Blood Oath (The Darkest Drae Book 1)(46)

The barb stung. A lot. Mostly because of the truth therein. I couldn’t imagine anyone would want to experience the cruelty that created cowering rats. I was equally certain that some people would rather die than become a cowering rat. But I wasn’t one of those people. An ugly and sharp shame settled squarely on my shoulders, seeping into my very being. I was alive after a horrible experience, so I knew the answer to the question no one ever truly wanted answered: what kind of person was I at my worst?

Cowering rat.

“You’re much less a cowering rat than others I’ve met in your situation.” He scowled. “I’m not sure how you’re alive.”

He’d meant the words as an insult, I was certain, but nothing else could’ve made me feel better than his begrudging acknowledgement.

“I’m not sure either,” I said gravely. When his scowl deepened, I couldn’t help adding, “I’ll try to lower myself to your expectations in the future. And you never told me where we’re going.”

“To the potato fields.”

Right. The king had said as much yesterday. Always potatoes. I snickered inwardly. “What exactly am I meant to do while I’m there?”

He snorted. “You are asking the wrong person, Phaetyn. Do your plant dance, I guess. I don’t give a szczur.”

I cracked my knuckles. On my own then. He could’ve just said. A-hole.

How hard could it be?



Very hard.

I puffed, running up and down the field. I’d already connected my bodily fluids possessed the magic goodness. The king drank the blood of Phaetyn, so it made sense. Of course, he could’ve used his stores of Phaetyn blood to save the land, but pigs would fly before that happened.

I had no urge to slice my arm open, so I tried fake crying to no avail. I walked around barefoot until I stubbed my toe on a rock. There was no way I was popping a squat with Lord Irrik watching. Spitting seemed to go okay until I used up the moisture in my mouth.

I was hot, tired, and frustrated. I mean, shouldn’t I be able to sense the land’s feelings . . . or something? But it was just me standing on top of the soil. Ryn vs. dirt, round eight million and fifty-six.

So, sweating it was.

Lord Irrik watched me do field laps from the shade of a wilting willow tree.

“Drae jerk,” I wheezed.

“I heard that,” he called.

I was too sweaty to care. Places that shouldn’t be sweating were sweaty. Ew. So much ew.

Giving up for the time being, I zigzagged between the limp potato bushes to the willow tree, hoping the nightmare man would share the shade with me. I rested a hand against the shrunken bark and asked, “What’s the penalty if there isn’t a field of huge potatoes by tomorrow?”

He sat with his back against the tree, legs extended, rolling a pebble in his hand. His focus remained fixed behind me, but he answered, “I would say you have a week to show the king your skill is worthwhile.”

That seemed reasonable. For a person who might have skills.

“Do you think it’s working?” I asked after a brief moment, jerking a thumb at the field.

He tilted his head and gave me a flat look before returning his attention to the potatoes.

“I’ve been sweating,” I whined. Drak it was hot, and I wasn’t relaxing in the shade like he was.

Irrik replied, “Your clothes soak most of it up.”

“I’ve been making sure to shake my body every three laps to get rid of the droplets.”

“I saw.”

My eyes narrowed at his strangled tone. “Fine. I don’t hear you—”

The Drae moved so quickly the cock and swing of his arm was a blur my mind had to later dissect. A muted thunk, like a rock hitting a tree trunk, came from across the field. I whirled and just managed to catch sight of a king’s guard falling to the ground. Dead. A hole in his forehead.

My heart tripped for several uneven beats as I put together what had happened. I glanced down at Lord Irrik’s hand. Empty. “You—”

His black brow rose. “What?”

I stepped back and glanced to where the dead guard’s brown hair was visible over the gentle slope of a mound. My mouth opened and closed several times before I could string together my words. Finally, I said, “You just threw that pebble in your hand and killed a man.”

“Yes,” Irrik said. “The king instructed me to protect you.”

My brain had a difficult time wrapping itself around Irrik killing the guards. Shock made my response slow, and with raised brows, I asked, “Do you think he meant against his own men?”

The Drae curled his lips, and scales briefly appeared, rippling across his chest. In the daylight, they had a different hue, like a neon-blue flickered deep under the surface. “He should have been more specific.”

“Is that the only one you’ve killed today?” I hushed as he stood and dusted off the back of his aketon.

He scoffed and began walking back across the potato field with a silent tread.

I take that as a no.

With a sigh, I made after him in a hobble, but my muscles seized, and I stopped to stretch my calves. Muttering to myself, I said, “I suddenly see how you find wiggle room around your oath to the king.”

He was on me with the same speed he’d displayed with throwing the pebble. The Drae snapped his shifted fangs in my face, hissing, “You think the guards are here to protect you? Would you like to wait and see next time? Don’t be naive, Phaetyn.” Lord Irrik pulled back, and his fangs disappeared. The scales receded, and he spun away, resuming his walk—if predatory stalk could be called that.