But dreadful creatures crawl that mountaintop. Chimeras. Basilisks. A gryphon has been sighted in the area. I’ve never fought groups of them before. Worse, the enchanted thorns grow back as soon as you cut through them, trapping you. Countless men have tried to fight their way to the top of this mountain to claim the prized beauty supposedly slumbering at the peak.
None have ever returned.
“If you can get me to the top of this mountain in one piece, Killian, and back down with the girl, I will release you from yoursworn oath of service to the crown.” Alistair tips his face upward. “By the demons, if you can conquer Thorn Mountain, I’ll give it to you.”
“Fat lot of good a decrepit castle on an untillable, overgrown mountainside would do me.”
He knows it tempts me, though. I’d fight my way through the underworld itself for a chance at property. I would never speak of it, but Alistair knows what I desire most.
Peace. Solitude. Pride of ownership.
Things I’ve never had, like permanence.
The closest thing I’ve ever had to a home was the orphanage my magic-addicted whore of a mother dumped me at when I was born, a wretched place I ran off from as soon as I was old enough to survive on the streets of Belterre City.
Once cleared of these cursed thorns, this mountaintop fortress would be the ideal refuge for a man who’s as much a monster as the fabled creatures he’s renowned for slaying.
I would take it. Hell, I want it.
As with everything in life, I’m going to have to fight to claim it. Once Alistair takes the throne, who knows what thankless, reckless ventures he’ll send me on as king. One day, my luck will run out and my life will end as it began: in blood, pain, and death.
Unless I win my freedom today.
I peer up through the thorns.
A small part of me is curious to know why the mere story of a beautiful woman is enough to compel generations of men to impale themselves upon the thorns of futility.
“I’ll hold you to that promise, Highness.”
Alistair turns to me with a smirk. “We’d best make haste while there’s still daylight, don’t you think?”
I tuck one thumb beneath the strap of my baldric and reluctantly lead the brave prince deeper into the thicket of thorned vines.
2
Killian
“The vines are closing the path after us,” Alistair says apprehensively.
“Better pray to the fae gods that we don’t need to turn back, then.” An hour into this misadventure, my arm is already sore and my axe blade dulled from chopping. We’ve made scarcely any progress up the pathway.
“I think I heard something.”
“Probably.”
We’re being stalked. I’ve known it for the past quarter-hour. Although the sun is high overhead, its light and heat barely touch the depths of the thorn forest. No breeze penetrates the gloom. Thorns as long as a bear’s claws tear at my sleeves. One slashed my cheek before I returned the favor and severed it.
Behind us, beside us, come the soft, rhythmic sounds of a large creature padding through the dense undergrowth. Slinking around twisted knots and fallen, rotting trees. The terrain beneath my boots tilts sharply upward.
“We’d better not spend the night here, Kill.”
I take a break from hacking and slashing to glare at him over my shoulder. “Walk faster, Highness.”
His throat works, the movement visible beneath the high collar of his shirt. Why he felt the need to dress like he’s attending a fancy ball baffles me, but I’ve got bigger concerns at the moment.
“Alistair?”
“Kill?”
