute into the silence between them, the man spoke, his voice ragged with tension and grief. “How do you know when you’re in love?”

Bartos couldn’t help the double take.

“Real love, I mean. Not just… I mean… without the Whims or fates. How do you know?”

Bartos spared a thought for the hound, wondering if he really was the best one to speak on this topic, and if the hound had summoned him just to talk the prince through his romantic woes. Still, he turned his attention back on Feldan, piecing together what was really going on here.

Feldan had returned silently, quietly, without the dramatic entrances he normally made, only now to be moping around the castle. Prior to leaving, he’d been moping as well, but this seemed different. His words were not the words of a man rejected or one deciding to love from afar, they were the words of a man questioning himself.

An interesting bit of personal growth.

Regardless, this was the type of growth Bartos was woefully unpracticed in.

Unlike Feldan, who had been encouraged to indulge in every and anything that kept him happy in his ivory tower, Bartos was used to suppressing his own desires. He’d forgotten how to feel them entirely until that night with Kenna, where he’d woken up from a dream, the two of them shifted to fey form, entangled in a warm embrace, and he finally allowed himself to want something.

Even if it was only for a moment.

That hurt in Kenna’s eyes flashed in his mind unbidden.

He knew she wanted him. He just didn’t know if he wanted her because he loved her, or because she loved him. He’d been empty for too long to remember.

He could read a room as easily as breathing, negotiate even the most stubborn fey into a mutually beneficial bargain, and judge a person’s needs with startling accuracy. His mother had made sure of it. Made sure that he earned his spot as Crown Prince and kept it, that he would be better for the nation than his grandfather ever was.

There had only been one love he’d been allowed to give himself to—Fer’ich.

But he was no longer Crown Prince. Annabelle had disillusioned him from his mother’s teachings over a year ago, and he’d ceded the crown to her.

That thought led him to memories of Annabelle. How she described the loves she found, the same loves that had been instrumental to her successful coup.

Using those memories as a guide, Bartos answered Prince Feldan’s question honestly. “It depends.”

“On?”

“Who you are. To love someone is being willing to sacrifice for them. Sometimes the sacrifice is small—perhaps the color of the décor or half of your lunch. Sometimes the sacrifice is much bigger. What that sacrifice looks like depends on the person.”

More silence.

Then, “How do you know it’s real and not just you… projecting?”

Studying the man again, Bartos noticed his attention had yet to waver from the huntress. “What are you really asking?”

Feldan’s face fell into a grimace. “… I cannot say.”

Bartos’ mind connected the pieces.

The huntress was deeply secretive, yes—but incredibly reluctant to use her boons on anything. Knowing her character as he did, she would never ask him for a vow as a courting gift, nor would she trust he would vow without reason.

Meaning the secret was deep enough to be worth the weight of Prince Feldan’s boon.

“You learned her secrets.”

Feldan flinched. “… that obvious?”

“Yes.”

He groaned, dropping his head and scratching his fingers through his hair, roughing it up. “This is wrong, so wrong. You would be a better choice, friend, we both know secrets are not my strength—”

Losing his patience, Bartos snapped, “Then learn.”

Silence fell between the two men as Bartos struggled to regain control and soothe his other half, Feldan studying him curiously.

Feldan broke the silence. “You would be a better fit.”

“I find myself forced to repeat this same conversation yet again—I am not romantically inclined towards Athereon.”

“Right, right… much like you are not romantically inclined towards Tobias or Kenna, non?”

Bartos went to dismiss the idea only to freeze, the image of hurt half buried under Kenna’s smile last night lingering in his mind once more.

Was the ache in his chest his, or hers?

Shaking it from his thoughts, he sighed, focusing back on the wayward prince. He had learned of Athereon’s secrets and now was moping like the dramatic he’d always been. “Are you not asking yourself the wrong question?”

“Which one?”

“Asking how to know if your love is real.”

“What do you mean?”

Bartos fixed the man with a glare, his protective nature once again rearing its head. Questioning whether or not this man was good enough to even ask to stand by Athereon’s side.

He reminded himself that his wolf’s judgement was often harsh. Had it been up to his wolf, he would have killed Annabelle when she appeared two years ago. Still, nothing could prevent his wolf’s derisive judgement rising into his words unintentionally. “You have run away from your whole kingdom, a kingdom that is currently toeing the line of war with ours, to chase after her. If I remember right, she had said she would allow you to court her, correct?”

“Well… yes.”

“Then court her.”

“… even if I’m… unworthy?” The last part was barely whispered, the man’s face pale, his eyes wide, genuine fear in his eyes.

Bartos’s wolf was soothed by the genuine pain and fear in Feldan’s face, begrudgingly relinquishing full control back to Bartos. Bartos himself, meanwhile, silently praised Athereon for somehow scaring the man.

Bartos had never seen him scared before.

He weighed his options for response. Truthfully, he had a guess as to the secret that Athereon held. At least one of them. It couldn’t be coincidental that she was compatible with so many disparate fey. From there, he could make educated guesses. Feldan’s insecurity pointed to one in particular.

The question was simply if all greenlings were anchors, like Annabelle, resonating with particular fey, or…

That answer was far more dangerous.

The pieces fell into place for Bartos. “Tell me, Feldan… do you feel pulled by the Whims to be at her side?”

“Yes?”

He sounded unsure, but it was of no consequence.

If he was to provide for his people this winter, he needed Feldan’s magic. Meaning he couldn’t have the man returning home with his tail between his legs just yet. “Has she rejected you?”

“Well… no.”

“Then let her be the one to make the choice.”

“You wish me to ask her if I am worthy?”

Rolling his eyes to the heavens and praying for patience, Bartos allowed himself the indulgence of reacting as he wanted to instead of as was proper.

His hand snapped out, smacking the pixie upside the head with force.

“Ow!”

“Do not ask her for her decision now. For once in your life, do not make this about you.”

The man winced. “I… know this, but…”

Bartos exhaled sharply. “Let me guess. You are struggling to navigate putting someone else first?”

Feldan, who had been rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, straightened, hitting his fist to his open palm. “Yes. This, exactly! I wish to, as you say, put her first.” Then he sighed. “But one like me, maybe even my attempts are poor.”

“Your attempts are poor.”

“I know this. I do.”

Bartos gave the man a sidelong glance. “Give her time. She has just had one hundred dependents dropped on her. Do not make yourself her priority to fix.”

Turning his attention back to the training grounds below, Bartos’ tone took on a more contemplative blandness instead of the sharpness of barely contained judgement. “She is forced to lead these people. One has to wonder how many she knows. How many she had been separated from, and for how long, on account of the late Lady Scholar.”

He paused, allowing Feldan’s rage to process that statement and cool again before continued. “You and I still only know bits and pieces of her past, and only some of her current. We are not what is important to her. You may have been granted permission to court her, but her people have just had a major upheaval. Now is not the time for courting.”

Several minutes passed as Feldan chewed on that thought before he asked, “Then… what do I do?”

“We plan. Her people are vulnerable here. Protect them, help keep them safe. Then you can ask her how to be worthy.”

Feldan opened his mouth, then frowned, shutting it quickly. His eyes drifted down to the large group of greenlings below them. “But she would not like me to interfere, non?” He gestured. “She hates the attention, and I,” he gestured at himself and sighed, sinking back into his mope.

Bartos took a step back. “Come. To my office. Perhaps we can discuss something there that will be a good use of your powers.”

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