Dusk of the Realm

2

Tarin had expected to be dead. He had intended to be, even. So it came as quite a surprise to him when he opened his eyes to the canopy of his own bed. Not even the keep, but his own bedroom.

He shifted and groaned. So, it had not been a dream. He had never felt so exhausted in all his life, but that was really no surprise. He had never expended so much energy in one go before. Never tried to do so many things at once. Never been so desperate and terrified.

There were bandages all over his body, and he could feel where some of his wounds were, but nothing felt deep. That was not a surprise, either. Even in a situation like what he had just faced, there were very few rivals who could actually mark him. Once a Realm warrior grew advanced enough to reach his level of instruction, he made them an offer of one hundred gold coins if they could touch him with their weapons. The offer had been standing since his first student, and though it was not for lack of trying on all of his trainees' parts, he was still a wealthier man than he cared to be.

Therefore, the fact that any of those men had managed to cut or whack him at all was a feat in itself, though he had been outnumbered by at least three hundred to one. There were only so many opponents one man alone could defeat, and he found that he had no idea how many men he really had defeated. Not enough to please him, whatever the number might be.

He sat up like a shot, ignoring the throbs of pain that urged him to wince and lay back down. It had not been three hundred to one. There had been two of them. Him and–

Serena. The princess.

He leapt out of his bed without another thought, nearly ripping his door off its hinges as he burst from his room. It was only because of his Fae heritage that he could keep from slipping and tripping as he ran down the hall: he had supernatural balance, as well as strength, agility, reflexes, enhanced senses, and even more. All traits bestowed on the race of the Fae through the gift of magic that had been freely given so long ago. All traits that made him a lethal warrior, and that made his race a formidable threat. And a potential target.

He burst through the door to her chambers with the same force he had used on his own. His breathing was erratic, and not because he was winded – because she was not here.

She had been hurt, at least enough for them to make her rest. Which meant that if she was not in her bedroom, she must be in the curative wing. With that, he shot off once more, narrowly avoiding a few servants as they went about their business, their faces drawn with exhaustion. He would have stopped to talk to them, figure out what had happened after he passed out, if he was not racing along this surge of adrenaline, if he did not so desperately need to see the little girl who was in his every thought, whose welfare he worried about with every beat of his heart. He needed to make sure his princess was okay. It was his job, his duty, his oath. She needed to be okay.

But when he slid into the curative wing, he knew immediately that she was not there. He had sensed it even before entering the main room, actually, but he had had to check for himself, had to see the proof with his own eyes.

His magic almost surged right then, but he pinched his nose for a moment, commanding it to stay down. His gaze snapped to the Curer who had not yet noticed him, who was leaning over an occupied cot. Tarin knew the man's name – Jerome – but he did not care to address him, not now. He simply strode up behind him and grabbed the man by the shoulders, slamming him into the nearest wall. There were a few gasps from around him, but upon seeing who the attacker was, nobody dared say anything or approach. A smart move by each and every one of them.

"Lord Tarin," Jerome mumbled, his mouth pressed against the stone.

"Where is she?" Tarin demanded, swiftly and firmly, a general getting information from one of his men.