A Heart So Fierce and Broken (The Cursebreaker Series Book 2)

By the time Rhen calls for me, the sun has long since set. I’ve been chained alone in an empty room for most of the day, and the cold of the marble floor has seeped into my bones, leaving a stiff ache that refuses to disappear. The guards followed orders, but only to the letter, so I’m clean and my wound is bandaged, but I haven’t seen food since morning. I have no idea what they’ve done with Tycho.

Rhen waits in his chambers, the space a stark contrast to where I’ve been kept all day. A fire burns low in the hearth, stealing any hint of a chill, exactly as I remember. Vibrant wall hangings stretch between the windows, a wide chest of drawers sits along the opposite wall, and an impressive selection of liquors fills a cabinet in the corner. Food waits on a low table near the chest, sliced fruits and warm breads.

I consider how long it’s been since I’ve eaten, and I wonder if the waiting food—clearly untouched, set just out of reach—was deliberate.

I consider Prince Rhen, waiting impassively in a velvet armchair, and I know it was.

The guards draw me to a stop before him, but I know better than to hesitate now. There is no carpeting here, but I kneel anyway, my injured leg clumsy and stiff, my chains rattling against the marble floor. The air flickers with uncertainty and betrayal.

Two guards stand at my back, while Dustan stands to Rhen’s right, near the hearth. The prince says nothing, so I wait. We all wait. An ache settles into my leg, and I desperately want to ease it.

This is also deliberate.

I had almost forgotten he could be like this. Prince Rhen is a brilliant strategist and a consummate gentleman, but he can also be petty in the most creative of ways. The curse changed him—in truth, it changed us both—but it did not lessen his ability to be vindictive.

It did not lessen my ability to tolerate it either.

That thought alone allows me to meet his gaze. His eyes reveal nothing, but we have far too much history for his thoughts to be a mystery. He is well practiced in hiding emotion, but he’s only ever this stoic when he’s deeply unsettled.

That makes two of us.

When Rhen finally speaks, his eyes don’t leave mine. “Unchain him,” he orders. “Leave us.”

Dustan hesitates. “My lord—”

“If Grey meant me harm, he would not have been living two days’ away, under the guise of another name.” Rhen doesn’t look away. “Unchain him.”

Dustan pulls a key from his belt and gives the other guardsmen an order to disperse. The shackles fall from my wrists and ankles, clattering on the marble, and I have to fight the urge to rub at my sore wrists. Dustan winds the chains between his hands and moves to return to his spot by the fire.

“No,” says Rhen. “Go.”

Dustan inhales to argue, but he must see Rhen’s expression, because he withdraws, and the door eases closed.

The sudden silence magnifies every emotion. His eyes still haven’t left mine, and I can read the uncertainty and betrayal in his gaze, as surely as he can read my own.

“So,” he says. “Hawk, was it?”

He’s clearly baiting me, which doesn’t seem promising.

“Dustan tells me you weren’t even working as a swordsman,” he adds. “That you simply stood in for another man who was injured. To be honest, I’m surprised.” He sits back and lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “I told you I would write you a letter of recommendation.”

My eyes narrow. I grit my teeth against the ache in my leg and will myself to remain still.

He must read the shadow of pain in my expression, because he says, “Do you wish to move?”

I cannot read his voice, and his eyes are still cold, so I do not know if this is a genuine offer or just a way to force me to admit weakness.

When I do not answer, he frowns. Some of the ice melts from his expression, and the edge in his voice softens. “You trusted me once,” he says. “What have I done to lose it?”

Those words are spoken in earnest, and they take me by surprise. “My lord—Your Highness. You have done nothing.”

“Something has clearly changed between us, Grey.”

I look away.

“Silver hell,” he says. “You were dragged before me in chains. Surely you know I can force answers from you if I wish it.”

That sparks my anger. “Surely you know I am more of a danger to you in this moment than you are to me.”

He straightens. “You wish to issue threats?”

“That was not a threat.”

Tense silence hangs between us for a moment. I wait for him to call for guards, to cut me down for daring to challenge him.

I should know better. Prince Rhen is not his father, for better or for worse.

Not our father. The thought hits me hard and fast, and I’m not ready for it.

He must see the flicker of distress in my expression. “What did Lilith tell you?” he says. “Tell me what you know.”

