A Crown in Ash (The Ostler's Boy Book 3)

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Hunt was an Oreian tradition, and it was less of a hunt than it was a knight-eccentric race down the mountainscape.

Originally introduced by a great, great grandfather, it had been a private affair for only the noblest of houses and their Blades. A celebration past the Games, in short, but in my mother's reign, the vent had been opened to those further from the Crown, extending the roster to include a set number of guests who called themselves friends of those invited.

The point of the whole thing was to chase around fat, waddling pheasants and pierce and sack the biggest bird you could find with a bow and arrow. The winner received bragging rights, and all the bounties collected would be served as dishes in the grand feast for the subsequent ball. Regardless of the winner's societal rank, the best hunter was crowned Pheasant King for the Season. He was honored by a seat next to my parents and me at the meal and, as I was the Princess and hostess, a dance. In years past, only Swords had won the event, and Ser Elías usually spoke to them one on one through the night.

Much like my parents, though, I did not care for hunting, but the occasion welcomed a break from small talk with strangers, and as the face of the Season, I was forced to be there in Her Majesty's stead. I found it hard to complain, knowing the role would give me an excuse to hover around Askar's party, should I like, and for the entire day. It would let me be in his presence without real meaning or intent, and nobody could cry impropriety for it.

Yet, when I arrived in my emerald-colored bell sleeves, and matching skirt, the confidence I had felt in sporting my Duke's favorite hue was broken apart and threatened by the sight of Lord Beck's apparition among the waiting audience.

It was the only time I had ever felt the need to clutch to Ser Willoughby's hand, and, like a child, I grabbed it to steel myself through his sword. But, as soon as Krist had manifested before the podium I stood on, I knew that any hint of vitality I had within my appearance had washed from my flesh and evaporated into the thin, quickly chilling Autumn air.

I needed my knight if I had ever needed him before. I breathed his name.

Ser Willoughby loosed my grip, likely unsure of what it meant, until his eyes followed mine in their desperation. It took him but a second to turn completely away from the other two Swords he'd been conversing with and to try and comfort me.

"How did that rat find himself here?" Willoughby asked. "A moment."

He took a step forward, but I held him back, hushing him in my reply.

"Shh. We always knew it was a possibility, right?" I said. "It's fine. I'm honestly shocked it took so long to show his face. I thought he... It doesn't matter. There's nothing we can do. He is Duke Beck's heir."

"The fuck do I care for Duke Beck?" he muttered.

"Willoughby!" I glanced at him, shocked, but he went on.