“I have committed no crime. I have asked for my freedom. Nothing more.”

“Are you sworn to her?”

“No!”

His voice gains a pulse of anger. “Are you lying to me?”

“I have never lied to you. I cut her throat and abandoned her on the other side.”

He snaps back, surprise plain on his face. His voice is little more than a hushed whisper. “Truly?”

I nod. “Truly.”

For a moment, the weight of his relief is a weight in the room. A tension I wasn’t aware of eases. Rhen takes a long breath and runs a hand across his jaw.

I study him. “I had not considered you would bear such worry.”

His hands clench on the arms of his chair, and he half rises, rage plain on his face. “How could you not?”

The door swings open. Dustan looks in. “My lord—”

Rhen doesn’t even look at him. “Out.”

The door closes, and silence drops between us again.

Rhen’s eyes narrow, turning calculating once more. “Fine. You were not sworn to her. You are clearly not dead. Why did you leave Ironrose?”

I shift my weight slightly, and it doesn’t help. Sweat has begun to collect in the small of my back. “You released me from my oath. My service was done.”

“You know guardsmen must be discharged officially. You do not just leave.” The fire cracks, accenting his words. “Why did you run from Dustan?”

No answer seems safe to give.

“Karis Luran believes you know the identity of the rightful heir. She says Lilith claimed you alone knew.”

“I have no information that you would find useful, Your Highness.”

He smiles, but there is nothing pleasant about it. “That is a very careful answer, Grey.”

My own anger flares. “You trusted me once. What have I done to lose it?”

“You left.”

The words hit me like a knife in the back. I have to look away. Silence swells to fill the space between us again.

“My words are true,” I finally say. “I left to protect you. To protect the line of succession. No good can come from this knowledge, Your Highness. I swear it.”

He says nothing.

“Allow me to leave,” I continue. “I will beg it of you if you wish.”

“I cannot. You know I cannot. If you know anything—”

“Please.” I put my hands on the floor, prepared to make good on my offer. “Please. I will leave here and speak of this to no one. You know I would never put you at risk—”

“I do not know that.”

“You do know that,” I say viciously. “I swore my life to you and to Emberfall, and I have proven it time and again.”

His eyes bore into mine. I remember the last night we faced each other like this. We stood on the castle parapet. He was on the verge of becoming the monster.

He wanted to jump. To destroy himself before he could destroy his people.

He was afraid. More afraid than I’ve ever seen him.

I reached out and clasped his hand.

“I would prove it now,” I say. “If you would offer me the chance.”

Some emotion fractures in his eyes. He stands, and for half a moment, I think he will call for the guards to drag me out of here.

Instead, he extends a hand. “Get off your knees, Grey.”

My heart pounds. I take his hand. He pulls me to my feet.

“Would you sit with me for a time?” he says. “I will call for a proper meal.”

It’s a request, not an order—which implies I can refuse.

I don’t want to refuse. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“Rhen,” he says.

My eyebrows go up.

His expression turns a bit sheepish, his voice a bit rueful. “I have long thought we should have been friends, Grey. I should have remedied that ages ago.”

“I could not have endured watching Lilith’s torments on a friend,” I say. “Likely you could not either.”

“True,” he says. “But I can dine with one.”

I smile. “Yes, you can.”

Despite the small sampling of delicacies along the sideboard, Rhen sends for dinner, and a massive platter of roasted beef and sugar-crusted vegetables is delivered almost at once. I eat like a condemned man facing his last meal: slowly, savoring each bite, making the food spend an eternity on my tongue. I had forgotten the splendor of food at court, and each morsel is better than anything Jodi could prepare on her best day. Rhen called for wine as well, and he sips from his glass as the fire snaps behind us.

He poured some for me, but I have not touched it.

“Still no head for it?” he says.

“Not yet.”

That makes him smile.

The room is quiet while we eat, and at first, it is not an easy silence. I cannot forget why I was dragged here to begin with.

I know Rhen hasn’t forgotten.

But familiarity begins to steal the tension between us. Too many memories of other shared meals blend together, many in this very room. Countless card games played late into the night when the curse seemed interminable and neither of us felt like sleeping. Racing through the woods on horseback or matching blades in the arena when he wanted a challenge. Mourning our losses in silence when the days grew long and the curse seemed it would never be broken.

He was always the prince and I was always his guardsman, so we were never truly friends. Like Rhen, I regret that. But we were trapped together for so long that we were … something.

I didn’t realize I missed his companionship until now.

When he sets down his knife to speak, I tense, but he only says, “Tell me about the boy they captured with you.”

“Tycho. He is no one. A stable hand at Worwick’s Tourney.” Tycho’s treatment has been nagging at me since the moment I was dragged from the courtyard. “Is he well?”

“A little awestruck, according to Dustan, but he is well.”

Tycho was awestruck over the possibility of five hundred silvers. Ironrose likely knocked him off his feet. “Not chained in a cell, then?”

Rhen shakes his head and lifts his glass of wine. “Noah spoke for him and said he should be cared for, and so he has been.” He pauses. “Dustan said he tried to save you.”

“He’s lucky Dustan didn’t slice him in two.”

“He is not no one, though. Not if he’d risk his life.” Rhen raises his eyebrows. “A friend?”

He is too savvy. I watched guardsmen lie to the king and get away with it, but Rhen could never be fooled.

“Yes,” I concede. “A friend.”

“He was sworn to this Worwick?”

I try to figure out where these questions will lead, and fail. “Yes. For his family’s debts.”

“I will have coins sent to buy his freedom.”

The money means nothing to Rhen, but the effort behind it means something to me. He does nothing without purpose, and I wonder if this is a peace offering of sorts.

Then again, this could just as easily be a ploy to regain my trust so it can be used against me.

“A bag of the king’s silver?” I snort, to cover my surprise. “Worwick will spin a better story out of that than a stable hand’s freedom.”

Rhen smiles. “Truly? Tell me.”

I hesitate, then take a breath and tell him about Worwick and the tourney. I expect questions about why I chose to work in the stables instead of the arena, but Rhen does not press. I tell him about Jodi and the tavern, and Tycho and his love for swordplay. Mention of Jodi and Tycho leads to the events in the tavern, when the blacksmith was killed, and how that led to Tycho fearing for my life when I faced Dustan in the alley.

“A good friend, then,” says Rhen.

“The nights were long,” I say to him. “The days tedious. Often I was his only company, and he mine.”

Rhen loses his smile, and I realize what I’ve said.

I take a drink of water and look away. “Surely he must have your sympathy.”

That makes him laugh. “Indeed.” He pauses. “Why did you leave?”

He is not demanding, the way he was before. This is a true question.

The breath slowly eases out of my lungs. “I believe you know why.”

“Why will you not reveal the identity of the heir?”

There is no answer I can give him that would be satisfactory. No truth that would not ensure my death.

When I say nothing, he picks up his wine. The jewel-red liquid glows from the firelight. In one quick swallow, he drains the glass.

I know this look on his face. He is cunning. Thoughtful. Strategic. He’ll figure it out himself if I’m not careful. The only thing working in my favor is that he expects the heir to have magic, and I’ve never shown any evidence of having any myself.

If I’d been able to use magic, I would have used it against Lilith long before now.

I feel the weight of Rhen’s eyes on me. “This stable boy is too young,” he muses.

I say nothing and slice through a glistening vegetable.

“Someone else at this tourney?” he says.

“If I was willing to give up command to keep this secret,” I say, “you will not easily guess it.”

“I could send guardsmen to Rillisk,” he says. “I can have them all questioned.”

“Would this be before or after you sent coins to free Tycho?”

He frowns. “Do not play with me.”

“I have seen the fate of other men you intended to question. I have seen the way your orders have been carried out. No one at the tourney knows anything. Do not condemn them to death because you fear your throne may be taken from you.”

His gaze sharpens. “You will remember your place here, Grey.”

“You should remember yours, friend. You are the crown prince. This heir is no threat to you.”

Rhen draws himself up, and I see the first flash of anger in his eyes. “Even rumor of this heir is a threat to me. To all of Emberfall. Do you realize there are nobles who are questioning the very legitimacy of my rule? That there are whispers of Grand Marshals who no longer feel the need to acknowledge the Crown?”

Yes. I have heard these rumors.

“And what will you do?” I say. “What will you do with this heir, if you find him?”

“You know what I will do.”

I swallow. Yes. I know what he will do. “He is no threat to you,” I say again.

He slams his hand down on the table between us. “You cannot know that!”

“Yes—”

“You cannot!” The words explode out of him, but he breaks off and runs a hand across his jaw. He has to take a breath to steady himself, which is something I’ve never seen him do. “Lilith nearly killed Harper. She spent an eternity torturing us. If this man has magic, if he is of the same ilk as the enchantress … how can you protect him, Grey? How?”

I go still. All of a sudden, I understand his desperation to find the heir. This has nothing to do with his throne at all. Not really.

Rhen is afraid. Not of losing his throne, but afraid of the magic. Of what it might do to him, and to Emberfall.

I am the heir, Rhen. I am your brother. You have nothing to fear from me.

The words wait on my tongue, but they stall there. I watched the enforcers put a blade into Riley. I’ve heard the rumors from other towns. Once, I would have laid down my life to protect him, but this suddenly feels different. I am not under oath. I know I am no threat to him. I don’t want to die to prove it.

Rhen said he lost my trust, but I don’t think that’s true. I trust him the same way I always did: to put the safety of his kingdom ahead of everything else. If he believes magic is a threat to Emberfall, our shared history—even our shared blood—would not keep me safe.

“To keep this a secret is akin to treason,” Rhen says.

I say nothing. There is no path here. None.

His cheeks are flushed with anger. “Grey. Do not make me force answers from you.”

“We spent season after season allowing Lilith to torture us both,” I say. “Do you truly think you can?”

“I will do whatever is necessary to protect Emberfall.”

“As will I,” I say. “I keep this secret to protect you.”

“You keep it to protect yourself.”

“That too.”

He draws himself up, his eyes alight with fury. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Rhen so angry, and it’s almost chilling to have it directed at me. Worse, I can now clearly see the fear buried beneath it. It pulls at cords in my chest. Season after season, he stood up to Lilith without fear. Often to spare me her torments.

“I swear to you,” I say quietly. “You have nothing to fear from this man and his magic.”

For a moment, I worry his fear is too potent. But then he sits back in his chair and sighs. The fury melts away. “I will grant you a day, Grey.”

“A day?”

“Yes. I will grant you a day to consider your stance, at your liberty, provided you remain on the grounds of Ironrose.”

“This is not a kindness. You believe I will reveal something to you. I will not.”

“Shall I call for Dustan to begin severing limbs right now, then?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

He smiles, but it’s more regretful than amused. “I’ve missed you, Grey.”

“And I you.”

“You have until sunset tomorrow.” He raises his voice. “Commander!”

I’m returned to a different room, but this time, no shackles encircle my wrists. A guard remains outside, but as promised, I’m allowed some liberty. A low fire burns in the hearth, and a pitcher of water, a kettle of tea, and a selection of sweetcakes waits on a side table. Before I can touch them, a servant enters, bringing a pile of folded clothing.

“His Highness thought these would be more to your liking,” he says, leaving the clothes on a chair before exiting quickly.

I pick through them. Everything is made of fine leather and expensive cloth.

I know Rhen doesn’t think I can be lured into revealing the heir by extravagance. Maybe this part of his friendship is true.

A shadow flickers in the corner of the room.

I keep my hand on the clothing, running my fingers along a carefully stitched seam, but my attention is on the shadow now.

Maybe Rhen hopes to assassinate me. But that’s ridiculous. He could have had it done right in front of him.

Another small movement, by the draperies surrounding the corner window.

I straighten and sigh and stretch as though tired, then move along the wall, extinguishing the sconces one by one, making a show of preparing for bed. When I reach the sconce by the corner, I plunge my hand into the draperies, aiming for a throat or an arm.

Instead, I find the clear features of a face. A woman cries out and flails at me through the lengths of gauzy fabric.

I jerk the drapes wide and pin her against the wall, one hand against her throat and the other gripping her arm above her head.

It’s a girl I’ve never seen before. Red hair hangs long and straight, past the curves that accentuate her waist. Soot streaks her face and arms. Her eyes are wide, her breathing quick.

“Who are you?” I demand, my voice low.

“My name is Lia Mara,” she whispers, her voice thick with the accent of Syhl Shallow. “And you’re the rightful heir.”